Page 4 of Wicked Endeavors

“There is more power in this world than the magic the witches wield, Miss Donant. At least, for those willing to take it. I’ve been looking for you all these years because I think that you have the skill and fortitude to take control of your own destiny, as I have.”

Even though Caya didn’t turn around this time, there was a smirk in his voice that implied he could hear the raucous pounding of her pulse, the terrible lure of curiosity that dangled in the back of her mind.

“We will see one another again,” he promised. “And you’ll be very glad that we did.”

THE NEXT FEW DAYS PASSED IN SILENT DREAD AS CAYA waited for Gaspar Ruiz to resurface. Children were adopted. Beds opened up. Money came in. Not that Caya saw any of it. The matrons either ignored her or circled her like vultures, waiting for her eighteenth birthday and their freedom from her antics. Part of her wanted to tell them about Ruiz then, as proof that she was worth something to someone, but the rest of her was too suspicious of his intentions.

If he remembered her from those awful days, if he’d been looking for her since then… it couldn’t be for anything good.

“We could take the money and run,” said Rodrigo, as they wound their way into the city proper. He had a head of amber curls, hazel eyes, and a sour disposition, but, like Caya, he was the expendable age of seventeen and thus more of a servant than a dependent. “Leave on our own terms instead of theirs.”

“This is why they had me carry the money,” Caya replied. “And if you think this is enough ducado to live off of, then I’m already worried for you.”

Rojanea, the capital of Coventry, was first built centuries ago as a city of terra-cotta roof tiles and white stucco exteriors. In many ways, it still was, but it had also transformed itself for the ongoing Coronet. Local businesses had switched to selling the kind of baubles that witches coveted during the season just to stay afloat. Her favorite empanada stall had been replaced by a vendor who sold bolts of fabric that no one but a House witch could afford. Even the stores that did survive—such as the grocer they were heading toward—did so by stocking basic items both welks and witches could use.

Rodrigo paused to frown at an empty shop front. Caya couldn’t remember what had been there, and it made her desperately sad. The more her memories were overwritten, the faster Rojanea would turn into a mausoleum to her old life. Sometimes, though, she wished that she could forget. She wanted to see the beauty of Coventry without smelling the phantom blood that had been spilled to create this version of it.

She would never forgive, but sometimes she thought it might be easier to forget.

A shadow peeled from the side of the building, resolving into the shape of a person whom Caya and Rodrigo hadn’t noticed leaning there. A tattered dress hung from the bony frame of a young woman with dark curls and darker eyes, which sank into her face above hollow cheeks. Caya forced herself to make eye contact, remembering all too well how easy it was for people to look away from the unhoused as though their existence was contagious. Before she’d found Kindred, she’d felt invisible, salt in the wound of her hunger and hatred.

Rodrigo swore. “Ofelia?”

Ofelia. Now that he’d said it, Caya could connect the name to the hardened face. They had last seen Ofelia on her eighteenth birthday a year ago, when she’d been expelled from Kindred to make her own way in the world. They hadn’t kept in touch—the orphans rarely kept in touch—but still Caya hadn’t expected to see this lifeless expression on kindhearted Ofelia’s face. She’d taken on extra chores when the other children were too sick, or too lazy, to do them. She’d been a baker so good, they’d all been sure she’d be added to the kitchen staff of a good household. She’d left with so much potential in every step.

Now she looked like a wraith. Her tongue darted out to lick her dry lips.

“Coin to spare?” Her voice rasped from her throat. Her gaze darted between them without a hint of recognition. “I can—”

“Yes, we have coin,” Caya said, desperate to stop Ofelia from making any sort of offer in exchange.

Without being asked, Rodrigo stepped in front of her so she could turn and count out enough ducado to spare without returning to Kindred with too few groceries to feed everyone. She handed the money to him, and he passed it to Ofelia. Her narrow fingers snatched it, as though used to people pulling it away.

“Ofelia,” Rodrigo said again, miserably. “Are—are you here every day? We could try and come back with…” He trailed off, eyebrows knitting together. He knew as well as Caya did that they had just offered all they could. They had more than Ofelia, but that didn’t mean they had much at all. “I’m so sorry.”

Ofelia shook her head, as though warding off any lucidity that would bring the reality of her situation crashing down on her. She backed toward the alleyway, watching them with wary eyes, until she was nothing but shadows once more. Caya whispered her name so softly that the wind carried it away, ignoring the sting of tears. She remembered too well that life, that slow death. She was so close to returning to it.

Rodrigo turned, his fists clenched at his sides. They were both so close.

“We should keep going,” he said tonelessly. “The matrons will start thinking we actually ran off with the money.”

“Yeah.” Caya cast one last look at the alley. It was an effort to take another step, to leave a former Kindred orphan to this fate, but she had to. She had to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The city center opened up before them, a cobblestone plaza surrounded by theaters and museums, historic buildings and wild bars. It was the jewel of Rojanea—of the entire country—and it had thrived even when Seaward Palace had been destroyed in favor of the three Houses. Those elaborate buildings watched from the green hills to the north, south, and west, remote and unwelcoming to anyone who didn’t bear that House’s coven mark. Soltura Harbor, to the east, had been temporarily claimed by ships, but, despite that, it remained a rippling line of turquoise and pearl in the distance.

Every day, the sun found new ways to make people wish they hadn’t left their house, but the temperature hadn’t reached sweltering levels yet. Still, Ofelia was right to stay in the shade. The wind was a light suggestion at best, barely cooling Caya’s skin.

“Hey.” Rodrigo tugged her sleeve, drawing her out of her thoughts. “What do you think is going on?”

There was a small crowd gathered around the grocer’s storefront. Over half carried wares—woven baskets of oranges and rings of bananas, multicolored paper fans and boxes of jewelry on satin fabric—and the rest were wide-eyed people whispering to themselves. Here and there, she spied city guards keeping an eye on the throng. They had swords at their sides, even though they didn’t need them. Only witches were allowed to be guards these days, and the closest ones wore the red of House Muerte.

Reapers, who wielded the power of destruction.

Witches were born with one of three kinds of magic: crafters with creation magic, morphers with transformation magic, and reapers with destruction magic. Those who showed any magical aptitude—usually around puberty—were snatched up by one of the Trident, as the High Houses were collectively called, before they turned twenty. They were given a home, they were given titles, they were given wealth.

Welks were forced to eke out a life beneath them. Sure, some of them had retained their money by capitulating to the witches; some even made money by working for the Trident as servants, rent collectors, and more. But they weren’t treated as equals in any way that mattered. They didn’t even have a representative on the Council.

Caya, who was trying to stay out of trouble so she wouldn’t lose her bed any earlier than she had to, nudged Rodrigo with her shoulder. “Go ask around.”