by Heidi Lang
“Who says I’m worried?” Lailu snapped. “I don’t care.”
“Honey, you’re the color of an overripe cherry.”
“You can tell that in here?”
“It’s dark, but colors are my specialty. And trust me, your skin tone is totally clashing with that lovely dress right now.”
Lailu turned away from her. “What is this place?”
“The dim room.” Thick, dark curtains were draped all around the walls, making it feel as if they were inside a stuffy velvet box. The floor was solid marble, and the only light came from a single wide candle placed on a small table in the center of the room.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” a nasal voice chirped, as someone stuck a balding head around the curtains. “You can’t just go barging in here like a bunch of hoodlums. You need an appointment.”
“Oh, but we do have an appointment,” Hannah said smoothly. “You must be Albert?”
“I was Albert,” the man said proudly, stepping around the curtain and holding himself up as tall as he could. Lailu was surprised to see that he was even shorter than her, but he made up for his lack of size upward by having a ball of a stomach in front. “But as of yesterday, I shall now be known”—he paused dramatically before finishing—“as Neon!” He struck a pose, and Lailu snorted, trying to keep from laughing. “Or you can just call me N. E. for short.”
“Neon?” Hannah asked. “Wow, sounds impressive.” She shot Lailu a warning look before explaining, “This brilliant man here is the inventor of the camera.”
“The camera?” The word came out a little distorted, having sounded foreign to Lailu. “What’s that?”
“Only the most ingenious invention known to man,” Neon, formerly Albert, stated haughtily.
“It’s this sort of machine thing that can capture black-and-white images more accurately than any master painter,” Hannah explained, and Lailu remembered the picture of Greg she’d seen in the paper. “Al—I mean, Neon here—is the most brilliant of the scientists.” Hannah beamed at the man, adding, “Aren’t you, Neon?”
“Well, I . . . ,” he mumbled, seeming to stand a bit taller as he fidgeted with a gold pocket watch. “I try not to make the others feel bad.”
What a piece of work. Lailu shook her head. “What about that man we saw earlier riding that horseless carriage thing?”
“Carbon?” the little man hollered. “He has nothing on me! Nothing, you hear me? Any idiot could design a carriage like that, but it takes a real master to invent something that captures images.”
“Okay, okay.” Lailu held up her hands placatingly. “He has nothing. I get it.”
“And if you must know,” Neon added darkly, “that lying cheat stole my design.”
“So you’re the idiot who really invented it, then,” Lailu said brightly. Neon scowled, and Hannah elbowed her in the ribs. “Ouch. I mean, er . . . you’re the genius who . . . well, you know what I meant.”
“She’s not used to being around such amazing people,” Hannah confided, stepping in front of Lailu. “Your genius dazzles her.”
Neon gave a pompous little nod of his head and Lailu snorted, but quietly; her ribs hurt and she didn’t want Hannah to elbow her again. Staring up at Hannah, Neon continued, “So, you had an appointment with me. You must be Hannah, then.”
Hannah smiled. “That’s me. I was told you were the one to see about getting a picture in the paper.”
He nodded again.
“Well, my friend here has a restaurant that we would like to advertise. It’s a phenomenal place that’s just not getting the attention it deserves.”
“A restaurant, eh?”
“Yes. It’s kind of a new thing—” Hannah began.
“I know what a restaurant is,” Neon snapped irritably. “What kind of restaurant?”
“It specializes in mystical cuisine.”
“Is that so? Like that LaSilvian restaurant, eh?”
Lailu scowled, but at a sharp look from Hannah she managed to keep her mouth shut.
“You know, I got to eat there the other day, and it was pretty good.” Neon shifted his small bulk from foot to foot. “But I was a bit disappointed he didn’t cook any kraken. I’m told their meat is the best in the sea . . . well, right after sea dragon.”
“The very best indeed,” Lailu said, unable to keep silent any longer. “And for our opening, we actually served kraken.”
“Hmm . . .” Neon flipped open the gold pocket watch, then, with a click, snapped it shut again. “Let’s step outside to get some light, and we’ll talk. I think we should be able to come up with some sort of arrangement.”
“Look, don’t think of it as a free meal,” Hannah said as they started back through town. She twirled something on her finger that looked suspiciously like the gold watch Neon had been playing with. “Think of it as paying in trade.” In order to get flyers printed and an article in the paper, Lailu had promised to serve a fancy meal for Neon and a few of his friends during the next moon cycle, on the house.
“Master Slipshod’s going to flip. At this rate, no one is going to be paying for their meals,” Lailu fumed.
“Oh, he’ll get over it. After all, he’s the one who got you into this mess. And it’s not like you had any money to actually pay any of them.”
Lailu growled.
Hannah pocketed the watch, laughing. “Well, you didn’t! Besides, just look at these flyers. They’re gorgeous! And when the article comes out in the paper, the lines’ll be out the door. Trust me.”
“I don’t even look like me.” Lailu glanced at the front of the glossy sheet of paper. A small, fair-skinned girl with shoulder-length black hair, pale eyes, and a delicately cleft chin smiled reluctantly out at the world. Even in black and white, Lailu thought it was obvious her dress was a horrid shade of pink, and there was no getting around that awful comb. Underneath her photo was a description of the restaurant, as well as some of the upcoming specials. The only thing she really liked about the flyer was the bold star in the corner, where it said in dark letters, “I actually serve kraken.”
“And now comes the fun part,” Hannah declared.
“Oh, good. I was just waiting for the fun part to begin,” Lailu grumbled.
Hannah chuckled. “Well, my grouchy friend, now we get to put these flyers up.”
Several hours later, Lailu was forced to reevaluate Hannah’s idea of “fun.” Lailu was exhausted, hungry, sweaty, and definitely ready to be back in the kitchen before Hannah finally agreed they could leave Gilded Island. “We’ll want to put a few more up around the city proper, too,” Hannah said.
Lailu groaned and trudged after her. “I am never wearing heeled shoes again.”
Hannah hesitated at the bridge, looking back over her shoulder.
“What?” Lailu whirled around, thoughts of Brennon flashing through her mind. Was he behind them? Or the Butcher? Or some other lackey of Mr. Boss’s?
“Oh, nothing. I thought he’d meet us here . . .”
“Who?”
Hannah shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Leaving?” the guard at the bridge asked.
Hannah nodded, starting forward; then she paused and turned back. “Hey, let your friends know about this, would you?” She handed him a flyer. “It’s a really, really good restaurant, and if you bring at least three friends with you, we’ll give you appetizers on the house.”
Lailu made a choking noise before Hannah quickly pulled her away. “What are you doing? Trying to bankrupt me?”
“Relax, honey. You’re already bankrupt, remember?”
“But we have to pay Mr. Boss soon. We can’t be giving away even more free food.”
“It’ll be worth it in the end,” Hannah said soothingly. “You’re building a client base. Jeez, did they teach you nothing in that school of yours?”
“They taught me how to hunt and cook!”
“Well, that’s not going to be much help for you if you don’t have anyone to hunt
and cook for.”
As they stepped off the bridge and into the city proper, Lailu thought of all the food she’d have to bust her butt to get and then give away. Those flyers had better be worth it, she thought irritably.
“Hey! Hey, Lailu!”
Lailu looked around. “Did you hear that?”
Hannah grinned. “About time, too.”
“About time for wha— Greg?” Lailu took a step back, almost falling as her shoe wobbled. She caught herself just in time. Thankfully. She could just picture how that would look, her on her face in front of Greg. What the spatula was he doing here anyhow, chasing after her?
He stopped a few feet away, his eyes wide. “What happened to you? It looks like you fought a garden and lost.”
Lailu flushed, crossing her arms over her chest. This was why she didn’t try to wear nice things. They never looked right on her.
“I dressed her up,” Hannah said coldly.
“Oh. Well. She looks very. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I came. Just like you asked me to.”
Lailu glanced around but realized Greg was looking at her. “Like I asked you to? Me?” Then she remembered hearing Hannah and Vahn talking about a message. She turned on her friend, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Did you send Greg a message from me?”
“Well, ha-ha, I guess that’s my cue!” Hannah snatched all the flyers away from Lailu. “I’m just gonna go and put the rest of these up. See you at home!” She flashed Lailu a quick smile and then took off, moving so fast she was practically running.
Lailu shook her head.
“I take it you didn’t call me out here to apologize, then,” Greg muttered.
“Me? Apologize to you? You’re the one who should apologize.”
“Me?” Greg’s nostrils flared. “For what? Saving you in your last hunt? Delivering your kills to your door? Offering to help you out? Which of those things should I apologize for?”
“All of them!”
“All of them.” Greg made a point of thinking, exaggeratedly running a finger along his chin. “Hmm, yes, I can see how me trying to once again save your butt from the frying pan is worthy of apology. I’m sorry, Lailu. I know how you like to make things hard on yourself.”
“Excuse me?” Lailu took a step forward, fury washing over her. He was using that tone of his, that I’m-better-than-everyone tone. It made her want to punch him in his smug, arrogant, aristocratic face. “You think I’m doing this to myself?”
“No, I know you’re doing it to yourself. How else can you get everyone’s sympathy? The poor little girl from the poor little village—”
“You better stop it, Greg.”
“All alone, friendless, abandoned,” he continued, still in that mocking voice.
“I said knock it off,” Lailu warned.
“Trying to make her fortune in the big city, all on her own.”
This time Lailu was silent, and Greg’s voice drifted to a halt, some of his condescension evaporating into uncertainty when there was no retaliating remark.
Lailu took deep, shuddering breaths. Back at school, occasionally Greg would be nice to her. Occasionally she would forget what a jerk he was. Like that time she agreed to hunt with him . . . and he set her up as bait and took the credit for the kill. And that time she went ingredient gathering with him . . . and he tricked her into getting the wrong kind of mandrake root, costing her three fingernails and her place at the top of that class. Or that time she told him about her restaurant idea . . . and he stole it and was more successful in his first day than she’d probably be in her first month. Or first year.
Her fists were clenched so hard her arms ached, and she forced herself to relax. She would never forget again. She wouldn’t let Greg trick her anymore into thinking he was her friend. “Have you considered,” she finally said, her voice cold and steady, “that maybe I have to do things on my own? If I take your help, it means I’m just another charity case, that I can’t make it myself. It means I’m not really a master chef.”
“Lailu,” Greg began, reaching for her. She jerked away.
“No, I’m done listening to you. You and your perfect life and your perfect restaurant. You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Everyone already thinks you’re so great.” She sniffed. “Except me.”
Greg’s hand dropped, his eyes filled with hurt. Lailu turned and walked away from him. She waited until she was around the corner before wiping her face on her sleeve. After that she just walked blindly in the direction of home, the city blurring in front of her as she replayed their conversation again and again. Other insults came to mind, things she wished she’d said. Then she wished she hadn’t said anything to him at all.
She scrubbed at her face, took a deep breath, let it out. And only then Lailu realized she was wandering in the Industrial District. It was more than a little creepy, with all the buildings looking like large, windowless blocks pressed against one another. She could smell sulfur mixed with something sharper in the air.
As the sun sank over the horizon, it filled the streets and alleys with pools of shadows that made Lailu itch to pull out a knife. Biting her lip, she stopped at an intersection to peer up at the street signs. “Steam Avenue,” she read aloud, squinting, “and . . . Iron Way.” Was she supposed to take Iron? Or was it Steel Lane she was looking for? She hesitated, looking up and down the street, when a sudden flash of light blinded her.
Shielding her watering eyes, Lailu blinked rapidly. The whole street was lit up brighter than a summer’s day by a series of glowing glass orbs mounted on the sides of each building. And as her vision cleared, she realized she was not alone in the little alleyway.
11
STARLING VOLAN
I knew you’d come back this way.”
Lailu yelped and jumped back. Her shoe twisted, sending her sprawling to the floor. She reached instinctively for a knife she wasn’t wearing as her eyes strained to make out the shape in front of her. Brennon’s ratlike features slowly swam into focus against the backdrop of light, and she scrambled away.
“I’ve been watching you, you know,” he said, his eyes rolling, the whites showing all around. “I saw you with that man, that hero, back on Gilded Island. Your friend?”
Lailu stopped her mad scramble and instead yanked the shoes off her feet, holding one in each hand like mini clubs as she stood up. “S-stay away from me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“No, you’re not.” Lailu shifted her weight, the shoes nice and solid in her hands. She’d tackled a kraken; she could take this one small man.
“I came to warn you.”
Lailu froze. “Warn me? About what?”
Brennon twitched, jerking his head around to check if they were alone, then took a step closer.
“You can stop right there,” Lailu said.
He stopped, but lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Mr. Boss won’t let you go; you or Sullivan. Even if you pay him back, he’ll find other ways to make you owe him money. And then he’ll make you work for him, do things for him . . . terrible things. The things I’ve done . . .” He shuddered, then breathed, “He has my family.”
“He what?” Lailu swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run.
“And he’ll find something you care about, or someone, and use it against you too. I thought you should know. I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into, borrowing money from that man, but you, you’re just a child. Sullivan should never have mixed you up in that business.”
“I’m not just a child. I’m a master chef.”
He gave her a pitying look. Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out a small glass jar filled with hissing purple liquid. He regarded Lailu for a moment, then tossed the jar at her.
Instinctively, Lailu dropped the shoes and caught the jar in both hands, surprised at the heat radiating from it. “What is this?”
“I stole it today. I’m supposed to get it to Mr. Boss.”
“You stole it?”
“From a girl, probably younger than you, even.” Brennon shook his head. “It’s the reason Mr. Boss won’t . . . can’t let you go. He’s bankrupting himself to buy this junk from the scientists. And now he can’t afford to pay for it, so he’s forcing us to steal it for him.”
Lailu stared at the jar, mesmerized by the way the purple inside caught the light. So beautiful.
When she looked up she realized Brennon had moved closer, much too close. Before she had time to think, he grabbed her by both shoulders, holding her in place. “Get that to your friend. The hero. It should help him.”
“Vahn? Why? I—I don’t understand.”
“I saw what it was made out of. I shouldn’t have . . . I was never meant to know.” His hands clenched her shoulders harder, the yellow pointed nails digging painfully into her skin, but Lailu didn’t flinch.
“What’s it made out of?”
“The less you know, the better.”
“What’s it for?”
But he just let her go, then backed up, his eyes on her. “Hurry,” he whispered. “Hurry, they’re coming.” Then he turned and ran.
Lailu stood there for several long moments, uncertainty pinning her in place.
“But, Mama,” a girl’s voice whined from up ahead.
Lailu jumped. She couldn’t see anyone. Yet. But she realized she didn’t want to be caught here, at night, holding a jar of . . . of . . . well. That was the problem. She didn’t know what she was holding. The glass vial in her hand felt uncomfortably hot now, and distinctly alive. She hiked up one part of her dress and wrapped it around the jar, hiding it from view, but she could still hear it. Bubble, bubble, hiss, hiss. It made her shiver unpleasantly, like the sound of a fork scraping against a plate.
“Stop. Just stop. You know I can’t stand whining,” a woman said, her voice smooth and cool with just the hint of an accent. Lailu craned her neck. That accent . . .
“Mama, I said I was sorry.”
“You seem to say that a lot. Don’t be sorry, just use your head.”
