It was close to eleven when Tabby reached the Golden Hen. She pulled up her hood and circled around back, sending Nit to scurry in as a beetle. "They're all here," Nit said a few minutes later.
"Marcus?"
"Him too." Nit shot her a grayscale view of the place, tables bustling, cards shuffling, coins passing hands. She smiled, watching the outhouses in the back. A short line had formed. Mostly men, but a few women too.
She waited fifteen minutes until the slamming back door signaled her into action.
Marcus emerged, getting into line. Jag, his second in command, flanked him. And two other body guards she recognized but didn't know the names of. She shrank further into the shadows, keeping watch of them as they made their way to the front of the line. Only then did she sneak around behind the outhouses. A quick calculation told her which one he'd take next.
"Any time now," she said, summoning Nit. Her mechanimal emerged from the shadows in the form of a sparrow, buying her time as they zoomed about Marcus, pecking and squawking. From Nit's vision, she saw Marcus pause, hand on the handle of the outhouse door, while his other swatted the air. "Get the fuck off me, you damned mech!" Jag stepped forward and tried to swat Nit away too, but Nit was too fast.
She moved around back, stacked a couple of crates, and pulled a portable screwdriver from her belt, unbolting screws that held a mesh window in place. She pocketed the screws and gave Nit the signal. A moment later, crouched beneath the window, she heard Marcus enter the small space, cursing under his breath.
She waited for him to sit his bare ass down on the toilet. Ever so silently, she pulled the mesh window away, set it aside, and leaned in. The stench was like a slap in the face. She grimaced. He didn't notice her leaning above him. A wry smile emerged upon her features.
"Hello Marcus," she whispered slipping a garrote around his neck, pulling tight. He went still, silently choking. "Nice to see you tonight. Though visiting you on the shitter isn't exactly my preferred method." She made sure he remained absolutely still before loosening the garrote enough for him to speak.
"Tab?! What the fuck?!" His hoarse whisper was all but drowned out by the noise outside.
"I noticed you raised the price on the tax bag. Thought I'd check in and make sure your boys weren't simply trying to play me."
"And you thought you'd corner me on the shitter? What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
She barked a laugh. "With me? Don't you know? So, so many things. Did you raise the tax or not?"
His hand went to his belt, to the knife there. She tightened the garrote in warning. "Don't make me do it, Marcus. Answer the question."
"All right! Yes, I raised the taxes. Elias is doing good business. He can afford it."
She hesitated. "That may be true, but we both know you already make plenty."
"You want our protection or not?"
"I do. But the people in Crock's Row are struggling to get by. Raise the taxes again and next time you decide to take a shit, my hands won't be so lenient." She gave a tug that left him gagging.
"You'd dare threaten me?" he managed. She pulled his head back to better view his face. He twitched, eyes wide. "What the fuck?! Okay! Okay," he hissed. "Sorry."
It wasn't the first time she'd cornered him. Wasn't the first time she'd held his life in her hands. At this point, she couldn't even count the number of times on a single hand. The only reason Marcus was still in power was because she'd kept him in power.
Street gangs were dynamic things, warping, fluctuating, like the flow of liquid metal forced to fill different molds. Circumstances always dictated need. But she didn't like uncertainty. There was already enough of that in her life. She did whatever necessary to ensure things in Crock's Row remained constant.
"Are we clear?" she said at last. "No more tax hikes. People in Crock's Row are not here for you to get rich. Do your job and be fair about it."
"Fine," he bit out. "Clear as glass."
"Good." She yanked a little harder, wrenching his head back further. "Enjoy your shit." Then she winked and disappeared, replacing the screened grate and screws. He wouldn't bother to scream. Wouldn't say a word. Couldn't bear to suffer the humiliation of it.
"Nicely done," said Nit, meeting her mid-flight as she made her way around the den to the front entrance. She waited a few minutes before emerging from the shadows. There was a line to enter the Golden Hen. She went to the front, ignoring the angry protests from waiting patrons.
"Ahh, Tabby." The bouncer smiled wide.
"Marlow! You sly dog." She gave him a peck on each cheek and a handful of coins. He opened the door, permitting her without question. Bribes were the lifeblood of Chroma. Especially in Silver Hill.
The table in the back was reserved for Marcus on a weekly basis. He only invited the upper echelon of his street rats to join him. Bonding was important for a well-functioning gang. She'd given him the suggestion years ago.
The two bodyguards she recognized from before stepped out from the shadows, barring her entrance. She grinned and said, "Hello boys," before peering around them.
"Tabby!" Roger shot to his feet, pulling out the empty chair beside him, obviously having saved it for her.
Marcus was already back at the table. His collar was pulled high, hiding the marks that were surely there after her threats. He looked her over and scowled. "Charlie, Dan, stand down. She's with us—you know that." The look of annoyance didn't leave his face, even as his bodyguards shrank back into the shadows.
She offered The Forsaken's leader a sweet grin. "Not happy to see me, Marcus? I thought you enjoyed my company at your card table." She flashed her grin to a few of the others, noting the mesmerized glitter in their gazes. None of them knew what to make of her unique relationship with Marcus. She liked to keep it that way. A few pegged her as Marcus's secret mistress or perhaps the hands that did his dirtiest work.
"Yes. Yes. Sit down already. You're late." Marcus waved a hand, prompting the dealer to continue.
She took the empty seat beside Roger and let him scoot her chair in like a gentleman. Of everyone in the bunch, he was the best suited for it. His head was covered in a shag of thick blonde hair that curled in corkscrews. The curls bobbed with every movement. And he had dimples when he grinned. A direct opposite to Marcus's grizzled appearance.
Marcus didn't reach the top of his gang without fighting his way there. His face was a tableau of the violence he'd encountered. Crooked nose. Two nasty scars. One right across his left eyebrow, the other down his left cheek. His heavy brow was usually pulled tight. Dark eyes always shifting, always searching for threats. A few of which she'd eliminated for him...for a price.
The dealer reshuffled the deck of cards and stated the buy-in. She reached into her belt and tossed a handful of coins on the table, listening to the clink as everyone else did the same. Marcus didn't play cheap. But theirs was a game she'd mastered years ago. She rarely lost on purpose.
"Good, let's begin." The dealer nodded to each and began dishing cards. Penny shuffled by, empty tray in hand, and she grabbed the waitress's hand, pulling her down onto her lap before any of the others had the chance. "A round for the whole table?" she whispered in Penny's ear.
Penny chuckled. "Good to see you too, Tabby. You got it."
She gave Penny's rear a pinch that left the waitress laughing as she went to gather drinks. They'd been friends for years...as close to friends as she was allowed to have. The boys roared with delight when Penny returned, tray laden with mugs, a gesture that earned eager thanks all around. As everyone lifted their cards, she waited. Patience was her game—always had been.
"Well?" Marcus prompted. Their eyes shifted to her. She lifted her own hand and glanced down, then gave the table a predatory smile. This was going to be so fun.
They played for hours.
She complied with The Forsaken's expectations by attending their weekly card games. But she was not part of their gang and they knew it. Yet, she'd been around long enough that they no longer worried about her presence. Marcus's gang in particular was a wealth of information and she made sure to get what she could. There wasn't much to hear tonight. More of the same. Speculation over the Redell Uprising. Lord Parlow's death. A few even jokingly asked her if she was the one who'd done it. Little did they know...
More Lumineers had been arrested. No surprise there. She sighed with relief knowing Elias was safe in Crock's Row. The biggest news was the young men and women—gang teens mostly—that continued to disappear. It wasn't the first time they'd discussed it. But it seemed things were getting worse.
"Jus' this week," Tony was saying, "least twenty, maybe more. I ent got connections in all the gangs. So I ent got ah full count." She eyed him, feigning disinterest as she laid her cards down to fold. "Would be one thing if it were workhouses. But e'ryone knows workhouses ent daring enough to pick up them that's already branded. They know we protect our own. Even if the work houses got 'em, we'd still be seein' 'em round."
"We protect our own," Marcus repeated. She caught his eye—he gave a subtle shake of his head. An answer to her question. They hadn't lost anyone yet. He kept a close hold of his members, made sure they stayed safe. But at this rate, it was only a matter of time.
"Where you think they goin'?" Roger asked.
The others shrugged, but it was clear that for all their nonchalance, they were nervous. Too many had disappeared for it to be coincidental. Their concern was buried, hidden like all weaknesses were. But she could see it.
"Prolly gettin' smart and defectin' into Ipsum and Ferrum," she said, watching the others turn over their cards.
Marcus snorted. "Gang members don't defect. It ent in our blood." The others echoed the same sentiment.
"Government finally scoopin' 'em up, more like," Tony said. "Makes it easier for 'em mutton shunters to work."
"Naw. E'ryone with sense knows gangs do more for their districts than them shunters." Roger swore under his breath and watched with longing as Marcus slid the pile of coins across the table to himself.
She had suspicions of her own. None that she could voice here. But all of them led to the same place. A war was brewing on the border of Ferrum and Candela. Iron was a valuable resource. Something told her this was related. But how?
***
She didn't return to the workshop until well past two o'clock in the morning, cursing under her breath for staying out so long. She'd promised Steiner a swarm of bees. She poured a fresh cup of coffee and began gathering things she'd need, then got to work. Nit kept up a constant stream of unsolicited remarks, watching from their perch. "Shouldn't you align that cog first before you place the others?"
"You could come down and help," she muttered aloud, scowling.
Nit gave their best attempt at a mechanical chuckle. It sounded like shards of glass scraping together. "Oh, me? I'd just get in the way."
As dawn approached, the bodies of her bees took form. Tiny bits of metal perfectly shaped. She began on their socket molds. These were made with a tray of wax and plaster, using the furnace in the back.
She never liked working with the furnace. Elias had it set up to off-gas through vents outside. Even with the alley windows open, the workshop heated until she was pouring sweat. She turned the keys on the clockwork fans—large cooling devices with blades as long as her arms—and waited until they spun fast enough to caress her skin and hair. Then she smiled. Much better. What a grand invention!
She went to the hidden panel on the wall before descending into the basement. She made a small selection of gold—she wouldn't need much for these little creatures. She also selected a handful of yellow prisms. They were tiny, like little yellow diamonds she might set into a pair of earrings. Nine, for the nine names on the list.
Once her gold was molten, she poured it into her tray of socket molds and waited. Her hair was frizzy from the heat. Bits of it stuck to her face. Her body was sticky. Her arms burned from exertion. She exhaled and slumped against her chair.
"What time is it, Nit?" It felt as if she'd been working for ages.
"Almost five in the morning."
"Light!" She glanced about her workbench. It was a mess of parts and pieces, but she was so close. With the gold cooled, each socket was fitted into the bodies. Wearing gloves, she took the bees and dipped their stingers into Strangler's Stalk, then set them to dry. In its dried form, Strangler's Stalk wouldn't be lethal unless it came into contact with the blood stream. Once it did, it would do exactly what its name suggested. It would starve a person of oxygen and suffocate them to death. A small dose was lethal.
The last step was fitting each bee with its prism. The moment she did, they came to life, buzzing, hovering above her bench top.
She huffed, feeling affectionate. "Aren't they cute?"
Nit gave a hum of approval, though appeared to be sleeping, the lazy bugger. Mechanimals didn't really sleep, especially prism powered ones. Nit was just a lazybones like Elias said.
Like a mother, she gathered her darlings into a glass jar where they settled down along its walls, clicking and crawling over one another. Their yellow prisms glowed like fireflies. It would go well on a bedside nightstand. A memory flashed in her mind, of a time in another life, where she'd done exactly that—gathered fireflies under the watchful eye of her father. She ignored the painful clenching sensation in her chest, pushed the memory away, and tried to forget it.
Her eyes were already drooping when she reached the loft—the first vestiges of daylight spilling into the city. She shuffled to her room and did little more than remove her apron before tumbling between the sheets. Sleep found her the moment her head hit the pillow.
***
She watched him for days. And then months. The boy from the underground market on Morham Road. Watched when he helped his mother during the day at their booth, watched him when he petitioned to join the Saphire Wolves and got a new tattoo for it. He was seventeen, a year older than she, with hair the color of brass and sparkling blue eyes. He was tall, too. She liked him because of how he treated his mother, even after joining the Wolves. She'd never had a mother, so she watched him with his.
Sometimes she even went to the market to buy gloves from his booth. She used some of her earnings from spying and information gathering—from the sparse number of kills she'd made. She'd only received five since gaining her apprenticeship with Midnight. But it paid well and she could certainly think of worse places to spend her money. Besides, she gave most of the gloves away. One could never have too many in today's world.
His name was Peter, but his mother always called him Petey. And she liked that too, especially when he began scolding his mother for it, and especially when his mother did it while some of his Wolves friends hung around the booth. He learned Tabby's name too, and a few times they talked about inconsequential things. He had a way of making her skin flush whenever his eyes fastened on her face. He saw her as a person. Someone normal. Not what she really was. Their short conversations always made her heart race. He was the first person she thought she might want to get close to after Clora. And it had been years since that feeling.
And then he invited her to picnic by the river one day, and she said yes without thinking. So they did, sitting on a blanket at the grassy shore, watching boats go by. She'd grown careless. Even now, as she watched her dream-self with him, willing herself to tell him she couldn't see him anymore, that Midnight was about to find out, that Midnight was about to impart upon her another valuable lesson about the horrors of Spect life. She sat there, laughing, smiling beside Peter, happy. Oblivious.
He'd gotten bread and cheese and delicious pastries that exploded with tarty fruit when she bit into them. And she thought perhaps they were the most joyful thing she'd ever tasted. Especially when he watched her so keenly with his blue eyes while she licked her fingers clean. And she promised to drop by his booth the next day after training, though she didn't tell him about that part of her life. He would hate her if he knew. He'd want nothing to do with her. And she couldn't bear to see that on his face.
So when she met Midnight the next day for her training—a smile on her face for what was to come later—she was already screaming at herself in her dream. Screaming in warning about what was really going to come. Because when it really happened, there'd been no warning. And she'd been so shocked that it took everything to hold her composure. She'd fallen to her knees, even still, unable to hold herself. The only show of weakness she failed to hide.
Peter was gagged and blindfolded, bound to a chair in the middle of Midnight's training room. Midnight knew. He'd probably known for a while. Even she could admit that she'd grown careless—too careless. She hadn't quite perfected Nit. That would come after this. Because of this. This betrayal from Midnight.
Still, she begged. Begged for Midnight to release Peter. That she would do anything to keep him from this end. She would never see him again. Never visit him. She'd made a mistake, she admitted, and understood what that meant. Anything to keep Peter from this unfair death.
Midnight told her then, about love, about what it was to be weak, and what it was to lose her control, just as she had done by opening her heart. All the while, he held a blade to Peter's throat, breaking the first layers of skin until a bead of blood rolled down his neck. She knew very well that he was going to kill Peter in front of her. She'd seen him kill on their joint missions—watched him kill without an ounce of remorse—so that she might learn how he managed some of his own marks. But something flashed over his features then. Something unreadable.
Perhaps he had a change of heart, a softness for her; he wasn't ready to harden himself. And so he wasn't willing to do it with her watching. Instead, he sent her away, promising to do it once she was gone.
She understood deeply then, all the ways she could be manipulated by someone else, through someone else, and it hurt. In that moment, she realized she would always be alone. There would never—could never—be anyone like Clora. That night, in the dim light of Elias's workshop, she began in earnest to finish Nit. If she couldn't have a human friend, she'd make one that could never be used against her.
She hated Midnight for moths after that. Hated him so deeply that the entirety of her past and future felt hopeless. She understood why he'd done it, why he had to, and hated him more deeply for it. At the time, she didn't realize that it wasn't his fault, exactly. This was all part of a bigger, deeper problem. The Spectrum.
She hated him until one day, two years later, just shy of her eighteenth birthday—not that she remembered her actual birthday, but instead, the date she'd been handed over to the Spectrum—she was seeking information in Catterford and saw him. Peter. She forgot where she was. What she was doing. All sense fled and she almost destroyed her disguise. But he was there! Dressed finely as a butler for a wealthy household, instructing the arrival of a carriage full of ladies. A butler! A better life than Peter could have ever earned on his own.
She wanted to run to him, to fling her arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. But she couldn't. She knew why he was here, why he'd been moved to this new place, far from where she might find ever him again.
She took a step forward.
It was Nit, newly formed, that warned her against moving out into the open, speaking reason where she couldn't see it. So she watched Peter from the shadows and said goodbye to him in her own way. Because if Midnight ever found out that she'd discovered his deception...
In the days to come, two years of hate towards Midnight turned into something else. Respect, perhaps? Appreciation? For the leniency he'd shown without ever telling her. Without ever seeking her approval. For doing something she was certain no other master would ever do.
But she didn't see that in this dream. She only saw Peter gagged and bound, blindfolded, crying out in fear. And it left her shaking in her dream, even though she knew what would happen in the end. It left her shaking and tossing and sweating and hurting until she finally opened her eyes.