says.
“You and me both,” Ash replies.
Garnet looks at each of us, opens his mouth, closes it, then runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well . . . good luck.”
He turns and leaves the warehouse.
“Ready?” Ash says.
“Wait,” I say. “Your face is everywhere in this circle. What if . . .” I’ve never performed an Augury on a person before, but I don’t have the luxury of doubt right now. I reach up and wrap my hand around a fistful of his hair.
“What are—” Ash starts to ask, but I’m already focusing on the Augury.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
Shoots of blond spread out from my fingertips, changing Ash’s hair from brown to gold. My head throbs.
“There,” I say, rubbing my left temple. “Maybe that willhelp a bit. We don’t need you getting recognized again.”
Ash musses his hair and pulls his hand back to look at it, as if maybe the color had come off. “Wow,” he says.
We leave the warehouse and keep to smaller, darkened streets, receiving only a few disapproving glances. Most of the neighborhood is deserted. It must be nearly midnight. The air is frigid—within seconds my teeth start chattering. Ash wraps his arm around my shoulders and I’m grateful for the warmth.
We walk for about twenty minutes before we come to what is unquestionably the shabbiest part of the Bank I’ve seen yet. All the buildings are old and decrepit, with sagging porches and boarded-up windows.
“All right,” Ash says. “Just . . . both of you put your arms around me. And it wouldn’t hurt to pretend we’re all drunk.”
I can’t help thinking a glass of wine—or two, or twelve—wouldn’t have been a bad idea. This whole street screams danger. Raven drapes her arm across Ash’s shoulders and I slide my arm around his waist.
Only one block in, we come upon the first tavern. Then another. And another. Loud music—fiddles and a banjo and drums—pours out onto the street when the doors to one abruptly bang open, two men wrestling with each other, throwing punches, getting knocked to the ground. It reminds me too much of how my father died. I tighten my hold on Ash and we pick up our pace.
We pass a trio of men who are visibly intoxicated. They whistle at me and Raven. One of them approaches Ash and says, “You interested in sharing? I got some prime blue, if you want to make it a party.”
“Piss off,” Ash snaps. “Get your own slag.”
“Ash,” I hiss once the men have grumbled and shrugged and walked off. “Really.”
Ash laughs once, a hollow sound. “Welcome to my world.”
We turn down another street and I’m immediately assaulted by a wave of scent—a strong, flowery perfume that doesn’t quite hide the smell of something slightly sour underneath.
“Hey, handsome,” a young girl, no older than fourteen, calls from in front of a garishly painted pink-and-yellow house. She’s wearing less clothing than Raven and I. “Want another date?”
“Piss off,” I shout.
She shrugs and lights a cigarette.
“Very convincing,” Ash whispers into my neck.
“This place is awful,” I whisper back.
“It’s called the Row,” he says. “The East Quarter’s number-one destination for drugs and sex.”
“Is that what blue is?” I ask.
He nods. “A form of opiate. The liquid has a bluish tinge, hence the nickname.”
We pass three brothels and a couple more taverns before we finally reach the end of the Row. The change is disturbingly sudden—one second, we’re surrounded by seedy buildings, the next, we’ve emerged into a neat little park, lit with gas lamps. A clock tower across the square tells me it’s after midnight. A couple sit on a bench nearby and a man is walking his dog a few yards away, but other than that, the streets are deserted.
“Almost there,” Ash mutters. We cross the park quickly. The man with the dog sees us and shakes his head, muttering to himself.
When we reach the
“You and me both,” Ash replies.
Garnet looks at each of us, opens his mouth, closes it, then runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well . . . good luck.”
He turns and leaves the warehouse.
“Ready?” Ash says.
“Wait,” I say. “Your face is everywhere in this circle. What if . . .” I’ve never performed an Augury on a person before, but I don’t have the luxury of doubt right now. I reach up and wrap my hand around a fistful of his hair.
“What are—” Ash starts to ask, but I’m already focusing on the Augury.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
Shoots of blond spread out from my fingertips, changing Ash’s hair from brown to gold. My head throbs.
“There,” I say, rubbing my left temple. “Maybe that willhelp a bit. We don’t need you getting recognized again.”
Ash musses his hair and pulls his hand back to look at it, as if maybe the color had come off. “Wow,” he says.
We leave the warehouse and keep to smaller, darkened streets, receiving only a few disapproving glances. Most of the neighborhood is deserted. It must be nearly midnight. The air is frigid—within seconds my teeth start chattering. Ash wraps his arm around my shoulders and I’m grateful for the warmth.
We walk for about twenty minutes before we come to what is unquestionably the shabbiest part of the Bank I’ve seen yet. All the buildings are old and decrepit, with sagging porches and boarded-up windows.
“All right,” Ash says. “Just . . . both of you put your arms around me. And it wouldn’t hurt to pretend we’re all drunk.”
I can’t help thinking a glass of wine—or two, or twelve—wouldn’t have been a bad idea. This whole street screams danger. Raven drapes her arm across Ash’s shoulders and I slide my arm around his waist.
Only one block in, we come upon the first tavern. Then another. And another. Loud music—fiddles and a banjo and drums—pours out onto the street when the doors to one abruptly bang open, two men wrestling with each other, throwing punches, getting knocked to the ground. It reminds me too much of how my father died. I tighten my hold on Ash and we pick up our pace.
We pass a trio of men who are visibly intoxicated. They whistle at me and Raven. One of them approaches Ash and says, “You interested in sharing? I got some prime blue, if you want to make it a party.”
“Piss off,” Ash snaps. “Get your own slag.”
“Ash,” I hiss once the men have grumbled and shrugged and walked off. “Really.”
Ash laughs once, a hollow sound. “Welcome to my world.”
We turn down another street and I’m immediately assaulted by a wave of scent—a strong, flowery perfume that doesn’t quite hide the smell of something slightly sour underneath.
“Hey, handsome,” a young girl, no older than fourteen, calls from in front of a garishly painted pink-and-yellow house. She’s wearing less clothing than Raven and I. “Want another date?”
“Piss off,” I shout.
She shrugs and lights a cigarette.
“Very convincing,” Ash whispers into my neck.
“This place is awful,” I whisper back.
“It’s called the Row,” he says. “The East Quarter’s number-one destination for drugs and sex.”
“Is that what blue is?” I ask.
He nods. “A form of opiate. The liquid has a bluish tinge, hence the nickname.”
We pass three brothels and a couple more taverns before we finally reach the end of the Row. The change is disturbingly sudden—one second, we’re surrounded by seedy buildings, the next, we’ve emerged into a neat little park, lit with gas lamps. A clock tower across the square tells me it’s after midnight. A couple sit on a bench nearby and a man is walking his dog a few yards away, but other than that, the streets are deserted.
“Almost there,” Ash mutters. We cross the park quickly. The man with the dog sees us and shakes his head, muttering to himself.
When we reach the
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