Chapter 34 The City
Daisy slammed the trapdoor behind her, only to have Blackwood’s hand clamp down on her shoulder, pinning her in place. The fingers dug deep, found muscle and bone; she felt the burn of his callus through her jacket. For a heartbeat, neither moved. The city above them roared, shouts, bell alarms, magical sirens pulsing with the slow, sick dread of approaching doom.
“Quiet,” he hissed, voice a pebble scraped across stone. The fresh blood-mist still hung in the air, making halos around the old gas lamps set into the wall. “If you want the family to live, you need to listen now.”
Daisy shrugged him off, half-ready to slice him with the bone knife still wet in her grip. “You’re not my boss, Scarface.”
He grinned. Not nice. Not mean, either. It was a professional smile, the kind you gave before opening someone’s chest. “I’m not here to kill you, Smithson. I want to talk. Preferably before the real bastards show up.”
She tasted the lie but let it slide, edging back as she scanned the new room: a cut-rate mortuary, empty stretchers lined up like a kids’ game of corpses and robbers, dust covering everything but the footprints leading to the trapdoor. Not even a body to hide behind.
“You have ten seconds,” she said, “before I call my friend.” She jerked her chin upward. “And you know which friend I mean.”
Something passed through his face. Fear, maybe, or just the memory of fear, rebuilt into caution.
“Listen closely.” He crouched, one hand on his thigh, the other keeping his weapon, pointed vaguely in her direction. “I’m not city watch, not anymore. I used to be. Now I’m freelance.”
“Black-bag work.” Daisy’s lip curled. “You snitch on your own kind for coin.”
He let that accusation hang, but didn’t deny it. “Someone has to keep the real monsters in check.” His gaze flicked to the blood still dripping from her hand. “You’re not the worst I’ve seen.”
Above them, another explosion. The trapdoor vibrated, dust drifting down like gray snow. They both winced, but neither moved for the ladder. Daisy held the silence, waiting for the next pitch.
Blackwood swallowed, the motion tight and deliberate. “Ravensworth wants you because you proved blood magic works—the old city doctrine. No mage, no noble, no one should ever touch it again. They lied. He’s been using it for years, on his own people. The menagerie isn’t a freakshow. It’s a slaughterhouse for power.”
She blinked. “What, you think I’m dumb enough to believe…”
He reached into his coat, slow so she wouldn’t gut him, and pulled a crumpled photo. Tossed it at her feet. It fluttered, then landed face-up. Daisy picked it up.
Kids. Not much older than her siblings, stripped to the bone, wrists tattooed with the spiral, eyes gone flat and empty. There were more, in the background: noble kids, faces covered in ceremonial masks, holding hands around a stone slab.
“The animals aren’t the only things they’re bleeding,” Blackwood said. “You’re just the first who fought back and lived.”
Daisy felt her stomach cramp. “Why show me this?”
He shrugged. “Somebody needs to take down Ravensworth. I thought it’d be me, but it’s not going to be.” His gaze never left her face. “The city’s already picked the next monster. And it’s you.”
The footsteps above were louder now, a fresh squad tramping through the mortuary’s fake office. Blackwood stood and motioned for the far door. “We don’t have time for philosophy. If you want to get out, you need the tunnels.”
She wasn’t about to trust him, but she followed. The corridor beyond was cold and wet, lined with pipes and green mold. Daisy kept the knife between them, but let him lead; he’d know the route better.
They moved fast, boots splashing in the runoff from the thaw. At one point, he slipped on a patch of old blood; she caught him by the collar, then shoved him ahead.
“Left,” he muttered, and they ducked into a narrower tube. The air was thick with the stink of burned warding, a copper tang that made Daisy’s teeth ache.
“Why not just arrest me?” she asked, voice echoing in the dark.
“I don’t work for the city,” he repeated, then stopped at a rusted hatch. “I work for the truth. Sometimes it’s messier than you’d like.”
He shouldered the hatch open, and a wave of warm, fetid air hit them. Below, a spill of yellow light. Daisy slipped through first, every muscle coiled.
They emerged from a drainpipe overhanging a cistern. It wasn’t empty. People huddled around fires, runaways, the sick, a few faces Daisy recognized from her own street days. Most looked up at the newcomers, then down again, not wanting trouble.
She hopped down, the landing jarring her ankles. Blackwood landed behind her, then pointed to the far wall. “See the marks? That’s your way out.”
The spiral was there, drawn in red paint or blood on the bricks. Daisy glanced at him. “Is this a trap?”
“If it were,” he said, “I’d have turned you over already. I want you to live, Smithson.”
They pressed on. The crowd parted, silent. Some kids watched her, eyes wide. She caught her reflection in the water: face streaked with blood, scales showing through her sleeve, the spiral on her wrist pulsing with a soft, fevered light. She looked nothing like the girl from the posters.
As they threaded the maze of pipes and walkways, Daisy let her mind slip. She reached for Xeris.
He was above, flying slow circles over the city. She felt his hunger growing, like a shadow made of teeth. He wanted to burn. Wanted to break.
Let me, his voice boomed inside her skull. You are hunted. They are weak.
Not yet, she thought, and tried to push him back. Her head ached with the effort, the itch of scales under her jacket getting worse with every step.
Blackwood glanced at her. “You’re talking to it, aren’t you?”
Daisy didn’t answer, but he read her silence.
“The dragon, Xeris. The city thinks you’re his puppet. That he’s using you to get revenge.”
“He’s not the only one with a score to settle,” Daisy said, low.
Blackwood stopped. “If you ever lose control, even for a second, this whole place burns. Is that what you want?”
She met his gaze. “I want them to know what they did. I want them afraid.”
He nodded, a slow, sad recognition.
They made the last turn and found the old service ladder. It went straight up, through four stories of rotting brick, capped with a manhole cover that probably hadn’t been lifted in a decade. Blackwood went first, hands steady despite the slime, then held it open for her. They climbed out into the raw black of midnight, the city lights fuzzed with mist.
They were in the heart of the old quarter, the high walls and glass towers of the nobles’ district visible in the distance. Here, the streets were empty but for the patrols, moving in tight, silent groups, every wand glowing. Daisy ducked into the shadow of a broken statue. Blackwood pressed close behind.
He didn’t try to touch her again, but he whispered, “You’re not done yet, Smithson. Ravensworth’s next move is already in play.”
She almost said, “So’s mine,” but she was too tired for bravado. The city was awake, and it wanted her dead. Her hand throbbed, the blood pooling under the scales, and she could feel Xeris above, watching, waiting for the word.
“We need allies,” Blackwood said. “You know where to find them?”
Daisy did. She wasn’t going to tell him, but she’d remember the question.
She ran. The alley swallowed her. Blackwood let her go.
Above, the dragon circled, hunger and hope tangled together.
The city didn’t know what was coming, but Daisy did.