Page 19 of Harbinger

I have no idea what time it is. I can’t remember whether I turned right or left before. Biting my lip, I take a chance and head left. After a few blocks, I realize I’ve chosen incorrectly—there’s no sign of the pleasure house.

I’m about to retrace my steps when a door bangs open behind me and a man stumbles out, a sour reek wafting off his filthy, wrinkled clothing. He weaves unsteadily toward me.

“Well, well,” he slurs, his eyes lighting up with interest. “Look what the Stars dropped on my doorstep.”

I dodge him, picking up my pace, which is more difficult as snow begins to collect on the uneven cobblestone streets.

“That’s not very friendly,” he calls, some of the drunken thickness ebbing away. “I just want to talk.”

Speeding up, I glance over my shoulder to find him sure on his feet. It’s a trick. He’s not drunk at all. My hand slips into my coat pocket, feeling for the dagger Kieren gave me. I hesitate, weigh my options, and turn at the next marked street.

Only to find myself staring at a crumbling brick wall with a rotting barrel stationed under a drainpipe, no windows low enough to reach. A dead end.

“This is better,” the man says, stepping behind me and dropping his act completely. There’s a calculated edge to his gaze that makes me wish I’d come out from behind that bookcase and begged mercy from the bishop. “There’s only one reason that a person of your … breeding … bothers to crawl to our part of town.”

Acid shoots up my throat, but I swallow, shaking my head. “I was lost, but I think I see the street I missed. If you’ll excuse me …”

I dare one step to the side. He mirrors the movement.

“Lost?” He laughs, drawing closer. There’s no sour scent of wine on him now. Even his clothes look cleaner. It’s like he’s a different man altogether. “You’re not the first lady to sneak out of your prison up on the hill and come looking for a good time.”

He reaches out, and I jerk back, but he only twists a strand of my hair between his thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t touch me,” I whisper hoarsely.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” His gaze drops to the simple silver locket at my throat. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”

“It’s worthless,” I say too quickly. Interest gleams in his eyes. “It’s tin. The silverplate is nearly gone. See?” I flip it over to show him the back, where the plating has worn thin enough to reveal the base metal underneath. “The clasp barely stays latched. I don’t even carry a portrait in it.”

All of this is true, except it’s not worthless. Not to me, anyway. My mother wore this for almost twenty years. It was a gift from my father on their wedding day. It used to hold a portrait of him, but it fell out. It’s the most precious thing I own.

“If it’s worthless, then you won’t mind parting with it. Consider it a contribution to the local economy.” He flourishes a hand down his own chest.

“I said no.”

He clicks his tongue. “But I say yes.”

I back away, my hand slipping toward my pocket again and the dagger inside it. But he doesn’t advance on me. Instead, his fingers flick the air like he’s conducting a symphony. It takes me a second to realize that he’s tracing a pattern. At first, nothing happens, but then the air glimmers, momentarily mesmerizing me.

The locket lifts from my neck like it’s been caught by a gust of wind. The loose clasp falls open, and the necklace floats between us before dropping into his open palm.

I’m too stunned to move. That is definitely unlicensed magic.

“My sincerest gratitude.” He gives me a mocking half bow. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, my lady.”

The taunt snaps the shock leashing me. My fingers curl tightly around the dagger. It’s out and unsheathed before he’s finished turning around. Lunging, I wrap my arm around him from behind and dig the blade’s tip in at an uncomfortably low position.

The thief stills, except for his head, which tips down to look at the dagger pointed at his dick.

“Let’s try this again,” I hiss. “You’re probably thinking that you are bigger and stronger than me. Maybe you’re calculating if I’ll actually do it.”

“Interesting negotiation technique,” he says through gritted teeth, eyes still on his prize. “Odds are you won’t.”

“Want to bet?” I flatten the edge of the blade against his balls, and he yelps. I extend my other arm out, palm to the sky. “Here’s my counteroffer. Something precious for something precious. You give me back my mother’s locket, and maybe you’ll still have children one day.”

He starts to pant, daring to shake his head. “You’re bluffing.”

I press it in another fraction of an inch, just enough to make my point. “Have you ever castrated a pig? I have. Would you like a demonstration?”