George dragged a hand down the side of his face. “I saidget out.”
“Of the house?”
“Yes. You can stay the rest of the night, but then I want you to leave.”
Her throat tightened. “As in… forever?”
“Yes.”
Zaria didn’t know how to react, so she didn’t. She felt her expression go blank as her brain abruptly disconnected. White noise buzzed in her ears. Perhaps she should argue—beg for George to reconsider, or try harder to convince him they were on the same side—but she didn’t have the energy. Couldn’t find the drive to feel anything but numb. “Okay.”
The word felt heavy on her tongue. George tracked her movements with a doleful gaze as she walked woodenly to the edge of the room, focused on gathering her things.
“I’m sorry, Zaria,” he said, rising to blow out the candle. He sounded as disconnected as she felt. “But I’ve put up with your father, and now you, for far too long. All either of you ever brought me was trouble.”
The worst bit was that Zaria couldn’t exactly argue. After all, they were here—and not in the pawnshop—because of her, weren’t they? She swallowed the lump in her throat, raising her gaze to where George stood by the door to the adjoining bedroom.
“I’m not my father,” she said eventually, forcing a wry, mirthless smile. “And Jules isn’t you, for the record. Though I fear it’ll be too late by the time you figure that out.”
Without waiting for a response, Zaria lay down on the mattress and turned her back to him, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears threatening to fall.
ZARIA
Zaria left Mirko’s before dawn.
Partially because she couldn’t sleep—closing her eyes felt like the most agonizing kind of inaction—but mostly because she wanted to make herself scarce before George awoke. They had nothing more to say to each other. If she faced him again, she would undoubtedly say something she’d regret. Something Jules might not be able to forgive her for.
And so she shoved her meager belongings into a bag, clasped the primateria source around her neck, and left. She had the sense that it should’ve felt significant, her departure, but it hadn’t. Mirko’s house was not her home. It had been nothing more than a place to sleep. Still, Mirko had been courteous to her, and Zaria regretted the trouble she’d caused the man. At least now he could have his living area back.
Despite the hunger already beginning to twist her stomach, shecouldn’t fathom the thought of eating before she slunk out into the streets. What would Kane have Jules doing? Would he make him hurt others, the way he himself had once been forced to? Would he allow Jules to be abused by other members of the crew? Finally, the question that terrified Zaria most: Was Kane angry enough at her that he would decide to simply kill Jules? She knew he was capable of it. Even worse, she knew Jules wasn’t averse to provocation. She needed to find a way to get to Kane—a way to appease him that didn’t involve her friend being trapped in some abominable form of indentured labor.
She could hardly believe she’d oncekissedKane. That she’d yearned for the danger he represented and longed to feel the firm press of his body against hers. That she thought about it still, unbidden, in moments she certainly shouldn’t have. What was wrong with her, thathewas the only one to have made her feel like that thus far? What did it say about the things she was drawn to?
The slum was quiet as she ventured aimlessly in the direction of the docks, encountering nobody save a few bleary-eyed factory workers. The longer she walked, the more her head spun and her mouth dried. She had nowhere to go, no one to whom she could reach out. Regardless, it wasn’t herself she worried for most—it was Jules. Every thought circled back to him.
Zaria forced herself to inhale, trying to form a plan. After all, that was what she did, wasn’t it? When she encountered a problem, she came up with a course of action. Followed a series of steps. Panic was where her chaotic mind best thrived.
It took her a moment to realize that her subconscious seemed to be a few steps ahead.
She recognized this area—knew it well, in fact. It was near enough to the river that she could hear its dull roar, but far enoughfrom the docks that the yells of dockers weren’t audible. She’d always thought this a peculiar place to live, largely because nobody seemed tolivehere at all. It wasn’t a residential area but a former industrial one that had been abandoned when new machinery necessitated larger factories. Overall, it was the type of place only a couple of reclusive cons would live.
“Damn it all,” Zaria muttered, hefting her bag up higher on her shoulder. Why had she allowed her feet to lead her in this direction? Nothing good could come from it. She knew the kind of reception she was bound to receive. Still, it wasn’t as though she had any other options. She needed to get Jules away from Kane, and Kane was not the kind of man anyone could reason with.
Except, perhaps, one person.
Moore & Sons looked precisely as she remembered. The faded lettering above the entrance to the converted factory made her chest give an odd little lurch. The blackened brick and towering front door reminded her of the first time she’d visited, and how Kane had appeared on the threshold with a glass of whiskey in hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Too handsome, too confident. Zaria had thought him intolerable even then. She hadn’t known the half of it.
Coming here was a foolish choice for multiple reasons, chief among them being the distinct possibility that Fletcher had left the factory following Kane’s betrayal. Zaria wouldn’t have blamed him. Hell—he might even have left London. But where was the harm in finding out either way? So although she’d scarcely felt quite so small, she drew herself up straight, thrust her shoulders back, and rapped her knuckles against the door.
A moment passed, then two. The door remained steadfastly shut.
A tiny part of Zaria was relieved, even as she felt a twinge of dismay. This was her only plan. She didn’t know who else to go to, didn’thave the slightest idea where to start looking for Kane. Frustration surged within her. She knocked again, this time more aggressively and for longer than was polite or reasonable.
Her face was inches from the door, and she stumbled forward as it was yanked open, almost colliding with a broad chest.
“Do you always knock like you’re trying to wake an entire neighborhood?” said Fletcher Collins.
Zaria stepped back to peer up at his scowling face. He looked precisely the same as the last time she’d seen him, which shouldn’t have surprised her the way it did. Perhaps she’d expected some physical indication of distress—disheveled clothes, messy hair, an air of general melancholy. If he was struggling, however, Zaria couldn’t tell. His sandy hair was neat, his expression carefully controlled. The scar stretching from his left temple to bisect his top lip stood out starkly in the dawn light. Despite the hour, he wasn’t wearing nightclothes, and the seams of his buttoned shirt strained as he crossed his muscular arms, awaiting her response.
