anything, you don’t accomplish anything, and you hurt yourself all the time. You’re right—that will show everyone how hard-core you are.”
“Aargh!”
“The only thing you’re proving is that the smartest woman I know has zero common sense. You have powerful magic, you’re smart, you’re competent, but none of that matters. I have a dozen Nadenes, I only have one you. What good would Nadene do me right now? And I know you’re female. I’ve noticed. This hysterical thing you’re doing right now, that’s female. If you were a man, I would’ve put your ass to haul rocks for the Keep a long time ago.”
I heaved up the bucket.
“Don’t do it,” he warned.
I hurled it at him, water and all. Water splashed, and then a completely drenched, pissed-off Jim grabbed the bucket, scooped water from the pond, and tossed it at me. Water hit me in a cold rush.
I turned around and stomped off.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“Away from you!” I sat on the bench at the far end of the pond.
“You’re supposed to keep me awake.”
“I can keep you awake from here. If I see you falling asleep, I’ll curse you with something really painful.”
“You do that. You’re still wrong.”
“Whatever.”
THE MORNING CAME way too slow. Jim had almost dozed off four times and I ended up moving next to him, with my bucket. At some point he asked me if my girly emotional outbursts were over, and I swore at him for a while in Indonesian. And then he ruined it by asking me what some of the words meant, and of course I had to teach him how to pronounce them properly.
It’s good that my mother stayed inside, or I would have gotten another lecture on how to behave as a proper daughter.
It was seven o’clock now and we were standing on Pryor Street, in front of a grimy white arch marking the entrance to Kenny’s Alley. Set apart from the main Underground, Kenny’s Alley had no roof, and entering through the narrow ramp off of Pryor Street was the quickest way to get there. It was also the most dangerous—to get down, I’d have to walk up the narrow ramp that squeezed between two brick buildings, enter the old train depot, and then walk along the balcony and down two floors, all filled with people who’d kill me for a dollar. Sometimes people who entered the Underground through Pryor Street didn’t come out.
The wind swirled, rushing down the narrow gap between the buildings, and flung the Underground’s scents into my face: odors of a dozen of animal species mixed with the bitter stink of stale urine, human and otherwise, old manure, fish from a giant fishmonger tank, pungent incense, and salty blood. The revolting amalgam washed over me and I had to fight not to retch.
At least the magic had vanished during the night. Usually the miasma rising from the Underground made my head hurt.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jim said.
“Yes, I do.”
He reached over and put his arm around me. I froze. There was so much strength in that muscular arm that suddenly I felt safe. The scent of him, the comforting, strong Jim scent, touched me, blocking out other smells. I would know that scent anywhere. Here he was hugging me. I had wished for it and now I just wanted to cry, because no matter what I did, no matter how much I raced or how belligerent I got, he would never want me. Not in that way.
I stepped away from him, before I lost it. “I’m going inside. If I go inside a shop, give me about five minutes. If I don’t come out . . .”
“I’ll come in,” he promised.
“Don’t fall asleep.”
“I won’t.”
I looked into his brown eyes and believed him.
“Okay,” I murmured. “I’m going now.”
I turned and headed down the narrow alley, into the dark belly of the Underground. Panhandlers and street people lined the ramp and the balcony, swaddled in filthy clothes, hats and tins in front of them. This early in the morning they didn’t even bother begging. They just stared at me as I passed by, all except an old black man, who was doing a wobbly moonwalk across a covered walkway, gyrating to the beat of some melody only he could hear. His eyes were wide-open; he looked straight at me but didn’t see me.
The ramp led me up to the top floor, to a wide balcony. Kenny’s Alley stretched below: a dank narrow space, filled with stalls and vicious-eyed people, its brick floor barely visible beneath cages and refuse. I kept walking. The balcony ended and I took the stairs down to the lower floor, where vendors hawked their wares. Dull electric lamps were strung out between old Christmas lights, marking the little shops. Despite the hour, customers already flooded the market, men, women, and children of every color and race looking for the magic cure to their problems. They were what allowed the poachers to exist. They’d stop poaching if people stopped buying.
What I needed wouldn’t be sold here. I had to get to Kenny’s Alley.
The electric lamps blinked and died. Darkness clenched the Underground in its mouth and spat it out with the hiss and crackle of magic. Fey lanterns ignited with a pale blue glow, their thin glass tubes twisted into
Another magic wave. There shouldn’t have been one. Nobody could predict when magic came and went, but it rarely flooded the city twice in twenty-four hours. Just my luck.
I kept moving, winding my way between the stalls. If Jim was following me, I couldn’t see him. I hoped he stayed awake. I hoped he would with all my might, because if he fell asleep, there was no hope for either of us.
The entrance to Kenny’s Alley loomed ahead, a rectangle of weak sunrise light. The smell hit me first, that unforgettable stench of too many animals kept too close together. Then came the noise: the braying, the mewing, the snarls. I stepped out into the open. Three-story houses rose on both sides of me, boxing in a narrow alley. Stalls and tables lined the front of the shops, offering dried ox penises, tanks containing geoduck mollusks, deer antlers, bundles of dried herbs. To the left a man dipped steel tongs into a box and plucked out a black poisonous centipede. The insect writhed, trying to break free. The man took the lid off a pot on the kerosene burner and tossed the centipede inside.
Small-time. I kept walking. I needed a rare-goods dealer.
People were looking at me. From the shop front on the right a middle-aged white woman in camo fabric stared at my legs, then at my head, as if she wanted to shoot me. Magic probed me, teasing, testing. A couple of younger men, probably Chinese, leaned to each other, whispering. I caught bits and pieces. A word stood out:
I felt like a cow being led past a row of butcher shops. I raised my chin. Show no fear, or they will swoop like vultures.
A stall to the left looked richer than the rest: The table was sturdy and the cloth on it was red silk, the real thing, not a cheap imitation. An old wizened woman, Korean by her dress, sat guarding the wares, looking bored. I stopped and looked at the dried-out parts displayed on the silk.
I bowed.
The woman bowed her head back. “Hello.”
English. Great. My Korean was rusty.
I paused by a small white sack that lay half open. Inside lay minced leather strips.
“Bear gallbladder,” the woman said.
I picked up a small slice and sniffed it. “Pig.” If it had been a real bear gallbladder, she wouldn’t have let me
