People whispered about the infamous lord of the Ditch and how he came to power. How he swept into the city on the back of a Barren-born, desert amphiptere some fifty years ago, blowing sand into the cracks of all the cobblestone streets, and how, not a week later, he had a finger on the pulse of the entire city.
Preposterous rumors, all of them. And not because the amphipteres had gone extinct more than five hundred years ago—relegated to long-lost history along with other mythical beings like the shape-shifting Xell. No, it wasn’t how Phineas’s story was wrapped up in legends that gave her pause. In the two years she’d spent working for Phineas, she had been unable to figure out how one man gained, kept, and hid such vast power.
“Tonight marks two years,” she said as Phineas slid by her to the other side of the desk. He sat down in his chair and set his hands on the desk’s surface among the numerous knickknacks displayed. “It’s time.”
Patience was a virtue. But she was done being patient. And done being virtuous—if she ever had been. Now it was time for Phineas to pay up.
Phineas’s brow furrowed like a cat’s tail. “Time?”
She bristled. “Time for you to hold up your end of the deal. Time to get my father out of the Walled Prison.”
She knew he’d broken prisoners out before. It was why she’d agreed to the deal.
Phineas shook his head. “Surely not.”
“Don’t play dumb. That was our deal. A year of service in exchange for passage into the city and another year as payment for breaking my father out.”
Traffic in and out of the city was strictly monitored by the King’sGuard—anyone coming through the Northern or Southern Gates were required to show proper identification, their information recorded. Without any of her own, she’d had no choice but to rely on Phineas to smuggle her into the city.
She’d been so desperate back then, so foolish, she hadn’t even asked what his price would be. Everything in Gadore had a price. It was all a matter of how you paid. And now she’d finally paid hers.
“Oh, my little hound.” Phineas twirled a lock of red hair around one finger, looking at her with what appeared to be pity in his eyes.
She wasn’t fooled. Phineas didn’t pity anyone. The pity was just a mask to hide his next move. She wanted to reach for the knife she kept in her boot—wanted to carve those malicious brows from his head—but resisted.
“You misunderstood.”
“I did not.”
“Our deal was not contingent on the passing of time, but on the number of recruits you brought me. And, I’m sorry to say, your performance has been less than satisfactory.”
“You want more dogs?” she asked, recalling the dozen men who’d crowded Minot and then the dozen more magic users she’d smelled on her walk here. “I can get you more right now.”
Phineas kept magic users like noblemen kept exotic pets. He hoarded men who, after consuming diluted magic, displayed abilities he deemed useful. He called them his recruits, but everyone with a hand in his business knew what they really were: his dogs. Dogs she had painstakingly stalked then collected for him.
Phineas sighed, gaze on one of the small jars atop his desk. When he tapped a finger against the glass, the stone inside the jar began to float. “You know full well I can’t have just anyone. I need those who will be good in a fight.” He looked up at her. “I want the special ones.”
I want you.
He didn’t say it, but she heard the words from his mouth all the same. And she knew—had suspected it for a while now. It didn’t matterhow much time passed or how many dogs she brought him. It would never be enough.
The first time they met he’d asked her one question.What can you do for me?
She’d offered to run errands, to wait tables, to wash dishes. But Phineas declined it all.
What can you do for me that no one else can?
So she’d told him.
Everyone had the same reaction to consuming pure magic, but with diluted magic, their reactions were all different. And it was her reaction Phineas prized above all others.
In a city whose underbelly thrived on magic, she was the one person who could find it. Tucked in people’s boots, stuffed between slices of bread, even already consumed and running through someone’s veins. It didn’t matter the form or how many layers stood between her and the magic, she could always sniff it out.
She was his magical bloodhound.
For two years, she wandered the streets of Gadore, using her ability to seek out those who had willingly ingested diluted magic. That was the easy part. From there, she had to learn how they reacted to magic. Then she’d relay the information to Phineas, who determined whether or not the person’s reaction was something he wanted in his collection of fighters. If he wanted them, it was her responsibility to bring them in—kicking and screaming if she had to. With her at his side, the profits in Phineas’s brawlhouse had grown exponentially.
Irreplaceable, he’d called her. Because of that, he wouldn’t let go of her leash. Not without a suitable replacement.
