Shattered Souls (The Toren Series, Book 1)

by Lola StVil

  It doesn’t matter. It’ll be gone soon enough.

  I spot a stall that has what I’m looking for. I’m almost surprised to see it. A stall selling hoodies should be completely out of place in this climate, but I’m not shocked. I’ve already seen a stall selling umbrellas and another selling designer jeans. It’s true that where there are tourists, anything will sell.

  I walk up to the stall and have a look through the items. I spot a black hoodie in my size that will be perfect for hiding my wings and covering my face to keep from being recognized.

  I can just about get away with being here, but once I locate the entrance to the Hun’s Market, I’ll have crossed a line that there’s no coming back from.

  It wouldn’t do to have the son of the Kon browsing through Hun’s Market. I tap my pocket and my heart sinks when I feel its emptiness. I don’t have my wallet. I can’t go back. If I do, Anya will never let me out of her sight again, and I might not be able to locate the market again. At least not soon enough.

  I make a quick decision. I don’t like it one bit. It’s something I always vowed I wouldn’t do, but I justify it to myself in two ways. Firstly, the mission is too important to not do what needs to be done. And secondly, and slightly less convincingly, I tell myself these vendors spend all day ripping tourists off. They can afford to lose one thing. I glance around to make sure the coast is clear. No one is paying me any attention.

  I raise my palm and fire a tiny ball of white light into the air. It hovers there. It doesn’t take long for people to notice it. They are all pointing to it, nudging each other and wondering aloud what it is. This is my chance. I snatch the black hoodie and move away from the stall. I slip it on and keep walking. I turn back for a moment and send another ball into the first one.

  I grin at the “oohs” and “aahs” from the crowd as it explodes in a burst of white sparks.

  I wind my way deeper into the crowd. I know what I’m looking for, at least in theory.

  Hun’s Market isn’t a place for normal humans. It always has only one way in and one way out (unless you’re really tricky, then you can usually find other ways). The entrance will have at least two large guards standing by the door.

  I’ve never been quite sure what the guards are for. Certainly not to prevent trouble. And the market is enchanted, so no humans ever try to get in.

  Maybe they’re just a fail-safe in case the enchantment is weakened.

  The only humans, or should I say ex-humans, that are allowed in Hun’s Market are Sellers. I shudder at the thought of them. Sellers are people who lived as humans and spent their entire lives cheating, scamming, and stealing from whomever they could.

  But the scammers that make it here are the ones who died in a moment of great heroism—the con artist who jumped in front of a truck to save a child’s life—and for that, they are given eternal life.

  Although in theory the heroic act redeems the Sellers, there’s still something shifty about them, and I wouldn’t trust one at all. All they are out for is themselves, and anyone who believes otherwise will soon be shown the truth when they are robbed blind.

  I spot what I’m looking for.

  A large barred gate stands between two stalls. I pause for a moment, watching in fascination as the people wandering around the stalls give the gate a wide berth without being aware that they are doing it. They don’t even glance in its direction.

  I wonder what they see there. A wall? A blurred shadow that they put down to the sun dazzling them?

  I guess I’ll never know.

  The gate is guarded by three huge men, each of whom is dressed head to foot in black. Their stern expressions don’t faze me. They are a part of the market, and they know that their livelihood depends on people like me. People who are so desperate they will risk coming here.

  I saunter over.

  “Alright, mate?” I say to the nearest guard.

  “Not bad,” he responds. “What are you looking for in there?”

  There’s no point in sidestepping the question. It’s not like they don’t know the sorts of things people come here for.

  “I’m here to get a mixture that can kill someone.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: FISH

  The guard raises an eyebrow, but makes no comment. He shrugs his shoulders and pulls open the gate and stands aside so that I can enter. The slamming noise of it closing behind me sounds so final that I can’t resist glancing back over my shoulder.

  I can see the normal tourist market on the other side of the gate. Somehow, it reassures me to know there’s still a normal world out there. A world where people are happy.

  I turn back to the Hun’s Market. I thought the normal market was a crazy mix of noise and people until I came to this place.

  The market stretches out down a long, narrow cobbled street. In the distance, it opens out into a square. I hope I don’t have to venture in that far.

  Both sides of the street are crammed tight with stalls manned by demons, Sellers, and Quos.

  I spot a red-skinned demon that is casually blowing plumes of fire up into the air in between sales. I shudder when a customer, a Quo, points to the item she wants. It’s a dragon heart. It will most likely be used in a mixture that will give the drinker courage and the ability to breathe fire, but with it comes a terrible side effect. The person will no longer feel any effects of human emotions. They will lose their empathy completely and kill anyone or anything that stands in their way. I dread to think what the little Quo wants with it.

  Opposite the red demon, a jovial looking Quo is shouting his wares one by one like a market trader from the East End of London.

  “We’ve got it all here, folks. Step right up and get your angel blood, human souls, and blackened hearts.”

  I quickly look away when he tries to meet my eye. I pull my hood a little tighter around my face, hoping he hasn’t recognized me. He repeats his sales pitch, and I relax. He’s just trying to make a sale.

  At the next stall along the line, another Quo stands. She’s quieter than the others, and I see her stall is somewhat different. She has a huge selection of healing potions, including love potions.

  Maybe not everyone here is all bad.

  That is until I see a demon slide up to her and ask for baby’s breath. I remember hearing that term in the human world and being shocked they had it too. I soon learned that in the human world, baby’s breath is a flower.

  Here, it is the first breath of a newborn angel baby, captured in a vial.

  If that breath is squeezed into the mouth of a corpse, it brings them back to life. Unfortunately, it’s a huge gamble whether the right soul is drafted back into the right body unless the user is familiar with dark magic.

  She hands him two vials.

  “I’ll also need some Weeping oil,” he says in a raspy voice.

  Then I see the dark green liquid next to it, Weeping oil. Weeping oil is used to torture humans for information. Once the human ingests it, the demons collect their tears, which play their memories back like a movie. It’ll set your insides on fire almost literally, and most humans can’t survive more than two doses, so they better hope the demons get what they need before then.

  I can’t help but wonder how much such a thing sells for.

  The whole street is jam-packed with all manner of demons and Quos. I’m pretty sure I spot the odd angel too, but I slip back into the crowd before they have a chance to spot me. The last thing I need right now is some do-gooder angel running to my parents about this.

  Powers whizz around overhead as stall holders show off to customers, and tempers fray. The air is filled with the sickly-sweet smell of melting Jazeline, a curious mixture of jasmine and hazelnuts which is a huge Quo delicacy. The smell is interlaced with the stronger aroma of Coy as I pass a stall with tables and chairs set in front of it, creating a makeshift bar area.

  Demons sit in the chairs, shouting and slurring their words as they greet each other with enthusiastic claps on the back that, aft
er a few more shots, will turn to violence.

  The air around me hums with the buzz of conversation and the constant sounds of powers sparking.

  I shudder again as I pass a stall selling angel wing bones, and demon skulls.

  The things some people consider to be art will never cease to horrify me.

  A stall holder with flaming red hair cut in short, jagged spikes tries to tempt me to purchase Coy paste she describes as “the best buzz you’ll ever have.”

  I shake my head and keep walking.

  I know who I’m looking for, and I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. You would think finding a Quo that’s over seven feet tall would be easy, but here, he’s not even the strangest person.

  As my eyes scan the stalls looking for him, I spot people that are less than a foot tall and some who are so large they never seem to end. I see people of every color imaginable and then some.

  I know he’s here; he’s the one who texted me the location of the market. Otherwise, I think I would have given up around the time a Quo demonstrated a potion that transformed her head into that of a fanged beast that snarled angrily at the small group before her, who cheered and clapped wildly.

  Finally, I spot him.

  He does still manage to stand out as a bit strange because of his bald head and long black-polished nails. He looks like an overgrown emo teenager, but I know better than to underestimate him.

  The Jackal is one of the most dangerous Quos around. He isn’t particularly violent, but what he can do is worse than any blow. He can literally get inside your mind.

  He takes great pleasure in making you see visions that by all accounts are harrowing visions of pain and endless misery. I’ve heard it said that if he’s motivated enough in his task, the visions can last up to three days, by which time, only the strongest-minded people are even close to still clinging on to their sanity.

  But that’s not the worst of it.

  Once he has his victims locked in a spiral of fear, he pushes his way further into their psyche, where he feeds off their misery. He always retains a piece of their soul as a souvenir. The darkened souls hang on a long string around his neck.

  I’ve heard stories that say if you get close enough to him, you can hear the screams coming from the macabre necklace. I have no intention of getting that close.

  The truth is, The Jackal is a menace and by rights, the council should put an end to him, but they won’t because his family is high up in the Quo Right Movement, and to kill him would start a war between the angels and the Quos.

  Last time that happened, there was so much bloodshed, so much loss, that the two governing bodies signed a peace pact which neither party is in a rush to break.

  In theory, the Quo Right Movement is meant to keep people like The Jackal in line. Maybe it is, as I haven’t heard anything about him terrorizing innocent people in a while, but something tells me there’s more to it than that.

  I hope the Quos are doing just that, though, because one of these days, The Jackal is going to cross the wrong angel, and nothing will stop them from killing him.

  “Jackal,” I say, nodding to him as I approach his stall.

  A glowering look sends the other browsers scattering away, leaving us alone.

  “If it isn’t Baby Kon in the flesh. The little prince that couldn’t.”

  I roll my eyes. I’m determined not to let his taunting get to me. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.

  “I hear you’ve been keeping a low profile these days,” I say. “Got bored of torturing innocents, did you?”

  “I’m a regular reformed soul,” The Jackal replies.

  His grin looks anything but reformed. It looks like a predator eyeing up a tasty morsel.

  “Let’s just say I’ve found myself a delicious piece of candy to feast on,” he says.

  He’s taunting me, trying to get me into an argument with him. It’s not going to happen.

  I know he probably means he’s got some poor innocent human at his mercy, sucking on her soul, lengthening his necklace of souls, but I also know he won’t give me any more details if I press him for more.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying to appear as though I couldn’t care less what heinous deeds he’s up to. “We all know what flavor of candy you like.”

  He laughs. It’s a genuine laugh that gives me the creeps way more than a theatrical laugh that is designed to creep someone out. I ball my hands into fists at my sides, resisting the urge to blow The Jackal into a pile of ash.

  I have to stay focused on why I’m here.

  “Let’s just get down to business,” I say. “I need a vial of Grim.”

  That gets his attention.

  “What does a nice boy like you want with demon tears?” he asks.

  “That’s my business. How much?” I ask, growing impatient.

  I wait for his response. The Jackal doesn’t deal in anything as simple as currency. He usually asks for a memory, or fear—just a taste; this guy wrote the book on selling your soul to the devil.

  He peers at me, his eyes alight with amusement. He digs down into a pocket of his skintight jeans and pulls something out. A vial of red liquid.

  He throws it to me and I catch it and slip it into the pocket of my hoodie.

  “This one’s on me,” he says, the amused look not leaving his face.

  I look back at him, confused.

  “Call it a gift between people with, how should I say this, mutual interests. I do believe we have the same taste in sweets.”

  I frown. I know I’m missing something here. The Jackal doesn’t give anyone somethings for nothing, but I don’t have time to stand and quiz him. I need to get out of here.

  I turn and walk away from him. I can’t bring myself to thank him.

  “Hey, Baby Kon,” he calls out as I’m a couple of paces away.

  I don’t turn back, but he goes on anyway.

  “You should stop by the house sometime. Try my candy. I think you’d really like it.”

  It takes every ounce of willpower I have to stop myself from attacking him, so I keep moving forward.

  I put my head down, not wanting to be distracted by any of the things going on around me.

  I hurry out of the Hun’s Market and through Jemaa el-Fnaa. I start to jog once I’m out of the thick of the crowd. I hurry back to the same quiet souk I arrived in. I’m lucky. There’s still no one around. I launch into the air and head off to Istanbul, where I’m hoping I’ll find Fish.

  ***

  I land in the Grand Bazaar, Istanbul’s biggest market, and Fish’s favorite hunting ground. The area is busy enough that I can blend in.

  The Grand Bazaar feels laid back after the Hun’s Market. The area is filled with humans, and I don’t spot any demons or Quos, which is nice.

  I wander around until I find what I’m looking for—a spot that lets me watch the whole square.

  I stand with my back against a stone wall, glad of the slight coolness that seeps through my clothes. I take my hood down, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

  Now I just have to wait until I spot Fish. Fish is the best thief alive: Fish could steal the yellow from the sun and no one would have a clue what had happened to it.

  As I watch, it happens.

  I see a girl bump into an old man. He curses as his parcels scatter on the floor. The girl apologizes profusely. The old man, still muttering away to himself, probably about the youth of today, bends down to pick up his things.

  The girl has his wallet and his watch in seconds, and then crouches down beside him to help him pick up his things. She spots a pair of demon cuff links on his shirtsleeves, and as I look on, they’re gone.

  I don’t see her take them. Just one minute they’re there, and the next they aren’t. I shake my head in wonderment. You have to give Fish her due. She’s good. I watch as she brushes imaginary dust from the parcels that are now piled back up in the old man’s arms. With a final glare in her direction, he march
es off as best as his legs will allow.

  This is my chance and I don’t intend to waste it. I rush at Fish, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a quiet alleyway.

  “What the hell?” Fish protests. “I’m working here.”

  “You’re robbing some guy blind,” I correct her.

  “No, I’m liberating him from the trappings of materialism. And I do so without a thank you,” she teases.

  I look Fish up and down. She’s a strange one all right. She has a pretty face and an easy manner that could charm her victims into handing over their worldly goods, but she doesn’t play on that.

  She’s good because of her cunning and because she has the morals of a sewer rat. To her, everything is fair game. She has robbed some of the most prestigious museums in the world, but she always comes back here. She says pickpocketing keeps her skills sharp.

  Her one saving grace is she would sooner let a mark leave with their things than have anyone get hurt during one of her hustles. In my book, that ranks her higher than pretty much any other Seller I’ve ever encountered.

  “Fish, I need you,” I tell her.

  “I told you, I’m not into the hot, royal types,” she says with a wink.

  I can’t help but smirk.

  “No, I need you to steal something for me,” I say, getting back to business.

  “Sorry, no can do,” she says with a half shrug. “I’ve got back-to-back jobs right now. What can I say? It’s a good time to be a thief.”

  Somewhere deep down—like really, really deep down—I think Fish has a good heart. She hasn’t had it easy, and that’s shaped her, made her who she is today, but I decide to give her a chance to do this the nice way.

  “Please, Fish,” I say.

  It doesn’t work.

  “Okay, Princess of Paras, I gotta go,” she says, unmoved by my plea for help.

  She starts to walk away from me and I grab her arm again.

  I tried to do it the nice way, but I always knew if it came down to it, I’d get her to help me by any means necessary.

  “You’re not going anywhere until you help me,” I tell her. I keep my voice cold and calm.