Chapter 9 A Map
Daisy hit the streets with her jaw set and eyes sharp. The morning’s fog had burned off, leaving the alleys cruel and bright. Vendors yelled their first insults, cats feasted on last night’s scraps, and the gutters ran yellow with piss and rainwater. She took the back ways, skirting knots of gamblers and clusters of fishwives haggling over rotted stock. Her boots left black crescents in the mud. Daisy moved with purpose: head low, arms tight, every step a refusal.
At the corner of Sickhouse Lane, a shadow split from the mouth of a pawnshop and fell into step behind her. She heard it, she always did, a sixth sense honed on a hundred little chases, and let the gap close until she could feel the body heat at her shoulder. The moment the hand darted for her belt, she caught the wrist, spun, and slammed the thief into the wall.
A knife flashed. Daisy twisted, and the blade clattered to the cobbles. She pressed her small, sharp knife under the thief’s chin.
“Shit,” he said. “You’re quick.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “You’re slow, Oliver.”
He grinned, all dimples and split lip. “Heard you were dead.”
“Not yet.” She let him go, but didn’t sheath the blade.
Oliver Greenfield dusted himself off and straightened his collar. He was a head taller, but with the hollow cheeks and darting eyes of someone who lived on the edge of meals. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.” Daisy started walking. Oliver matched her stride.
“You headed to the market? Not much left. Old Man Pauly said there’s a run on beans.”
“Not market,” she said.
He cocked his head. “Then what’s got you out this early?”
Daisy stopped in the shadow of a butcher’s stall, watched the blood drip from a rack of ribs to the gutter. She kept her voice low. “I need to know about the menagerie.”
Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “That place is suicide, Daisy.”
“Not if you know the way in.” She looked at him. “I figure you’d know.”
He hesitated, then grinned, teeth crooked. “You’re crazy. But yeah, maybe I do.”
Daisy pulled him deeper into the alley, out of the reach of the butcher’s daughter who was already glaring at them. “Tell me.”
Oliver shrugged. “There’s the front, for guests and idiots. Then there’s the side, guarded by the old mercs. But the best way is the back, through the garden.”
She frowned. “Too many wards.”
“Yeah. But there’s a blind spot where the wards overlap. Just a sliver. You gotta hit it at dusk.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a scrap of dirty parchment, and started sketching with a charcoal nub.
Daisy watched his hands. He’d always been quick, even as kids. Now, his fingers trembled just a little.
He finished the map, a mess of lines and X’s. “Here,” he said, tapping the edge. “This is where the wall meets the old riverbed. Sometimes the wards flicker there. Maybe once or twice a night.”
Daisy took the map, studied it, then folded it into her palm. “You ever use it?”
He shook his head. “No point. Only thing worth stealing in there is locked up tighter than a bishop’s asshole.”
Daisy smirked. “That ever stop you?”
Oliver grinned, then grew serious. “What are you really after, Daisy?”
She hesitated. Blue extract. Or the next best thing.”
Oliver’s smile faltered. “You going after the beasts?”
“If I have to.”
He leaned against the wall, staring at the cracks. “My sister had the same cough as your mother. We tried every trick, every penny. In the end, she died screaming.” His eyes were flat, voice low. “The medicine was there the whole time. Just… not for us.”
Daisy said nothing. It was the only real truth in the world.
Oliver straightened. “If you’re set on this, watch for Cornelius Blackwood. He’s running security for the Lord now. They say he can track a flea through a hayloft.”
She tucked the warning away. “Anything else?”
Oliver flashed his old cocky smile, but it looked brittle. “Just don’t die, Daisy. Would ruin my whole week.”
She almost smiled. “Not planning to.”
He stepped back, hands in pockets. “You got this.”
She turned away, but he called after her, “Be careful. The wards are hungry for blood.”
Daisy kept moving, boots silent now. She pressed the charm Delia had given her, felt the scratch of thread, and wondered how much blood the city would take before it was satisfied.