His brows lifted, though he continued to look more amused than anything else.
“Kane,” Larkin said chidingly, making the single syllable a long-suffering sound before addressing Zaria. “Fifteen shillings.”
Anything below three pounds struck her as an insult, but Zaria knew how to play this game. She didn’t respond, only let out a small laugh as she crossed her ankles on the desk. Her blood raced in the silence that followed. Their opinions didn’t matter; all she needed was for the gun to make it back to their boss, whowouldbe impressed.
Larkin huffed. “Fine. A pound.”
She kept waiting.
“Two.”
Zaria dropped her feet back to the floor, sliding the chair forward to fix the duo with the full weight of her glare. “Does Lord Saville want this or not? If he can’t afford it, then get out of my house.” She scoffed. “Because I feel sorry for you, I’ll settle for three pounds.”
This time Larkin laughed, and Zaria did not.
“You don’t quite understand what I have here, do you?” she said. “You must be new to dark market paraphernalia. This is a weapon like nothing you’ve ever seen. It never needs loading, will never rust. It puts other market revolvers to shame. Hell, it’ll put the inventions in the Great Exhibition to shame.”
“How does a girl like you know what’ll be in the Great Exhibition?” Larkin said, his voice dripping derision.
“A girl like me always does her homework.” Besides, it was hard to miss the gossip. The docks were filled with ships as of late, each one supposedly delivering impressive feats of art and technology from all over the world to be displayed in London’s Crystal Palace. With them came slews of patrons who rarely talked about anything else. It was driving Zaria rather mad, though the rest of the city seemed abuzz with excitement. She suspected that had to do with the ongoing publicity campaign—the event had been continually redefined through posters, press releases, and handouts until the public response turned more favorable. Zaria wasn’t so easily convinced, suspecting it an excuse for British industries to flaunt their success.
“And you think you can compete with professional inventors, do you?”
She refocused on Larkin. “Yes.”
He grunted. “Two’s the final offer.”
Zaria crossed her arms. At the same time, something twisteddeep in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t pretend your boss isn’t prepared to pay for it. He knew full well what it was going to cost. I’ll give you three seconds to accept my offer, or I’m going to find someone willing to pay double. Trust me—it won’t be hard.” She held up three fingers, then flicked one down. “Two seconds.”
Larkin looked furious, though the younger man—Kane—quirked his mouth. He was handsome, Zaria conceded to herself, though in the way of someone fully aware of it.
“One.” She stood as if to leave. The tension in the air was palpable, but she let it wash over her. She didn’t have another buyer, but they didn’t know that. What did it matter? She had the upper hand. She’d grasped it with ease.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She gave them a curt salute.
Larkin slammed three pounds onto the desk.
She scooped the coins up lightning quick, tossing him the revolver in return. “Nice doing business with you. Oh,” she added as the pair made for the door, “and don’t get caught with that.”
Larkin thrust the gun at Kane, who handled it with the caution one might show a newborn baby. Zaria watched them go. They could find their way out alone.
She collapsed back into the chair, money clutched between her fingers, and let her forehead rest against the cool surface of the desk. The world spun behind her closed eyelids. How much longer would she be able to do this? She needed to make a living, and the dark market allowed her to do what she did best. But alchemology had a cost—or, rather, the creation of primateria did. Ittookfrom a person. Zaria had seen that much firsthand.
Her father had died after giving too much of himself to his craft. Zaria had been forced to watch him wither away, his skin turning paper-thin, his face desiccating into a skeletal likeness of the manshe’d known. Yet even as he’d drawn his last breath, he hadn’t believed his love of alchemology was killing him. Denial had been his downfall.
Zaria still had time. She was barely eighteen. But creating magic was like a drug, and the more she did it, the faster she would burn out. There was a reason people didn’t commit to a life like this. And what did she have to show for it?
Three pounds.Three pounds wasn’t enough. Not when rent was due and alchemology supplies cost nearly as much as a finished product. She had promised Jules they’d leave this place—that he wouldn’t have to waste away like his father, relying on the desperation of others, on the come and go of clients on redemption day.
There was no life to be had in the London slums.
Either you died here, or you got the hell out.
KANE
KANEDURANTE WAS TIRED OFLARKIN’S COMPANY. HE’D SPENTdays with the man, conducting dark market business like a hired grunt, yet he hadn’t learned anything useful. Frustration and impatience formed a poisonous concoction in his veins as he tossed the revolver from one hand to the other, marveling at its lightness. Unlike every other magical firearm he’d seen, it was sleeker, quieter, and if Kane wasn’t mistaken, more deadly accurate.
Magic wasn’t harmful by default, but it could certainly be made that way. Once laws forbidding alchemology had pushed practitioners into the shadows, the dark market had snapped them up, and now magic was all but synonymous with destruction. That’s the way it had been for centuries, and he couldn’t see things changing anytime soon.
