Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy Book 2)

“Oh, come on. You and I both know this is not worth two shillings, let alone three.”

I knock the stale loaf of bread against the merchant’s cart for emphasis.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

“In fact,” I add with more than a little amusement coating my tongue, “you should be paying me to eat this, Francis.”

The older gentleman hides his grimace behind the folds of fabric encircling his nose and mouth. The west winds are harsh today, blowing bits of grainy sand and debris from the desert to thoroughly coat the city and its inhabitants. It only took two days in Dor to learn how very essential scarves are to my wardrobe if there is any hope of keeping the constant film of sand from my mouth.

“Three,” he grunts for the fourth time, his thick accent muffled by the filthy fabric. “Wheat shortage.”

I groan. I’ve spent days trying to get this man to warm up to me, so I don’t have to keep robbing him blind. Curse that damn conscience I still have.

“Francis,” I begin slowly, watching how the scowl I can’t see narrows his eyes. After seeing his name carved crookedly onto the top of the wooden cart, I’ve been using it in an attempt to build some sort of rapport with the merchant. So far, I’ve failed miserably. “Let’s be reasonable. You know I don’t have that kind of money to throw around on bread that will likely break a tooth.”

He doesn’t bother responding with more than a gravelly growl.

I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath that has sand slipping between my lips.

I’d come to pride myself on the fact that I understand these people. People like me. People who struggle to survive, rely on scrappiness to feed their growling stomachs. In another life, I could have considered the slums of Ilya my home, if it weren’t for the lack of power flowing through my veins.

Maybe that’s why I’m so desperate to start over here. Here, in Dor, where I’m Ordinary in a whole new sense of the word. One cannot be considered powerless if everyone else is as well. No, here, I’m considered equal. And nothing has ever sounded so unique.

“Fine,” I sigh, feigning defeat. “But only because I like you, Francis.”

Only because I want you to like me.

His golden eyes seem to be fighting the urge to roll at me. I smile sweetly, hoping my own gaze portrays how badly I crave companionship while simultaneously hating how willingly the wanting shows.

I clumsily toss another coin atop his cart, willing it to roll off the worn wood. Silver glints in the lazily setting sun before the coin hits the ground with a satisfying clink. “Oh, I’m sorry, Francis! I’m not yet used to the heat and my hands are disgustingly sweaty at all times.”

He blinks, his tanned face blank beneath his scarf, aside from the obvious disdain for me. When he bends to pick up the silver that is my current partner in crime, I snatch two more loaves from his stand with deft hands, one from each tower of dough so as not to draw suspicion. “I mean, I am never not drenched in sweat,” I continue casually while Francis straightens, brushing off the dirty coin with his thumb. “Seriously, how do you stay cool under all those layers? I feel so sticky that I—”

“This is our winter season,” he grunts, cutting me off.

I blink at him. “Oh. Well, that’s… terrifying.”

Despite Dor being fairly close in proximity to Ilya, I grew up with revolving seasons, though our winters were thankfully mild. I hadn’t realized how drastically the weather could differ beyond the expanse of a desert. While the west winds blow cool air from the Shallows toward Ilya, Dor is blessed with the grainy heat of the Scorches constantly wafting into its city. Heat is a familiar inhabitant of its home.

“You will never survive famine season, pale thing.” He stares at me for a long moment in which I silently struggle to get my voice to work.

A dry laugh breaks the unbearable silence, and my eyes shoot up to his. Francis places a sun-soaked hand atop his belly, shaking with rough laughter. I hesitantly join him with an uncomfortable laugh of my own. “You are funny, pale thing,” he adds between chuckles.

I sigh in relief, sagging with the hope that my ignorance will earn Francis’s favor. “Glad to hear my sweaty suffering is humorous to you,” I say lightly, taking the loaf he extends to me.

His chuckling continues as he tears another loaf in half with more than a little effort. “Here.” He waves it at me before I tentatively take it. “Go find some shade to eat this under.”

I offer him my thanks, swallowing guilt at the feel of two stolen loaves weighing down the inside pockets of my vest. Francis is still laughing as I turn away, causing a small smile to tug at my lips behind the fabric swallowing most of my face.

Perhaps he is warming up to me, after all.

I look down at my arms, now far tanner than they were a week ago, prior to trudging through the Scorches. Even despite that, I’m still fairer than most of those who have spent their lives in Dor. Scanning the busy streets, I admire their dark skin, smooth and shining in the sunlight—like the rays themselves are old friends, stroking their skin with familiar fingers.

Tugging the thin fabric lower down my forehead, I push through the mass of bodies swarming the streets. My eyes snag on a crinkled poster, hung precariously against a crumbling shop wall. I scowl, sliding through the crowd to stand before the face that mirrors mine. I stare at the girl reflecting my own features, her eyes full of terror and rage.

I swallow, blinking back tears I refuse to let fall.

This must be a replica of what the Sight recorded after spotting me moments after killing the king—the crime I’d committed written all over my weary face. I can almost feel the blood that drenched my hands, covered my broken body. My hand drifts to the scar trailing below my jaw, my fingers fumbling to the letter carved above my heart.

I can’t bear to look at it any longer, can’t bear to relive that moment more than I already do.

I can’t bear to look into the face of a murderer.

With shaking fingers, I rip the poster from the wall, crumpling it in my fist before shoving it into the pack slung over my shoulders. When I stumbled into the city that first night after my tussle with the guard—

The man you killed and left to rot.

—I’d nearly run into a wall plastered with my face. My silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, and even while being dulled with sand, there was no mistaking that I was the perfect replica of the wanted Silver Savior staring back at me. Any sort of oddly colored hair is a dead giveaway as to having Plagued blood running through your veins, whether you are Ordinary or Elite.

And after spending a life of insignificance and hiding in plain sight, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I’ve never felt so exposed, so out of the ordinary.

I spent the night atop the crumbling roof of a shop, nursing my wounds and hiding until an early sunrise painted the streets golden. Only then did I brave slipping a scrappy scarf from a merchant’s cart to wrap around my face and traitorous silver hair. Lucky for me, it’s not at all unusual to protect your face from both the sun and whipping sand throughout the day. And, just like that, I was blissfully invisible again.

A shoulder collides with my own, startling enough to shake me from my stupor. The young boy tosses what I think is an attempted apologetic nod before he’s back to shoving through the crowded street. Taking a deep breath, I tug at my scarf while pretending to look like I belong here. The people of Dor are more than a little rough around the edges—dare I say akin to the jagged scraps of metal Father used to have me pelt at the gnarled tree in our backyard.

My eyes skim over the street, finding countless confrontations and their accompanying shouts. Sparring, both physically and verbally, is clearly a common occurrence. And if the guards aren’t yawning with boredom or barely batting an eye, they’ve likely joined the fight themselves.

These people are as gruff as the sand they crawled out of.

I spot a tattered awning hanging precariously from a shop wall, promising a tempting sliver of shade.

Might as well take Francis’s advice.

After nearly tripping over a cluster of children weaving through the streets, I ungracefully fold myself into the splinter of shade, rubbing my sore muscles. Chewing is a generous term for the effort it takes to swallow the stale bread, seeing that I can now add my jaw to the ever-growing list of aches and pains. But I spend what little remains of the day hiding from the scorching sun and incriminating posters leering at me.

I need money.

That one thought has plagued my mind, pounding through my head with every hour spent in this new city I’m desperate to make a home. The coins clinking in my pack feel far too light for my liking, and unfortunately for me, Dor’s inhabitants are anything but careless with the livelihood that lives within their pockets. My attempts at thievery outside what decorates the merchants’ carts has been minimal, to say the least. I’m almost embarrassed.

With the sun setting and the heat retreating with it, I zigzag through the city in search of the roof I’ve grown fond of sleeping atop.

I need money. Money means shelter. It means food. It means…

A will to live.

“… three silvers Slick will win. The bastard’s undefeated.”

The rumbling voice distracts me from my spiraling thoughts. Boredom and curiosity mingle to create a dangerous concoction of intrigue that has me leaning against an alley wall, intent on eavesdropping.

Another man scoffs, his accent thick. “Undefeated, eh? Maybe ’cause the mate’s only fought ’n three matches. Lucky bastard is what he is.”

“You bettin’ on a rookie then, aye?” The first man leers.

“I’ll decide when I see ’em.” He laughs then, a gruff sound I doubt he makes often. “Maybe I’ll get in the ring. Show ’em how it’s done, eh?”

Rough laughter drifts down the alley as I casually step away from the wall to stroll at a safe distance behind them. Every bit of me itches for excitement, for something to occupy me other than my troubling thoughts.

And where there are bets, there is money to be won.

And where there is money to be won, there is money to be stolen.

An elbow sinks into my stomach, sucking the air from my lungs.

I push through the crowd, trying my best not to drown in the sea of sweaty bodies. Shouts and sneers ripple through the cellar, all directed at the caged violence on display, though I can hardly see it.

I’m being suffocated by sticky bodies, forced to peek through slivers of space in the wall of shoulders. Annoyed, I whip my head around, nearly smacking it into the one directly behind me. I’ve already lost the two men I followed down here after copying the sequence of knocks they wrapped on the hidden door. I drum the pattern on my leg, engraining it in my memory even as I attempt to weave through the crowd.

I recognize the sound of fists finding flesh, though I’m far more interested in the pockets of those I’m wedged between. I attempt a subtle swipe of my hand toward the body beside me, only to be shoved from the back by a bellowing man.

I blow out a breath, feeling people pressed against me.

How am I supposed to steal if I can barely move my arms?

My fingers curl into a fist at my side while I fight the urge to throw it at someone.

I blink, eyes flying toward the cage and bloody brawl within.

I can get paid to throw a punch if it’s in there.

An entirely new, foolish plan begins to form as I attempt to push through the crowd once again. I’m greeted with more elbows to the stomach and shoulders to the face that I ignore in my search of whoever runs this illegal fighting ring.

The fight finishes in a final bloody blow by the time I stumble to the front. Curses and cheers echo through the cellar, everyone’s mood suddenly dependent on who they did or didn’t bet on.

“Betting tickets! You lot know the drill. Bring up your betting tickets and we’ll get your cut sorted out!”

I follow the crudely formed line leading to a rickety table beside the cage. A strand of silver hair threatens to slip from beneath my scarf, and I quickly tuck it back with the rest as I strain to see the man exchanging tickets for coins.

His slicked ponytail shines in the dim light he stands beneath, his back bent over a mound of tickets. He wastes no time plonking the appropriate number of coins into each hand, barely bothering to glance at the person before him.

“Your ticket?”

I blink at his outstretched hand, stunned by how quickly I’m suddenly standing before him. “No, sorry, I actually wanted to talk to you about fighting in the ring.”

“No ticket,” he sighs without looking up at me, “no talking.”

I shake my head, stepping closer until my hips meet the edge of the table. “But—”

“Next!”

His shout has a woman stepping beside me without a second thought. After being shoved aside when she hands over her ticket, I plant my feet at the end of the table.

“Let me fight.”

“Listen, kid.” He rubs a hand over his tired eyes before inspecting the next ticket. “I don’t just let anyone fight in my ring. Besides”—he throws me a glance—“you’d get eaten alive in there. So, scram.”

Flattening my palms on the table, I lean in close enough to catch the flash of a gold watch on his wrist and the smell of cologne on his skin.

He’s better off than half this city.

“I want a fair cut. Whatever the rest of your fighters are earning,” I say smoothly. “Though I expect to be making more than them in no time.”

At that, he reluctantly lifts his head, meeting my gaze as he holds a hand up to halt the line. “I said scram, kid. While I’ll still let you.”

I tilt my head innocently, eyes narrowing slightly. “It would be a shame if the guards were to find out about the illegal cage-fighting you’re running down here.” I nod toward the shiny watch decorating his thick wrist. “It seems you’ve become quite accustomed to wealth. I doubt it would be easy for you to readjust to the poverty you crawled out of.”

Though fighting is clearly not outlawed here in Dor, considering how common of an occurrence it is, gambling on said fighters is where they decided to draw the line—explaining the cramped cellar with a fancy knock to allow you access.

A smile begins to form at the corner of his mouth, as though he possesses a sort of corrupted charisma. “Are you threatening me?” He laughs, harsh and biting. “You can’t threaten me, kid. I’ll have my men tear you to pieces. I practically own this city.”

“You’ve never seen me fight.” I shrug nonchalantly. “So, if I need to return them to you in pieces just to prove myself, I suppose I’ll have to do just that.”

The thought of ripping anyone to pieces makes me queasy, but the look I pin him with says anything but. Several slow seconds tick by before a smile spreads across his lips. “I like your spirit, kid.”

I swallow my relief. “Is that a yes?”

“You fight in an hour.” He pulls out a sheet of parchment inked with the names of previous fighters and how much they earned him. “I’m givin’ you a shot, so don’t disappoint me, kid. You don’t wanna know what happens when I’m disappointed.”

I nod, hiding my smile. “I doubt I’ll ever find out.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, looking as though he already regrets his decision. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. I’m Rafael.” His eyes flick up to my concealed face. “And what should we call you, kid?”

My eyes skim over the cage and the flickering lights above it. A small smile manages to curve my lips, tugging gently at my scar.

“Shadow.”