“I have nothing,” I say, happy I don’t have to lie. I try to not give away any silver and gold like this, for it will find its way to funding Bloodlurst. Some of the older children, near my age, already wear the splotchy red sign of overuse in the crooks of their elbows.
Vencrin drugs have infected the East Village. Yes, they feel good. Yes, Bloodlurst in particular can make you more powerful for a limited time. And that can mean a day’s work down at the docks, making skyglider deliveries, or even illegal cage casting. But the drugs are slowly draining my people of their magic, of their lives. And now the East Village isn’t getting firelight either. Which means Basu, a bizarre old man who has been a family friend for years, has betrayed us. A man who let one-fourth of my city suffer due to vastly unfair prices and slide further under the control of criminals and druggers. Firelight is the first step in bringing light to the darkness, protecting people from the Vencrin who roam the streets and dispense quick boosts of power to teenagers. Without it…
My chest hurts. I feel like I’m going to explode.
I round the corner to Basu’s street and the kids slink and shuffle away. When Riya sees me, her shoulders unravel, but when a closer look confirms my safety, she breathes in anger.
“ ‘It’ll take five minutes,’ she says. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she says. What the blood, Adraa? You are covered in dust and…and…” Her speech slows. Gods, she knows. “Youburned out?” Her voice trills up in a question, but she only needs a jerk of my head in verification. The shame of losing my magic creeps back in like heat. I’m sticky with the disgrace of it.
“I’ll apologize in full later. Right now, we have a problem.” I step closer to her. At the wordproblem,Riya shuts down her irritation, open for what is coming instead of yelling about what has happened.
“Tell me.”
“The Vencrin are stealing my firelight and up-charging it. Three coppers is five silvers for those near the docks.”
“What? Those—”
“Also, I ran into Raja Jatin.” I brush a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of its tangled state. And I had considered telling him who I was!
Her jaw unhinges. “Wait, what?”
Under normal conditions I’d probably laugh at her gawking. I drop my hand and even the leftover embarrassment evaporates.Five silvers.“We can talk later. Right now, I need to speak with Basu.”
I step into Basu’s shop, and though I’m not trying to be quiet, it’s unusually soundless. Nice new purple door. Hardwood floors. He doesn’t have bells hanging over the threshold or even fabric cloaking the doorway. Both are normal precautions against thieves shrouded by black camouflaging spells. I watch him as he frantically grabs orbs out of my bags. He inspects, places, inspects, places each ball of light into boxes. Greed gleams in his eyes. How had I never seen it before?
“What’s going on, Basu?”
“Oh, Lady Adraa! So glad you have returned. Did you catch that thief?” He extends one hand, waiting.
“Sorry, too fast,” I say, my tone biting.
“Huh, well, you do look worn, my dear.”
“Don’t call me ‘dear.’ ”
“Oh, my apologies, Lady.” He continues his task. Inspect. Place. Inspect. Place.
This isn’t working; in fact, this process is boiling the anger, cooking it. If he didn’t hear the edge in my voice the first time, I need to make it sharper. “What’s going on, Basu?”
“What, my d—” He restarts after a long look at my face. “Have I done something to offend you?”
“If not you, then someone you work with.” I might not be able to cast ice spells, but my voice drips frost.
Basu stops his inspection. “I don’t quite follow.”
“I know, Basu. Five silvers for the firelight.Myfirelight.”
“I sell them for three coppers, like you ask.” He lifts his hands in one of those open shrugs. “Nothing funny.”
“Basu.”
“I have been a friend of the Belwars for two generations. I wouldn’t dare tarnish—”
I grab his kurta and push him against the wall. Empty orb canisters clatter. My left arm flames red and his collar singes. So does my sleeve, but it won’t hurt me like it will him.
“Adraa! Calm down,” Riya warns. But she doesn’t know how often I do this, how I’ve perfected it.
“He’s responsible, Riya. Let me deal with this.” Sometimes I wish I could control my anger better. I’m suffocating, the lump in my throat making it difficult to say the next words, but I can’t stop. The girl I pretend to be at night emerges. Five bloody silvers, Vencrin, betrayal—each detail pumps through me. “I know it’s you.” There is literally no one else in the East Village I distribute to, which kind of narrows down the suspects. “So talk,” I command.
