I think back to the time I saw him fight. How majestic he’d been, how precisely vicious. I bite into the meat,trying to fill my mind with any other sensation than the one currently burning inside me. I swallow hard and turn my attention back to the market. My gaze flits over the lively expanse of stalls, merchants and patrons greeting each other with warmth and bartering boisterously. Yes, the ungoverned district is known for its crime, for the seedy things that happen in its shadowed throngs, but this is what drew me here in the first place. The camaraderie, the freedom. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments to soak it all in.
“Come on.” Quinn shakes his head, pushing off the stall and throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Laurel’s booth is back that way.”
And as if his words bring me back to reality, the annoying ache deep within my hip starts to radiate down the side of my leg again. I allow him to lead me away from the vendor, but I twist back to look over my shoulder as we meander down the row. Zeke follows a few paces away, but Aamon's lingering by the merchant’s stall. He leans in, whispering something to the male before reaching out and grabbing a black duffel from him.
“What’s Aamon doing?” I ask, twisting to face forward, still under Quinn’s arm. He’s so nonchalant beside me, even with the mask.
“Sterling explained to you how blood is currency here?” He grabs the last bit of beef from the stick in my hand, rips it in half with his teeth, and eats his half before offering methe last bite. I take it tentatively, nodding in response to his question.
“Merchants pay us for our protection. This"—he gestures with the arm not currently wrapped around my shoulder—“is the beautiful side of the ungoverned district. It’s fun and warm and, yeah, maybe a little twisted and macabre. But at its heart, it’s good.”
He slows, gesturing out into the crowd where I now notice members of the Blood Order lingering in the shadows. “But it’s not without its efforts. Andras has worked hard to build what we have here. It wouldn’t exist without our kind maintaining order.”
My skin pricks with a chill I hadn’t noticed before, the smallest sliver of dread slipping back into my body. Perhaps I've begun to taketoomuch comfort in my personal bodyguards. It’s so easy with them, to let the fear and the anxiety slip away. It’s hard to feel unsafe when I know they're watching out for me.
“Aamon and Zeke are making their rounds, collecting payment.”
I turn back to see that Zeke is now gone as well, having stopped several stalls back at a clothing vendor’s booth.
“Or setting up appointments for those interested in visiting Bloodlust,” Quinn finishes.
“Bloodlust?” I ask, turning my attention up to him and cocking my head to the side.
A smile splits across his lips. “The bar? The red rooms? I believe Sterling gave you that tour last night.”
I deadpan, catching the double meaning in his words. “He brought me through the back entrance to the bar, if that’s what you mean. We didn’t do anything.” I vaguely remember Sterling sharing the name last night, but it must have slipped my mind after all of the night’s activities.
“Uh huh,” Quinn snickers.
“We didn’t,” I argue. “I didn’t even see what the inside of them looked like.” And as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back.
“Oh?” Quinn’s arm on my shoulder drifts lower, wrapping around my waist. “Is that regret I hear in your tone, Angel? Is someone offended they weren’t invited into the red rooms?”
“No,” I growl, looking up at him through a furrowed brow.
“Sounds like a yes to me." He chuckles, leading me forward. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you theofficialtour later. First, we need to get you checked out by Laurel.”
He nods ahead to the last booth in the row, wrapped in the shadows of the warehouse infrastructure surrounding it. It’s different from the others. No bustling crowd lingers within its fold, no energetic buzz of excited patrons rifling through its shelves. Even Laurel is not in sight.
I step forward, into the covering of the stall and peruse the contents of the shop. Much like those of the herbalistsand fortune tellers we’ve passed thus far, Laurel’s shelves are stocked with jars of all shapes and sizes. Only, unlike those places, these have a weight to them. A severity the others didn’t. The ones before were little more than smoke and mirrors, novelty items for those merely wanting to scratch the surface of such a world. Whereas the ones here whisper their warnings—sing of authenticity as my touch lingers on them. They tell of a healer well-versed in magic and well-equipped with the most potent arsenal.
I take my time, acknowledging the feel of each item’s energy before turning away from the shelf and letting my eyes roam over the rest of the stall. Shiny, enchanting rocks litter every nook and cranny of the small space, tucked against the other goods like discarded afterthoughts rather than a shopkeeper’s inventory. Deep-colored rugs cover the floor, torn and tattered with age. Despite the lack of sunlight in the market, plants are tucked against every corner and atop every available surface, along with lit candles that drip wax down their sides.
I breathe in, noticing for the first time the earthy aroma coming from a single stream of smoke towards the back of the shop. I move towards it, watching the tendril weave through the air—as if following an invisible path as it juts and twists and performs just for me.
“Evangeline.” Laurel’s voice pulls me out of my daze. I blink, nearly falling forward from how far I was leaning over to watch the incense burn behind the back counter.I pull my eyes away from the plume of smoke and look up towards where Laurel now stands in a doorway just off to the side. She offers me a kind smile, dropping the curtain in the doorway as she steps into the main part of the stall to greet us.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” Her words are cheery, but there’s concern in her eyes as her gaze darts from me to Quinn, who’s pulling a cigarette from inside his cut’s breast pocket. “Quentin, you will not light that in my shop,” she scolds in a stern voice. Quinn raises his hands in surrender, slowly tucking the cigarette back in his pocket. It takes everything in me to stifle the laugh bubbling in my throat.
Much like the day I met her, she’s draped in flowy, dark fabric—a dress this time—with a brown knit shawl layered over it. She steps towards us, wrapping the shawl around her bare arms, and leans on the top of the counter.
The night she tended to me, her eyes had looked so dark, like bottomless seas of ebony. But now in the warm, candlelit glow of her shop, I can see the brown undertones, the rays of shadow and earth that catch in the low light. Just like that night, she is entirely captivating. And just like that night, I have the feeling that I’m in the presence of something I still don’t quite understand.
“Now, what seems to be the issue?” she asks, but her eyes are already landing on my hip. As if I don’t even need to answer her question.
“Seems Angel here has taken a liking to our Sterling,” Quinn jests, coming up beside me and nudging me with his hip. I wince when he comes in contact with mine, stumbling slightly to the side and sucking a breath through my teeth as I try to recover.
“Shit, sorry.” His wince mimics my own. He’s on the other side of me in the blink of an eye, draping my arm over his broad shoulders. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
