by Amanda Foody
“You told me never to call,” a woman said, “unless I had an opportunity.” It’d been many years, but her monotone, lifeless voice was still recognizable, still made the man shiver. They weren’t friends, but they shared a common enemy.
He considered hanging up. It’d been eighteen years since he stepped foot in the City of Sin, and, at some point during his travels, he’d promised himself to never return. Unlike the city where he lived now, the man was both merciless and despicable—but not entirely so. And New Reynes had a way of corrupting whatever remained of a pure soul.
As he moved to end the call, the woman spoke louder, “You’ll be delighted to hear who has died.”
He quickly pulled the phone back to his ear. “Was it my mother?”
“No.”
Wishful thinking, he thought. His mother was too stubborn to die.
“It was Semper...and Sedric Torren,” the woman said.
The man’s eye widened. Eighteen years of peace, and New Reynes might just catch fire again. “Tell me what happened. And what you’re offering.”
The woman recounted the story of what had occurred only hours before, of two street lords named Séance and Levi Glaisyer.
“I accept,” he said.
“There’s a train leaving at six. A man will be waiting for you there, and he’ll escort you to the House of Shadows.” She hung up.
The man lowered the receiver to its cradle and returned to his room.
It’d been a useless promise, he knew. One born out of frustration, waiting for that phone call, waiting for his chance. No matter how many cities he visited or how many people he met—it didn’t matter. His destiny had always been in the City of Sin.
To burn his mother’s empire down.
Within minutes, Harrison Augustine had dressed, packed his belongings, and walked to the station. Even hours away, he sensed the rising smoke of New Reynes.
It tasted sweet.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from DAUGHTER OF THE BURNING CITY by Amanda Foody.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story has seen me through three graduations, through first romances and first griefs, through world-traveling adventures and questionable basement dormitories and cramped apartments. I have thrown all of my dreams into this book, and, in return, this book taught me how to write. But this has been far from a solo endeavor. Over the course of the many years spent on this story, I have whisked some thrill-seeking readers away to the City of Sin, and I have countless to thank.
First, to my own gang. To my editor, Lauren Smulski: this story found its happily-ever-after thanks to you, and I could not ask for a more passionate advocate for this book. To my agent, Brianne Johnson, who found this series the perfect home at Harlequin TEEN, and whose editorial insight changed the entire way I looked at these characters. To my publicist, Siena Koncsol, who gives the best pep talks and has worked tirelessly to put my words into the hands of readers. To Bryn Collier and the rest of my marketing team, thank you for your enthusiasm in championing this book and all my books.
To Christine Lynn Herman, my partner in crime, thank you for reading every snippet as soon as I write it, for crying over all my milestones with me, for editing this book with such patience and fervor. You know this story better than anyone and still haven’t grown tired of it. That’s good—I have a lot more books I need you to read for me, for I trust no one more. Thank you for being my first reader, my last reader, my idea springboard, my fellow trash lord, my first mate of many ships, my gossip buddy and my best friend.
To Meg Kohlman, Melody Simpson, Joan He, Akshaya Raman, Kat Cho, Katy Pool, Claribel Ortega, Janella Angeles, Amanda Haas, Mara Fitzgerald, Axie Oh, Maddy Colis, Ashley Burdin and Ella Dyson...I could not ask for a savvier critique group or writer cult. Your support means the world to me.
To Molly Jaffa, whose editorial feedback remains all over this story: thank you for your energy and your patience with me as I hunted for my true vision for these characters.
This story has seen an army of readers and supporters over its journey. In no particular order, many, many thanks to Jena DeBois, Deeba Zargarpur, Kristy Shen, Audrey Dion, Emmy Neal, Kelly Ferraro, Kate Maffey, Marieke Nijkamp, Lindsay Smith, Brenda Drake, Jadzia Brandli, Tamara Felsinger, Stephanie Diaz, Hafsah Fazial, Michael Waters, Courtney Washburn, Nikhita Prabhakar, Jessica Harvey, Steph Stessa, Raven Ashley, Kay Cox and Kelia Ingraham. You are all honorary Sinners.
To my parents, who have been with me every step of the way in producing this book. To Ben, who has listened patiently to my ramblings about these characters since the day I met him.
To my Pikachu pillow—you saw a lot of tears over the course of this journey.
To the many characters who were once part of this series, but were tragically cut—I cringe when I think of you and any early drafts of this manuscript, but I won’t forget you. I’m sure I’ll recycle your names somewhere.
And to you, dear reader—I hope you heeded my advice and avoided the City of Sin altogether, for no one truly leaves it uncorrupted.
Daughter of the Burning City
by Amanda Foody
Chapter One
I peek from behind the tattered velvet curtains at the chattering audience, their mouths full of candied pineapple and kettle corn. With their pale faces flushed from excitement and the heat, they look as gullible as dandelions, much like the patrons in the past five cities. The Gomorrah Festival hasn’t been permitted to travel this far north in the Up-Mountains in over three years, and these people look like they’re attending the opera or the theater rather than our traveling carnival of debauchery.
The women wear frilly dresses in burnt golds and oranges, buckled to the point of suffocation, some with rosy-cheeked children bouncing on their laps, others with cleavage as high as their chins. The men have shoulder pads to seem broader, stilted loafers to seem taller and painted silver pocket watches to seem richer.
If buckles, stilts and paint are enough to hoodwink them, then they won’t notice that the eight “freaks” of my freak show are, in fact, only one.
Tonight’s mark, Count Pomp-di-pomp—or is it Count Pomp-von-Pompa?—smokes an expensive pipe in the second row, his mustache gleaming with leftover saffron honey from the pastry he had earlier. He’s sitting too close to the front, which won’t make it easy for Jiafu to steal the count’s ring.
That’s where I come in.
My job is to distract the audience so that Pomp-di-pomp doesn’t notice Jiafu’s shadow-work coaxing the sapphire ring off of his porky finger and dropping it onto the grass below.
A drum and fiddle play an entrancing Down-Mountain tune to quiet the audience’s chatter, and I let the curtain fall, blocking my view. The Gomorrah Festival Freak Show will soon begin.
This is my favorite part of the performance: the anticipation. The drumbeats pound erratically, as if dizzy from drinking several mugs of the Festival’s spiced wine. Everything sticks in this humid air: the aromas of carnival food, the gray smoke that shrouds Gomorrah like a cloak and the jittery intakes of breath from the audience, wondering whether the freak show will prove as gruesome as the sign outside promised:
The Gomorrah Festival Freak Show.
Walk the line between abnormal and monstrous.
From the opposite end of the stage, behind the curtain on stage right, Nicoleta nods at me. I reach for the rope and yank down. The pulley spins and whistles, and the curtain rises.
Nicoleta struts—a very practiced, rigid strut—into the spotlight, her heels clicking and the slit in her gown revealing a lacy violet garter at the curve of her thigh. When I first created her three years ago, she had knee-shaking stage fright, and I needed to control her during the show like a puppet. Now she’s so accustomed to her role that I turn away, unneeded, and tie on my best mask. Rhinestones of varying sizes and shades of red
cover it, from the curled edges near my temples to the tip of my nose. I need to dazzle, after all.
“Welcome to the Gomorrah Festival Freak Show,” Nicoleta says.
The audience gawks at her. Like the particular Up-Mountainers in this city, and unlike any of the other members of my family, Nicoleta has fair skin. Freckles. Pale brown hair draped to her elbows. Skinny wrists and skinnier, child-like legs. Many members of Gomorrah have Up-Mountain heritage, whether obvious or diluted, but these northern city dwellers always expect the enticingly unfamiliar: sensual, audacious and wild.
The audience’s expressions seem to say, Poor, lost girl, what are you doing working at Gomorrah? Where are your parents? Your chaperone? You can’t be more than twenty-two.
“I am Nicoleta, the show’s manager, and I hope you’re enjoying your first Gomorrah Festival in...three years, I hear?”
The audience stiffens; they stop fanning themselves, stop chewing their candied pineapple. I curse under my breath. Nicoleta has a knack—a compulsion, really—for saying the wrong thing. This is the Festival’s first night in Frice, a city-state known—like many others—for its strict religious leaders and disapproval of the Gomorrah lifestyle. Three years ago, a minor rebellion in the Vurundi kingdom ousted the Frician merchants from power there. Despite quickly reclaiming its tyrannous governorships, and despite Gomorrah’s utter lack of involvement, Frice decided to restrict the Festival’s traveling in this region. I can’t have Nicoleta scaring away our few visitors by reminding them that their city officials disapprove of them being here, even at an attraction as innocent as a freak show.
“For those of you with weaker constitutions, I suggest you exit before our opening act,” Nicoleta says. Her tone rises and falls at the proper moments. The theatrics of her performance in our show are the opposite of Nicoleta’s role in our family, which Unu and Du have dubbed “stick in the bum.” Every night, she manages to transform—or, better put, improve—her entire demeanor for the sake of the show, since her own abilities are too unreliable to deserve an act. Some days, she can pull our caravans better than our two horses combined. Others, she needs Tree to open our jars of lychee preserves.
“The sights you are about to witness are shocking, even monstrous,” she continues. A young boy in the front row clings to his mother, pulling at her puffed, apricot sleeves. “Children, cover your eyes. Parents, beware. Because the show is about to begin.”
While the audience leans forward in their seats, I prepare for the upcoming act by picturing the Strings, as I call them. I have almost two hundred Strings, glowing silver, dragging behind me as I walk, like the train of a fraying gown. Only I can see them and, even then, only when I focus. I mentally reach down and pluck out four particular Strings and circle them around my hands until they’re taut. The others remain in a heap on the wooden floor.
“I’d like to introduce you to a man found within the faraway Forest of Ruins,” Nicoleta lies. Backstage, Hawk stops playing the fiddle, and Unu and Du reduce the tempo on their drums. I yank on the Strings to command my puppet.
Thump. Thump.
The audience gasps as the Human Tree stomps onto the stage. His skin is made entirely of bark, and his midsection measures as wide as a hundred-year-old oak trunk. It’s difficult to make out his facial features in the twisted lumps of wood, except for his sunken, beetle-black eyes and emptiness of expression. Leaves droop from the branches jutting out from his shoulders, adding several feet to his already daunting stature. His fingers curl into splintery twigs as he waves hello.
From backstage, my hand waves, as well. If I don’t control Tree, he’ll scream profanity that will make half these fancy ladies faint. If he works himself into a real tantrum, he’ll tear off the bark on his stomach until blood trickles out like sap.
His act begins, which is mostly him stomping around and grunting, and me yanking this way and that on his Strings to make him do so. I crafted him when I was three years old, before I considered the performance potential of my illusions.
The six other illusions wait with me backstage.
Venera, the boneless acrobat more flexible than a dripping egg yolk, brushes rouge on her painted white cheeks at a vanity. She pouts in the mirror and then pushes aside a strand of dark hair from her face. She’s beautiful, especially in her skintight, black-and-purple-striped suit. Every night, the audience practically drools over her...until they watch her body flatten into a puddle or her arms roll up like a croissant.
Beside her, Crown files the fingernails that grow from his body where hair should be. He keeps the nails on his arms and legs smooth, giving him a scaly look, but he doesn’t touch the ones on his hands and head, which are curled, yellow daggers as long as butcher knives. Though Crown was my second illusion, made ten years ago, he appears to be seventy-five. He always smokes a cigar before his performance so his gentle voice will sound as prickly as his skin.
Hawk plays the fiddle in an almost spiritual concentration while what’s left of a chipmunk—dinner—hangs out of her mouth. Her brown wings are tucked under her fuchsia cape, where they will remain until she unfolds them during her act, screeches and flies over the—usually shrieking—audience. Her talons pluck at the fiddle’s strings at an incomparable speed. Her ultimate goal is to challenge the devil himself to a fiddle contest, and she figures by traveling with the world’s most famous festival of depravity, she’s bound to run into him one day.
Blister, the chubby one-year-old, plays with the beads dangling off of Unu and Du’s drum. Rather than focusing on their rhythm, Unu and Du bicker about something, per usual. Du punches Unu with their shared left arm. Unu hisses an unpleasant word loudly, which Blister then tries out for himself, missing the double s sound and saying something resembling a-owl.
Gill snaps at them all to be quiet and then resumes reading his novel. Even wearing a rusted diver’s helmet full of water, he manages to make out the words on the pages. Bubbles seep from the gills on his cheeks as he sighs. As the loner of our family, he generally prefers the quiet company of books to our boisterous, pre-show jitters. He only raises his voice during our games of lucky coins—he holds the family record for the most consecutive wins (twenty-one). I suspect he’s been cheating by allowing Hawk, Unu and Du to forfeit games on purpose in exchange for lighter homework assignments.
“Keep an eye on Blister,” I remind the boys. “Those drums are flammable.”
“Tell Unu to stuff a drumstick up his—” Du glances hesitantly at Gill “—backside.”
“That’s your backside, too, dung-brain,” Unu says.
“It’s an expression,” says Du. “I like its sentiment.”
It would hardly be a classic Gomorrah Festival Freak Show if the audience couldn’t hear my brothers tormenting each other backstage.
“I’ll stick it up both your assholes if you don’t shut it,” I say. They pay me no attention; they know I never follow through with my threats.
“A-owl,” Blister says again.
“Language, Sorina,” Gill groans.
“Shit. Sorry,” I reply, but I’m only mildly chagrined. Blister’s been hearing all our foul mouths since the day he came to be.
One by one, they perform their acts: the Boneless Acrobat; the Fingernail Mace; the Half Girl, Half Hawk; the Fire-Breathing Baby; the Two-Headed Boy; and the Trout Man. The audience roars as Hawk screeches and soars over their seats, cheers at each splash of Gill flipping in and out of his tank like a trained dolphin. They are utterly unaware that the “freaks” are actually my illusions, projected for anyone to see.
The only real freak in Gomorrah is me.
“For the finale,” Nicoleta says, as I hurriedly smooth down my shoulder-length black hair, “a mysterious performer who’s been with Gomorrah since her childhood. She’s the Girl Who Sees Without Eyes, and if you remain in your seats, she’ll reveal wonders you can see, hear, smell and even touch.”
<
br /> I greet the audience as Unu and Du wheel Gill’s massive glass tank offstage. The hem of my black robes swish across the floor, and a hood drapes over all but my violet-painted lips. Count Pomp-di-pomp murmurs to the plump woman beside him, perhaps his wife. Another person Jiafu will need to sneak around during my act.
The room holds its breath as I remove the hood, only to reveal my mask.
“Take the mask off,” a man shouts from the back.
“Those who see her true face turn to stone,” says Nicoleta. Of course, that’s horseshit. I just hate the screams, same as Tree with his bark skin, Unu and Du with their two heads and Hawk with her wings and claws. As good as we have it in Gomorrah, no one wants to be a freak.
The fiddle and drums fade to silence as I raise my arms.
The tent’s ceiling and grass floor disappear, replaced with colorful galaxies so the crowd seems suspended within the cosmos. The woman beside Count Pomp-di-pomp shrieks and lifts her feet off the endless, black ground and then wipes the sweat from her forehead with her pearl-studded glove.
Nicoleta jabbers a spiel about the wonders of my sight, as if my lack of eyes allows me to see more than everyone else. Between my forehead and cheekbones is flat skin, but I can see just the same as the rest of the world. I’m an illusion-worker, the rarest form of jynx-worker, gifted in mirages real enough to touch, smell, hear and taste. My most intricate illusions are my family and the other members of the freak show: living figments of my imagination.
I’ve never met another illusion-worker—only read about them—but as far as I know, I am the only one born without eyes who relies on my jynx-work to see. No doctor or medicine man can explain how this works. Maybe I don’t see like everyone else does—it’s not as if I could test that out—but I see, color and all, and I’m not one to question things I don’t really need answers for.
I throw all of my energy into this performance, so much that my Strings are fully visible to me and tangle at my feet. I avoid moving around onstage, in case I trip. Normally, the Strings aren’t solid, but when I’m commanding this much power? My ankle just might catch, and I’ll topple into the front row.
