Cold.
Desperate to rinse away the sour taste of vomit, I ignore the glass and draw straight from the source. The cool burn slips down my throat, charring some of the tension—the unsaid words—that have been choking me since Zali received Orlaith’s sprite.
I drain a quarter of the contents, the chained screams inside my chest softening with each drugging swallow. Hissing through my teeth, I slam the bottle on the bar and dig through my pocket, pulling out a small, corked jar and placing it before him.
Graves sucks a sharp breath and stumbles back, steadying himself against the shelves as he looks upon the morbid, bloody contents: two crystal thorns, the roots still wet from where they were torn from flesh.
“I’m looking to sell those,” I say, tipping my bottle toward the jar. “I was wondering if you were aware of the street rules around these parts?”
Eyes wide, he swallows, his complexion now a pasty shade of gray.
Tension cuts the air as silence prevails. Hardly surprising. Loose lips sink ships—a lesson most street rats learn the hard way. But I’ve got time. And patience.
Lots of fucking patience.
“C’mon, Graves,” I say through a smirk, “I know you grew up in the undercity.”
His complexion pales further as I wait, and wait. Drain more of the bottle and fuckingwait.
Maybe I’m not so patient after all.
Finally, he fills his chest, then clears his throat, nipping a glance at the thorns. “Madame Strings is the woman you’re after.”
I thought as much.
“Word is she lost her parents young and traveled the continent many times, though she looks naught over two and five,” he says, a knowing shadow darkening his eyes. “Doesn’t add up to me.”
I gobble the information, glancing at the thorns, heart thundering along at a ferocious pace …
She must use.
Regularly.
“She’s in with those gray robes,” he says, taking the cloth draped over his shoulder and using it to dab his dappled brow. “You know the ones.”
Oh, I fucking do.
“And how do I find this …Madame Strings?” I ask, trying to hide the fierce hunger clawing up my throat. Revenge is a meal I’m determined to feast on—the only thing powerful enough to keep my mind occupied.
To keep it offhim.
Her.
This fucking place.
“She’s pretty hard to nail down. It’s a big city, and she’s not always here … though based on murmurings I’ve heard, I believe she’s currently this side of the wall. If you were to chance it, you might find her around one of the campfires in the city’s heart, telling tales to children and dishing out sweets.”
Meaning I’ll have to hunt her down like a dog.
If the shoe fits.
Graves watches me closely while I drain the rest of the bottle, then slam it on the bar, pocket the jar, and slide off my stool rather than push it back across the floorboards. Old habits, or whatever.
I’m halfway to the door when Graves’s voice chases me. “She hasrunners.”
I stop and turn. “Runners?”
“Men who coax kids into trying candy while force-feeding them whispered words of abrighterfuture, free from the horrors chipped upon the stones. Talk on the street is that some of these kids are disappearing. For good.”
