She looked at the boy. Like Kaleb had once been, he was a street scab. His hair was matted, and old scars ran down his neck and arm from what appeared to have been boiling liquid thrown on him at some point. The rough, scar-thick skin made him stand out, but for jobs that weren’t secret, he was still of use.

“And Kaleb?” She held a coin in her still-closed hand.

“Ripped open high enough up that he won’t be using his assets anytime soon.” The boy shuddered, but even as he did so, he was on to the practical matters: he stretched out his open hand. “Might be fatal. Might not. I can find out for extra.”

“Not much more, but a little extra something if you find out first.” Aya released the coin, and before it hit the scab’s open palm, he’d plucked it out of the air and secreted it away.

“Don’t cross his threshold,” she warned before the scab left.

Kaleb’s sole packmate, Zevi, wasn’t vicious as a rule, but she’d seen him leap to Kaleb’s defense against attackers far too big to cross overtly. If Kaleb was seriously injured, Zevi would be even more rabid in his already heightened protectiveness.

A moment after the scab nodded and vanished into the throng, Marchosias swept through the market with the grace of a wolf prowling his territory. The thrill of seeing him out in public rippled over the crowd—at least those parts of the crowd who weren’t slipping away to avoid his notice. Marchosias didn’t have to offer coin for what he wanted. He was their lord and master, their judge and jury, their terror or bliss, their savior or destroyer. Whatever he wanted was his.

Aya slipped to the side, watching him. It wasn’t a matter of avoiding his attention: she’d killed so many fighters that he’d known who she was for months. That didn’t mean that she wanted him looking at her as if she wore a red mask.

Another of the street scabs appeared at her side. “Kaleb’s not dead, probably won’t die from this, but he’s not going to be in any shape to fight next week.”

A scuffle across the street heralded the beginning of one of Marchosias’ announcements. He stood atop a small riser and surveyed the crowd growing around him. He saw her, and he beckoned her to him.

Silently, Aya handed the necessary coin to the scab, and with her head held high, she strolled toward the crowd watching Marchosias.

“We are nearing the end of the contest,” Marchosias began. “I am honored by the ferocity of my people.” The crowd cheered. “This competition has been a beautiful, bloody addition to the Carnival of Souls.” The din of cheering rose higher. Even those who didn’t enjoy the savagery of the competition knew to cheer whatever Marchosias declared to be good.

“Upon meditation, I have decided to add an incentive to the final rounds.” Marchosias’ gaze fastened on Aya.

He was a good ruler, a daimon worthy of her loyalty, but she felt a creeping sense of dread as he watched her approach.

“The winner of the competition will be awarded the right to join my family’s line to theirs,” he announced. “My daughter is alive, and she will be returned to The City by her eighteenth birthday.”

The cheers grew near deafening.

Marchosias let them continue as Aya waded through the crowd. When she was standing in front of him, he held up a hand for silence.

Dread evolved into terror when he announced, “Not all of the contestants are male, though, so to keep it fair, I have decided that if Aya wins, she will bear my next child.”

The crowd cheered again, and she wasn’t sure if it was because Marchosias was putting her back into what many considered a woman’s rightful place or because he was looking out at them expecting them to cheer. Perhaps, it was both.

Aya, however, could not have been more devastated. The very thing she’d fought to avoid was suddenly the prize. She tried to keep her emotions from her expression, but apparently failed—or perhaps it was simply her silence that revealed her lack of enthusiasm.

“Are you not honored, girl?” Marchosias prompted.

She ignored the crowd behind her. “I am honored by your notice, Marchosias, but if I win, I won’t have time to bear a child.”

As he stepped down from the riser, Marchosias smiled like the wolf he resembled in his other form. “Do you expect to win?”

“Every fighter does,” she hedged.

The assessing glint in his eyes didn’t dim. “The prize for winning is to join lines with mine. As with any of those I’ve taken to mate, if you bear my son, you will be my next wife.”

Aya ignored the question of marriage, and instead focused on the larger issue. “If any of the other fighters win, they will have your missing daughter. She will raise the child, so they do not have to stay in chambers with a child. For them, it is doubly a prize.”

He smiled again, and it took more effort not to flinch than it ever did in fights. “Be careful, Aya. It sounds as if I am not a prize.”

She bowed. “For a daimon who wants to bear a child, you are the best of rewards, but I do not intend to bear a child, my lord. I would rather die in the fights.”

He put his hand flat on her abdomen. “We all have a duty to The City.”

When he turned away, Aya fled. There were fates worse than being a breeder, but she wasn’t sure there were any fates that would be worse for her. Witches’ magic, spells she couldn’t overcome, meant that marriage or a breeding ceremony would make any female fertile. She would be unable to stay childless if she went through the ceremony, and a child would reveal the secret that would result in her inevitable death or enslavement.

CHAPTER 12

AFTER KALEB HAD DISCOVERED that Mallory felt like pack, that she felt like she was his, he knew he had to try to talk to Haage. Crossing Haage was the sort of action that ended a black-mask’s career. Most often, the only reason to cancel a contract was the assassin’s death. To add pressure to an already explosive problem, Kaleb wasn’t at the carnival for but a few minutes before he heard about Marchosias’ pronouncement. If Mallory had been found by someone who reported to their ruler, Kaleb’s time was even more limited. Unless he could get to Mallory before she was brought to The City, he risked crossing both Haage and Marchosias. Even if he could reach her first, he’d have to confess what he was. Every direction he could turn felt deadly.

He mulled solutions as he walked from assassin stall to assassin stall. There were kinder words etched on the stalls, but they were what they were. Calling them “conflict resolution consultants” didn’t change the nature of the service they provided. Murder for hire was a thriving business—one that had provided steady work for him for several years.

At the third stall, Kaleb found Haage. The older daimon was easier to locate than most assassins: he never wore a mask. With Haage, his career was a sign of pride. His ability to do his work without needing a mask spoke of skill and brutality, both prized traits in The City.

The two daimons with him, however, were masked from brow to chin. Vibrant blue masks protected the customers’ identities as they solicited murder; despite that, they still stepped farther into the shadows when Kaleb approached.

Haage turned his back on them with the confidence of someone who knew he was terrifying. His meaty arms and bare chest were covered with so many scars that the flesh was raised in intricate textures in more than a few places. He wore those scars with the pride that came from killing nearly every daimon he’d fought. The one notable exception was Marchosias. Years ago, long before Kaleb had been born, there was even less chance of caste movement. Marchosias and Haage had led the daimons who’d routed the witches from The City, and then Marchosias had led his troops to the palace and made himself ruler. Haage had thought his brother would reward him—and he had, making Haage head of the militia, a role Haage had subsequently lost by trying to repeat his brother’s action and declare himself ruler. It had been treason, selfish power-grubbing of the sort that should have resulted in Haage’s death. Instead, Marchosias had laughed and offered forgiveness.