“Are you gonna eat that?” Adena is eying the half-eaten orange on my lap while I sit leaning against the alley wall behind the Fort.
“Have at it.” The words have barely slipped past my lips before she leans over, her curly hair blowing in the soft breeze as she snatches the fruit and pops a slice into her mouth.
The Imperial with the impressive backhand left me the lovely gift of a split bottom lip, making it difficult to choke down food. “How’d you do today?” I ask while mindlessly spinning the thick, silver wedding band on my thumb.
The cold steel of my father’s ring bites into my skin, comforting me like it always has. I suppose I’d have my mother’s too if it weren’t buried with her when I was a baby. Illness, Father had said. She was an Ordinary, after all, and the lot of us are apparently weaker, diseased humans.
But he married her anyway. Loved her despite it. Protected her. Kept her secret just as he did mine.
Adena sighs, and I’m brought back to the present when she says between bites of orange, “Can’t complain. Oh, I sold that top I had been working on for ages! For three whole shillings, too! You know, the green one with the deep neckline and scalloped hem?” I give her the same confused look I always do when she starts speaking in her sewing language. “Ugh, you’re hopeless when it comes to clothes, Pae.”
I glance down at my battered tank beneath the olive-green vest atop it. Everything changed the day Adena made me the pocketed vest, knowing that it would serve me well as a thief. That was the day an uneasy alliance began to blossom into an easy friendship.
Adena taps a finger against her lips, considering something. “I bet if you had on the right outfit, everyone would be too busy staring at you to even notice you’re robbing them.”
I snort. “I’d rather not have people staring while I’m committing crimes. That seems a bit counterproductive.”
I snatch up my dagger and tuck it into my boot, brushing my fingers along the swirling, silver handle. It’s the only other keepsake I have from Father besides his ring—both of which I never go without. I’m admiring the intricate handle for the hundredth time before jolting when I suddenly remember something. “Be careful today, A. There are fewer guards out than usual for some reason, and I don’t like it. Just …” I struggle to find the right words. “Just keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, okay?”
She looks slightly unsettled by this news, but the narrowing of her hazel eyes is playful. “Is this your Psychic juju warning you of potential danger?”
“Yeah, we definitely need to work on your subtlety,” I sigh, shaking my head at her with a smile.
I stand to leave, groaning as I stretch out my sore body. Adena gathers her clothes, all varying in different sizes and colors, and reluctantly waves goodbye before heading back out onto Loot in the hopes of selling more items before sundown.
I step out into the crowded street now bathed in late afternoon sunlight and head towards the buzz of the marketplace. I start off easy. First, nicking some fruit and fabric before growing bored and moving on to bigger and better items. Wallets, watches, and shillings are what I’m really after this evening.
I spy a man with dark blue hair and a glittering watch adorning his thick wrist before quickly deciding to make him my next target. Peering down the packed street, I spot a few others with abnormally colored hair dotting the crowd, evidence that a genetic-altering Plague comes with more perks than just supernatural abilities. Though, even with the mop of silver hair atop my head, I still wasn’t gifted a power to accompany it.
It takes me far too long to escape the blue-haired man after stealing his watch. Not because he caught me, no, but because he wouldn’t stop talking to me. After stumbling into him and slyly slipping the accessory from his wrist, it was clear the poor man was dying to spew gossip with anyone willing to smile and nod at him.
I’m about ready to head in early and call it a decently successful night when a tall figure, completely clad in black, strolls onto Loot. He walks with an air of confidence, so at odds with the hunch that the homeless have adapted in the hopes of drawing as little attention to themselves as possible.
But this man … this man is making it difficult to look away.
He wears a loose black button-down, tucked into slim black pants and separated by a simple belt. His collared shirt is halfway unbuttoned, billowing open in the breeze to expose part of his tanned chest. His facial features are fuzzy from this distance, but his tar-black hair falls over the top of his forehead in messy waves. With his hands buried in his pockets, his long strides carry him deeper into the market, looking cool and collected.
He’s not from here. I can see it in the way he looks around as if taking it all in. It’s likely he is an Offensive, an Elite of higher status or noble blood who rarely sets foot into the slums. I can see in the way he walks, in the shine of his shoes, that this man will be carrying far more than a few measly shillings. I squint, trying to get an idea of where he might have slipped his silvers.
There.
Swinging against his leg, attached from his belt with a strap, hangs a pouch that many Ilyans use to carry change. Specifically, the confident ones, seeing that an unguarded pouch is easy pickings for a thief. Easy pickings for me.
My last, unlucky target for the night.
It’s a good thing he’s so bleeding tall, or I would have lost him in the swarm of people. I watch women of all ages crane their necks as he passes, trying to get a better view of the handsome stranger before he melts into the mass of people. I shove through the crowd and tail him until he steps out of the main path between merchant carts and onto a less crowded street. I shake out my hair, letting the long waves fall limply over my shoulders as I cut down a street, heading to cut him off. The back alley I zigzag through spits me out onto the same one the stranger strolled down—and now I am heading straight for him.
I keep my eyes glued to the ground when we collide.
Following my usual routine, I let myself stumble backward from the impact, fighting against every instinct screaming at me to plant my feet and stand my ground. Strong arms wrap around my waist to keep me from falling, leaving his money pouch open and exposed to lowlifes like me. I grab hold of the front of his shirt, acting as if I did so as a reflex to keep my balance. Really, I just needed a reason to have my hands so close to his body without looking suspicious.
The starving boys from Loot don’t feel like this.
The thought dissolves when I reach my hand into the pouch at his hip, my fingers deducing that there are at least twenty shillings casually hanging from this man’s belt. He must be very confident in his abilities to walk around Loot with so much … well, loot.
I’m tempted to rip off the pouch and run, knowing full well he’d catch me in about three long strides. But, not knowing when I’ll quite literally run into an opportunity like this again, I refuse to leave without at least half of what’s in his bag.
But he’ll feel the weight difference if I take half.
My mind is reeling.
Then distract him.
With all this plotting happening within a matter of moments, I quickly and quietly clutch half the coins in my fist before carefully pulling my hand out of the pouch as I steady myself against him. Then, I slowly tear my gaze from his partially exposed chest where the edge of a dark tattoo peeks out behind the folds of his shirt.
My eyes finally meet his.
It’s like looking into a storm.
His eyes are the color of thunderclouds settling over Ilya, of smoke puffing from the chimneys overhead, of the stolen silver coins clenched in my fist. His black, long lashes are in total contrast with his steely gray eyes, now sweeping across my face. Shock raises his dark brows, tightens his sharp jaw, emphasizes his strong cheekbones.
We stand there, staring at each other.
I’m suddenly, acutely aware of every place he’s touching me. His strong arms are still wrapped around my waist and half holding me up, though his gaze feels like a caress in and of itself. I clear my throat as I remove my fisted hand from his shirt, revealing crumpled, fine fabric beneath before moving to step out of his hold.
His lips twitch, allowing me to glimpse a dimple on his right cheek. He slowly slides his arms from my waist, releasing me as his hands catch on the rough bottom of my vest.
Callouses. He’s a fighter.
Not that I need to be a Psychic to figure that out, seeing that his physique makes that fact obvious. With the thought of him being a trained fighter and double my size in mind, I nonchalantly pull my hands behind me to hide the evidence of my crime. The coins slide silently into my back pocket as I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself together.
“Do you always fall into the arms of handsome strangers, or is this a new thing for you?” His question displays that dimple again when a grin settles on his face, revealing white, straight teeth.
“No, only the cocky ones.” I smile coolly while he looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to decipher, amusement playing all over his face.
Distract him.
He chuckles and runs a hand through his ebony hair, only managing to make the waves messier. Gray eyes search mine as he says, “Well, looks like I’ve made quite the first impression then.”
“Yes,” I say slowly, “though I still haven’t decided if it was a good or bad one yet.”
Keep his mind off the money and his focus on you.
He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets—the perfect picture of cool indifference. “I caught you, didn’t I?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. He cocks his head slightly to the side as he peers down at me, the corner of his mouth tilted up. Leaning in, he adds, “Maybe you should consider that detail before you decide, darling.”
Plagues, a pretty boy with pretty words.
Dangerous.
His smoky eyes sweep across my face, once again looking at me as though I’m an intriguing riddle. I refuse to fidget under his gaze as I take a step backward towards the busy street.
“I’ll keep it under consideration, darling.” I draw out the last word, mimicking him with a grin. His smile widens, displaying dimples on both of his cheeks. I force myself to ignore them as I add, “And thank you for saving me from eating cobblestone. I seem to be cursed with clumsiness.”
“Well, your clumsiness found me, so I’d hardly call it a curse,” he says simply, now leaning against the wall, hands in pockets. I smile, unable to suppress the eye roll that accompanies it. I glimpse his grin one last time before spinning on my heel and walking back onto Loot Alley, disappearing into the crowd.
My mind is reeling, replaying the observations I made of him as I make my way down Loot. The scars splattering his arms and the raw knuckles from a recent fight intrigued me the most, and it’s almost a shame I won’t discover the story that accompanies them. The thought of an Offensive Elite wearing scars almost brings a smile to my lips. Proof of weakness.
I grab the coins in my back pocket, letting them clink in my palm with a triumphant smile.
I doubt he’ll be missing these.
