“I—am?” I ask, surprised.
“Well, me and Quinn. And Zeke.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to where Zeke is still standing beside Sterling.
“If Sterling stays behind, then so do I.” Zeke’s voice is quiet but firm, and I know there’s still a fire building inside of him at the sight of Aamon threatening Sterling. He seems to have a natural inclination to defend Sterling.
Aamon spins halfway, pointing at Zeke. “You’ll go where the fuck I tell you to go. This isn’t up for discussion.” And when Aamon turns back around to face us, Zeke doesn’t argue.
“Wh–where are we going?” I ask. My fingers cling to the fabric of Quinn’s T-shirt. My cheeks are hot with embarrassment. Maybe shame, even. I want nothing more than to disappear behind the closed door of my room and to get away from all of these eyes on me.
“I thought I’d give you a proper tour of the Market Ebon, since you seem to have such an affinity for it. Besides—” There’s a glint in his eye that unravelssomething inside of me. He leans in like he’s sharing a secret between the two of us, despite knowing everyone in the kitchen can hear him. “It appears Sterling here has left you with a couple wounds that need tending to. And this time of night, Laurel is far too busy for house calls.”
Iam expecting another ride on the back of Aamon’s bike. Especially seeing as how he ordered Sterling to stay behind. I’m even expecting the helmet he insists on me wearing. What I don’t expect is the masks they’d donned on the first day I met them making another appearance.
I forgot how intimidating they look in them—the elongated white fangs and the hollow, lifeless eye sockets staring back at me. It’s unsettling to say the least.
“Why the masks?” I ask as I take the helmet with an air of annoyance and pull it onto my head reluctantly. Aamon steps up, securing the strap under my chin. The close proximity sends a chill skittering up my spine.
“The ungoverned district knows who we are. That is no mystery. We’ve cultivated a deep respect and reverence through the Blood Order.” His fingers are taking far toolong to secure the strap, as if he’s finding any excuse to stay close to me. But I shove the thought out of my mind. This male has made his interest in me, or lack thereof, more than clear.
He’s just . . . taking his time. Struggling with the clasp. I bite down on my lip, incapable of believing my own lie.
Aamon’s eyes zero in on the action, and suddenly the chill at the base of my spine melts into warmth, wrapping around my front and dipping lower.
“But despite their respect, we still like to maintain an air of anonymity when conducting club business,” he continues on, as if there isn’t an electrically charged energy in the air between us. He finally drops his hands from my chin and steps back. “When we face our enemies, we do it as a club. Not as an individual.”
He swings a leg over his bike, pausing a moment before nodding for me to join him. I scramble into action, suddenly nervous. Ignoring the pain in my hip, I swing my leg over the bike to settle into my seat.
Riding with Sterling felt safe. Nerve-racking, yes, but simultaneously secure. But Aamon’s ride out to the border of the WildLands was full of adrenaline. I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to fear for my life. Again.
“Wait,” I say, a thought striking me. “You didn’t wear the masks at the grave site. Or at the bar after.”
Aamon cocks his head to the side so I can see the profile of his masked face. His features are hidden behind the skull,but the bottom half of his chin is visible and I swear he’s smirking. “Observant, for an angel.”
I roll my eyes, opening my mouth to argue.
“But yes,” he continues, not allowing me the opportunity to retort. “We don’t hide our faces when burying the fallen. There’s no need for anonymity there. Their loss is felt amidst the whole of the ungoverned district, not just the Blood Order.” There’s a sullen edge to his voice and it makes something in my chest pang. I was never my father’s supporter, but I still spent a life in ignorance to the pain just on the other side of my border. The same ignorance that led to Dina’s fate.
“And the bar?” I ask at last, realizing he hasn't answered that half of my question.
And this time I can’t miss the grin that snakes its way across his lips. “Consent is key,” he answers simply. “It’s hard to consent if you don’t knowwhoyou’re consenting to. We don’t wear our veils when visiting the red rooms . . . unless asked, that is.” Even though his eyes are hidden behind the mask, Ifeelhim wink at me before turning back around and turning over the engine.
Before I can even process what he just said, we lurch forward into the throngs of the ungoverned district, making me cling onto him for dear life.
The Market Ebon is no different than it has ever been when I’ve visited it previously, and yet… it suddenly feels like a whole new world. Aamon was right when he said the Blood Order is respected here. Every other time I’ve come, I’ve barely been perceived. But tonight, all eyes are on us as we wade through the crowds.
Normally I’d hate the feeling, wanting to fly as far under the radar as possible. But with Aamon and Quinn on either side of me and Zeke trailing behind, it’s hard to feel even remotely scared. I may not know exactly where I stand with them, but I feel confident enough at this point to think they are at least slightly invested in my safety. I look over my shoulder to where Zeke is following in our wake, as silent and broody as ever. Okay, maybe not him. But the rest of them, maybe. I use the opportunity of this newfound security to take in the sights of the market like I’ve never felt free enough to do during my visits before.
The fighting ring is the first thing to greet us, but due to the early nature of the hour, no fights are currently underway. Instead, Aamon leads us to the back half of the market, which is in fact, just that. Stalls fill narrow alleyways, constructed of rusted sheet metal. My eyes go wide as wepass vendor after vendor, taking in the various kinds of clothing, jewelry, spices, art, and sweet treats for sale.
There’s other trades too, booths offering services rather than handmade goods. It appears as if there’s fortune tellers on every row, using all sorts of divination tools to lure patrons in, promising their heart’s desires or in-depth visions of their future. The options are never-ending, row after row of ungoverned district members just trying to earn a living. It’s chaotic and dark and even a little heartbreaking to take it all in, but it’s also so beautiful. To see Arcane-touched showing up, bartering, supporting one another and living . . .actuallyliving. Not just hiding in shame like my father would like them to. Like I’ve been forced to.
They’ve built a community here, out of nearly nothing. And yet, they persist, even in their exile.
Quinn stops at a meat vendor, grabbing some sort of beef on a stick from the male tending the grill. He tears a piece off the stick, popping it in his mouth before handing me the rest. “You act like you’ve never been here before," he says through a mouthful of meat. “I thought you said you’d visited.”
“Twice,” I say with emphasis. “And only the fighting rings, really.”
Quinn’s eyes dart to Aamon. “Oh, really?” he asks, raising a brow.
