ZARIA
ZARIAMENDOZA EMPTIED A VIAL OF BLOOD INTO THE FLAME.
Rather than sputter out, the candle burned brighter, a column of orange stretching to the workshop’s low ceiling. There was a sparkling quality to the illumination—a result of the soulsteel Zaria had added prior to the blood. The ashy powder still clung to her fingers, and a distinctive grit filled her mouth as the flame continued to burn. She focused on it with narrowed eyes, waiting for the transformation to occur.
Perhaps it was the late hour, but the reaction seemed more sluggish than usual. Zaria felt a single drop of perspiration track a line down her temple. There was no room for failure. Not when she’d left everything until the last minute.
As she had this thought, the candlelight appeared to condense, blood and powder melting into one. Relief shot through Zaria likea well-aimed arrow. She dropped heavily into her chair, grasping the tiny crimson shard that crystallized into existence the moment the flame flickered out.
Primateria.The physical embodiment of magic was warm to the touch as Zaria rolled the gemlike object between her fingers, eyeing its faint yet enduring glow. It was weak magic—limited magic—but that was the only form there was. Nonetheless, its creation always leached her strength. Exhaustion unfurled in Zaria’s veins as the high faded, and for a moment, the world around her seemed a little less tangible.
Another tiny piece of herself gone, channeled into her work. Lapped up hungrily by the processes that made her creations what they were. It was the price you paid when magic was made, not inherent. Blood and soulsteel, soulsteel and blood.
Heart thumping in her ears, she turned to the revolver on her side table. Objectively, it was a beautiful thing: Its inner workings were visible through the intentional cracks in its alloy exterior, the cogs and gears moving like clockwork. She suspected it was sleeker than any gun the Metropolitan Police had in their possession, and stroked it fondly before prying open a hidden compartment and depositing the primateria. It clicked into position, embraced smoothly by the rest of the inner workings. Light flickered along the metal like tiny bolts of lightning—it was always enjoyable to watch magic force its way in—then settled. Zaria’s stomach gave a satisfied lurch as her shoulders relaxed.
“Lovely,” she murmured, and stepped back.
The revolver was not merely a weapon, but an entity of whirring parts and careful calculations. Alchemology—the creation of magical items—was a difficult study. One wrong measurement or maneuver could result in disaster. Despite its being a learned skill,some people were more innately capable of alchemology than others. It took years of practice. Of learning to retreat deep into your own mind while maintaining multiple threads of focus. Most people never achieved it at all.
Then again, few tried. Alchemology was illegal in Britain, considered an occult practice by Parliament and the monarchy. Even if ithadbeen a respected trade, errors were common, and most practitioners either died or quit before they mastered it. As someone prone to making errors, Zaria wasverycareful with her work.
Her father, though, had commanded alchemology the way a skilled artist commanded a paintbrush. Itzal Mendoza’s arrival in 1830s London saw him catapulted to the heights of dark market demand, and he’d taught his daughter everything he knew. He’d been forever frustrated by her lack of focus, her poor attention to detail, and her penchant for leaving things unfinished. When shecouldfocus, though, she worked for hours at a time, neglecting all else in favor of her creation. With Itzal gone, it was how she made her living. But in a world where the inexplicable was considered satanic, the products of alchemology were only trafficable by certain channels.
Usually illegal ones.
Zaria traced the barrel of the gun with a finger. Her father had died last year, leaving her with nothing but dangerous knowledge and an absurd number of unfinished commissions. Commissions thatneededto be seen through, because everyone knew how risky it was to disappoint a dark market client. She had no choice but to continue her father’s work. Though she tried desperately to navigate the market the way Itzal had, she lacked his organization, his easy charm. His lingering reputation simply wasn’t enough to bolster hers. Then, of course, there was the fact that men dabbling incriminal transactions didn’t often trust a young woman. Not with magic, and certainly not with their money. But these were the slums, and Zaria tried to make it work. What other option did she have?
A light knock sounded on the doorframe, slicing the silence. Zaria turned, her attention immediately compromised. “Oh. Hi, Jules.”
Framed by the entrance to her workshop was Julian Zhao, son of the pawnbroker who owned the building. He was also her closest friend. Zaria wasn’t great at friends. She tended to approach people the same way she did alcohol: She kept them around while they were fun and shoved them out of sight when they gave her a headache.
But Jules was an exception. He couldn’t be shoved out of sight, though his slight stature might have suggested otherwise. With a shock of black hair turned brassy by the candlelight, he might as well have been part of the house itself.
“Your twelve o’clock is here,” Jules said slyly, thrusting his shoulders back as if to mimic a high-society butler. “Two of them. They’re waiting for you in my father’s office.”
Exhilaration surged through Zaria’s veins. She blew out the last candles in her workshop, casting the blueprints papering the walls into darkness. “It’s never just one, is it?”
Then she strode across the dirt floor toward Jules, the scent of smoke thick in her nostrils. He moved aside to let her emerge into the dusty hallway that connected the pawnshop with the rest of the tiny brick house. It was far from a charming property, but compared to the rest of the slum, it may as well have been a manor. Of course, operating a business in this area also meant you owed a weekly debt to the kingpin for his crew’s protection—whether you wanted it or not.
“Don’t look so nervous,” Jules said archly. “Think of the money.”
Zaria raised her eyebrows. She knew she didn’t look nervous, even if her stomach was in knots. She was wearing what Jules called herbusiness face—which was to say, no expression at all. She was good at putting on whatever mask served her best. If anyone looked apprehensive, it was Jules. He was a twitchy sort of creature, his emotions presenting themselves in flashes that disappeared as quickly as they came.
“I’d like more money than they’re going to offer,” Zaria said bitterly, and Jules gave a thin-lipped smile.
“You’d like more money than you could carry.”
Who wouldn’t, Zaria wondered, in a place like this? When the nights were cold and people were forced most months to choose between food and rent?
“Enough money to fill a man’s pockets and drown him.”
“I can think of worse ways to go,” Jules said.
Zaria couldn’t argue with that. “Your father’s not around, is he?” she asked as they ascended the crumbling staircase. She could hear the tightness in her voice and made an effort to shove her nerves further down. Her head still spun with the painful sensation that always followed the creation of primateria, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she blinked them open again, the world righted itself, though a low throb still pulsed at the base of her skull.
“He had business on Drury Lane. Why?”
“It’d be awkward if he found me doing dark market dealings in his office, now wouldn’t it?”
