The wagon hit another bump, and he grabbed the side of a crate to steady himself. What was he doing here? When would it end? He thought about just jumping out, rolling into the dust and taking off where no one could watch him flail. But he was in too deep. With her, with The Hive. He kicked the wall again and tasted splinters.
“Listen,” Violette said. “Take the next mission off.”
He barked a laugh. “Right. So I can sit around and feel even more useless?”
“No. So you have more time to work with the combat trainer.”
That made him listen. Training meant work. Work meant distraction. Distraction meant forgetting.
He nodded, a little too eagerly.
The wagon rolled on, and the silence that stretched between them felt lighter this time, like he could breathe through it without tasting blood.
It felt like hours before it finally lurched to a stop. Violette was up first, pushing open the back, letting in a rush of dusty air that stung Symond’s lungs. She tossed him a look, somewhere between exasperated and amused, and hopped out.
Symond followed, landing harder than he meant to on the packed dirt road. His legs were stiff from being coiled tight so long.
The dirt road cut through bleak fields of dried up nothing, leading to the dull roar of city life. They were nearly there. Aszona rose like a beast, its tangled skyline of smokestacks and spires clawing at the overcast sky. The closer they got, the more the city seemed to hum with a strange, mechanical life, all whistles and clanging metal. The road beneath their feet shifted from dirt to cobblestones slick with rain and probably piss.
He squinted at the tangle of horse-drawn carriages and steam-fueled contraptions, the clamor of pedestrians wrapped in long coats and longer gossip. He hated cities. Too many people. Too many moving parts. Too many eyes.
But the food… That was one thing he’d come to enjoy since leaving the Institute. Smoke bellowed from a nearby street vendor’s cart, filling the air with the greasy smell of fried bread and cheap sausage.
Symond’s stomach grumbled at the thought of sinking his teeth in some delicious fried bread. But not sausage. Never sausage.
He could practically hear Violette’s smirk as she peeled off toward one of the Hive’s hidden access points. She knew he’d give in to the smell.
Damn her.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and slunk over to the cart. The peddler looked about as old as time, with a face like crumpled parchment.
“Fried flat?” Symond asked, trying not to sound desperate.
The man gave him a long, disapproving look up and down before thrusting a greasy paper bag at him. Symond tore into it with all the grace of a starved animal, the hot dough scalding his mouth in a strangely comforting way.
The old man muttered something about hungry dogs, but Symond didn’t care. He was already down the street, stuffing the last crumb in his mouth and dodging a rickety steam-cart that puffed past him like a wheezing dragon.
The street narrowed into an alley, and then another. The sounds of the city faded behind him, replaced by the distant bark of dogs and the clatter of hoofbeats on stone. Symond took the longest possible route back, past low buildings with boarded-up windows and lanes so narrow he could stretch his arms between them and touch both sides. He ducked through a hidden doorway, then through a basement from which the smell of MahoKi Sap was nearly overwhelming.
Finally, he emerged onto a broad avenue, where Violette leaned against an ornate iron gate that spilled open into a lush courtyard.
“Took a wrong turn,” he muttered.
She shook her head and pushed herself off the wall. Together they entered the Hive’s headquarters, a grand multi-levelmonstrosity of sweeping gables and polished wood that looked more like a nobleman’s estate than a base of operations for Aszona’s most notorious gang. Even when she’d first brought him here, he couldn’t quite believe it—a mansion for criminals? Symond wondered how the hell they got away with it.
Inside, the warm air was a strange blend of enamel and dust, like old money that didn’t want to be remembered. People moved through the hallways with quiet purpose, all sharp eyes and sharper clothes. A few of them nodded at Violette as they passed, sparing only the briefest glance for Symond before their faces turned back to business.
Violette led the way up a grand staircase, her boots silent on the purple runner. He trailed behind, trying to look like he belonged there.
“I’m going to go see if the boss is back. Then I’ll set up that training,” she said, sending him a quick look over her shoulder. “You should go get some rest.”
He nodded, grateful for the out.
His room was on one of the upper floors, tucked away in a quiet corner of the house. He liked it for its solitude. But even more so that it had an extra lock that couldn’t be opened with a key.
He slumped onto the edge of his unmade bed and let his head fall into his hands. His hair fell over his eyes, shutting out the world for just a moment. Just long enough to remember why he kept it all at arm’s length in the first place.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door.
