“I am.”
“No,” he whispers. “You’re bargaining.”
I straighten before he can see what that does to me. “Then I had better be good at it.”
He does not stop me when I leave.
That is the worst part.
The docks are a kingdom of filth and hunger, all black water, tarred ropes, gutted fish, wet planks, and men who know better than to look too closely at a woman walking alone with murder in her posture. Fog crawls low over the harbor, coiling around pilings and licking at the warehouse doors. Somewhere, a bell tolls from a ship hidden in the gray. The sound rolls through my ribs like warning.
Warehouse Nine squats at the end of a narrow lane where the stones are slick with brine. The doorframe is scarred with ward-burns, each mark blackened into the wood in a language my eyes do not want to hold. They smoke faintly.
I prick my thumb with my knife.
The blood wells bright.
I knock twice and press my thumb to the wood.
Locks open inside the door, one after another, though I see no hands. The door swings inward.
The warehouse smells of rust, wet ash, and old bargains. Red sigils flicker across the floorboards in a slow circular pulse, not bright enough to illuminate the corners but strong enough to paint my boots in hellish light. Crates line the walls. Chains hang from the rafters. At the center of the room stands a hooded figure in a long coat stitched at the seams with dark red thread.
“You are late,” the broker says.
His voice is smooth and sexless, polished like a blade kept too clean.
“You did not know I was coming.”
“I knew someone desperate would arrive before moonrise. Desperation is punctual, even when people are not.”
I keep my chin lifted. “I need a cure.”
“Everyone who comes here needs something. Cures, vengeance, silence, beauty, murder, absolution. You will have to be more specific.”
“My brother has magical wasting. Curse-energy in the heart muscle. The temples will not treat him because of infernal backlash.”
The hood tilts. I cannot see the face within it. “And you love him.”
“He is my brother.”
“That was not what I asked.”
The sigils brighten beneath my feet.
I force my hands still. “Yes.”
“Good. Love has weight. Weight holds contracts better than panic.”
“I am not here to discuss philosophy.”
“No. You are here to purchase the impossible and complain about the price.”
“Can you help him or not?”
The broker lifts one gloved hand. A sheet of parchment unrolls in the air between us, suspended without string or nail. The page is dark cream, veined faintly like skin. Lines of red script write themselves across it, curling and tightening as though the contract is alive and eager.
“I can broker access to one who can.”
