just often enough to kill suspicion.
Han wasn’t impressed. The sharp was just your standard hand mucker with a rowdy, aggressive style of play. The smart players came and went, soon perceiving that they were at a disadvantage. But one player stayed throughout, stubbornly trying to win back her losses.
She sat with her back to Han, a brimmed hat pulled low over her head, collar turned up, shoulders hunched. Han guessed she was a girlie close to naming age, a Southern Islander from her dark skin and curls. Under her overlarge coat, she wore the brilliant colors Southern Islanders favored, but her clothes were ill-fitting, as though they had been borrowed, begged, or stolen.
Something about her seemed familiar— the way she tilted her head and danced in her chair, jiggling her leg as if she couldn’t quite sit still. Han craned his neck, but couldn’t get a good look at her face under the hat.
Han drank his cider and tried to ignore the drama playing out in front of him, but his eyes kept straying back to the girl and her increasingly desperate wagers. She ran out of money and continued with scrips for payment.
She should know better, Han thought. Anyone who wins that much is cheating.
Finally, the flatlander drained his mug of ale and slammed it down on the table. “Well, I’m cashing in,” he said loudly. “Mace Boudreaux knows enough to quit while Lady Luck’s still smiling.”
Two of the players scowled, collected their depleted stakes, and left.
The island girl did not rise. She sat frozen for a moment, then leaned forward. “Nuh- uh. Let’s keep playing. You got to give me a chance to win it back,” she said. Her voice was soft and musical, carrying the familiar cadence of the Southern Islands.
Han’s skin prickled in recognition.
“Sorry, girlie, I’m done,” Mace Boudreaux said. “Guess luck’s running against you. Time to pay up.” He raked in the money in front of him and secreted it in several hidey places on his person. Then pushed the payment notes across the table to the girlie.
She stared down at the scraps of paper on the table in front of her.
She doesn’t have it, Han thought. She’s done.
“I’ll be right back with the rest of it,” she said, jackknifing to her feet and turning toward the door.
The sharp’s hand snaked out and grabbed the girlie around the wrist, jerking her toward him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you pay up.”
The girl tried to yank her hand free. “I don’t carry that kind of money around. I got to get it from my room.”
Boudreaux stuck his face in close to the girl’s. “I’ll just come with you, then,” he said, licking his lips and looking her up and down with a greasy smile. “If you don’t have the money, there may be a way you can earn it out.”
The girlie spat in his face. “In your dreams, you scummer-sucking, limp- nippled, gutter- spawned—”
“Do you want to go to gaol?” Boudreaux growled, brushing away the spit and giving her a bone- rattling shake.
The girl stiffened. Han could tell from the ropy scars on her wrists and ankles that she’d been in gaol. He guessed she didn’t want to go back.
“I’ll call the guard,” Boudreaux threatened, his voice rising. “I got rights.”
Before Han could put two thoughts together, he was standing next to their table. “Hey, now. Just a friendly game, right? No need to get the guard involved, is there?” He slapped the sharp on the back and punched him in the shoulder, grinning like a country boy deep in his cups.
Boudreaux glared at Han, unhappy with the unexpected intrusion. “It’ll be friendly as long as the girlie pays up. I got rights.”
“You can work something out.” Han swung around to face the girl, and nearly fell over from surprise.
It was Cat Tyburn, who’d replaced Han as streetlord of the Raggers. She stared back at him, frozen. Han blinked, looked again, and she was still Cat. She’d changed, and not for the better. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her at first.
She’d always been thin, but now she was skin and bones, like a razorleaf user. Her eyes seemed to take up half her face, and they were cloudy and dull— likely from drink and leaf. She’d always been proud, but now she looked beaten down. There were holes in her ears and nose where her silver had been, and her silver bracelets and bangles were gone also. All of it lay in front of the sharp.
Her face said that the last person she expected to see in the world was Han Alister.
Han grabbed Boudreaux’s arm to steady himself and cover his amazement. As he did so, he slid a spare deck off the table and into his pocket, his mind working furiously.
What was she doing there? Cat had been born in the islands, but as long as he’d known her, she’d never strayed far beyond the few blocks that made up Ragmarket. Why would she leave when she had a good gang, good turf, and a good living?
More important, how could he help her out of the mess she was in? It sure wouldn’t do her any good to land in a Delphian jail.
He could accuse Boudreaux of cheating, but he’d long ago learned to keep his mouth shut in a tavern unless he knew the clientele. For all he knew, he was surrounded by Boudreaux’s best mates.
Cat still stared at Han like he’d crawled out of the grave and given her a cold cadaver kiss.
“C’m over here, girlie,” Han slurred, taking her elbow. “Le’s you and me talk.” Her body went rigid under his hand, but she allowed him to tow her out of earshot of the pock- faced sharp.
When they were at a safe distance, Han suddenly sobered up.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“I could ask you the same question,” she retorted.
“I asked first.”
Cat’s face shuttered tight. “I had to leave Ragmarket.”
“Who’s streetlord, then?” Han asked, stumbling into speech. “What about Velvet?”
“Velvet’s dead,” Cat said. “They all are— or disappeared. No need for a streetlord in Ragmarket now.” She shivered, her ragged nails picking at her coat. “They came right after you left. Killed everyone. I’m alive because I wasn’t there.”
“Who came?” Han asked, because it seemed expected, though he already knew.
“Demons. Like the ones that did the Southies.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Han’s mouth was dry as dust. “Did they . . . were they looking for me?”
“Like I said, I wasn’t there.” Not an answer. “I didn’t know where you’d gone. I thought they’d hushed you too.”
Bones. He left death behind him even when he went away. No wonder Cat was jittery.
“I’m real sorry about Velvet,” Han said. “And . . . everything.”
She just looked at him, eyes wide, shaking her head no.
“Come on, girlie!” Boudreaux roared. “You two gonna talk all night or what? I want my money.”
Han waggled his hand at the sharp to quiet him and leaned in close to Cat. “How much do you owe your friend over there?” he whispered.
“Why?” Cat demanded with her usual charm. “What business is it of yours?”
“I don’t got all night,” Han said. “How much?”
She looked around the room, as if seeking escape from the question. “Twenty- seven girlies and some change,” she said.
Hanalea’s blood and