Scavenge the Stars (Scavenge the Stars #1)(20)

No.

She did have one thing left: a new goal.

If she lived, she was going to kill Captain Zharo.

Survive.

Silverfish used her fury and her grief to keep swimming, to slice through the water like a blade. Her limbs were cramping, her vision darkening. Still she swam down, consciousness leaving her bit by bit.

Then she felt it—a tug.

A riptide.

Her father had once told her that you could only see the way forward when all other options have failed you.

Silverfish didn’t hesitate. She flung herself into the riptide’s path, letting the water whisk her out of the dark and into the unknown.





The rules of Scatterjack are very simple: five cards to a hand, two cards to trade, and a knife up your sleeve if the game goes sour.

—THE INS AND OUTS OF TABLE BETTING



Before she died, Cayo’s mother had often told him that he was born under the sign of Luck, the glittering constellation that greeted his arrival into this world. She used to trace it for him with her finger, following the stars that made the shape of a crown.

“He who is lucky is a king,” she would tell him as she rested a hand on his shoulder. “And like a king, he must always watch for usurpers. Those who are not lucky will succumb to envy and seek his power for their own.”

Cayo wondered now, as he sat across the desk from the Slum King, whether the man had also been born under the sign of Luck—or if he was one of the usurpers.

His office was within the Scarlet Arc, a gambling hall that the Slum King owned. Although his name wasn’t on the deed in case the city guard—lazy as they were—decided to use a paper trail to find him, everyone knew who truly ran it. Despite its respectable name, nothing respectable happened within the red-painted walls of the Arc. It was undeniably one of the most dangerous halls in the Vice Sector, rife with murderers and thieves.

Although Cayo had realized just this morning that he needed to return, he was fast coming to regret this decision.

The Slum King—also known as Jun Salvador—sat in his maroon wingback chair and steepled his fingers on the desk, eyeing Cayo with something that looked deceptively like patience. His dark brown hair was thin, combed into a stylish swoop above a large forehead. He was impeccably dressed as always, a trait that Cayo had once appreciated, yet now made him all the more conscious of his mussed hair and rumpled clothing. The man was lean and trim, but corded with muscle that he didn’t bother to hide under his expensively tailored shirt and waistcoat. His face, however, was haggard and scarred, a long silvery line going from forehead to chin and a pinkish crater in his right cheek where someone had carved out a hunk of flesh.

“Well,” said the Slum King. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m surprised to see you, but that would make me a liar.”

Even hearing his voice again sent a shiver down Cayo’s spine. Low, steady, and rough from years of cigarillo smoke, it was the sort of voice that could convince you to trust it, that could lead you through a den of vipers simply because it asked nicely. It was the sort of voice that made you want to impress its owner.

Cayo had wanted to impress him, once. And he had.

And then he’d lost everything.

Now he was on that precipice again. But Soria’s life was on the line. This was the only way he knew how to save her.

Even if he had promised her he would never come back here.

For a brief moment, Cayo wished Sébastien were with him. Bas had always been good at making the Slum King laugh, at defusing the tension in any given situation. Cayo hadn’t heard from him since giving him the last of his month’s allowance, but then again, he hadn’t expected to; he’d made it clear that Sébastien could expect no more help from him. Still, he hoped he had done enough.

Cayo took a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair. “I want to return to the tables.”

Salvador laughed softly. “Has the itch finally come crawling back?”

Cayo ignored that. “I need back in.”

Fast as a bullet, a pocketknife flicked into the Slum King’s hand. Cayo flinched, but Salvador only reached into a drawer and pulled out a cigarillo, cutting off its tip with the knife and lighting it on the candle burning on his desk. He took a puff and leaned back with a deep exhalation. Smoke drifted through the study like fog, inching toward the brass chandelier above Cayo’s head. The murmur and laughter of the Arc’s usual crowd drifted through the closed door in the taut silence.

“Not a chance,” he said at last.

“What? Why?” Cayo scooted to the edge of his chair, all too aware that the Slum King hadn’t yet put his knife away. “I was one of your best winners at Scatterjack and Threefold. I know the dealers, I’ve networked within the casinos—”

“You were one of the best until you started getting reckless.” Another drag of his cigarillo. His eyes never left Cayo’s. “Until the thrill of it made you think south of your brain.”

Cayo clenched and unclenched his hands. Chasing the high of winning had urged him to the casinos, to the gambling dens, to the racetracks—anyplace he could drop a sum in the hopes of doubling or even tripling it. It had made him drunk without a drop of liquor, convincing him that he was unbeatable, unstoppable.

“My time away from the dens has cleared my head,” he said stiffly. “I’m ready to play again.”