Scavenge the Stars (Scavenge the Stars #1)(57)

Amaya’s eyes were full of tears by the time she stopped before the door that had once led to her home.

If another family lived there now, she didn’t know, as the lanterns inside weren’t lit. But it still looked the same, from its red-painted door and the owl statuette on the corner of the roof. It was missing its beak from the time Amaya had thrown rocks at it. Her father had laughed, but her mother had been so furious, claiming that the star saint wouldn’t be able to protect their home if Amaya shattered it.

Grief surged up and seized her by the throat. She collapsed at the base of the outer wall and buried her face in her skirt, choking down the sobs that threatened to escape. Ghosts crowded her and touched her back, reminding her of when her father hauled her up onto his shoulders, or when her mother swept the dust out of the house while humming off-key.

The things she could no longer have. The comfort and love she had been denied by an unjust world.

Without her parents to be proud of her—without them to love her—who even was she? Did she mean anything to anyone? Would she ever have that unconditional support again, or was she destined to be alone, relying on no one but herself?

When the worst of her grief had passed, she was hollowed out and exhausted. She stared at the door and willed it to open. To walk the same floors her parents had walked. To somehow force time to run backward, to warn them of what was to come.

As she sat there, ensnared by memories, one in particular began to tug at her. She had been in the garden at the back of the house, an overgrown patch of herbs and morning glories. She had been playing with a doll her mother had made, but at the sound of a rustle, she had looked up and gasped.

A fat spider had been sitting in the bush beside her. A Rehanese Blueback, named for the triangular patch of bright blue on the back of its bulbous body. It had been crafting a web before her eyes, made up of shining strands of silk and gossamer.

But Amaya hadn’t been afraid. Her mother had always told her not to harm spiders. Look at how diligently they work, she would say, pointing them out in the garden or on their walks through the city. Most think of them as pests, but they create such lovely silk. That’s their gift to us.

So she had watched it work in awe, marveling at the level of skill it must have taken to make such a fine web. But her peaceful moment hadn’t lasted long. The front door to the house had slammed, making her start, and Amaya had abandoned her doll to see what was wrong.

Her mother had been pacing the front room, her eyes shining as she pressed a hand against her mouth. Amaya stared at that hand, realizing that something was different—her mother’s jade ring was gone, the one her father had given her when they’d been married. In its place was only a thin band of paler skin.

When she had spotted Amaya, her mother had dropped to her knees and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Amaya,” she had whispered, her lips trembling and her eyes overflowing with tears. “It can’t…It can’t go on this way. I have to.” She had broken down then, hugging Amaya tight to her as she wept. “I have to!”

The next day, the debt collector had come for her.

Amaya opened her eyes. Her mother’s behavior had confused her, scared her, made her wonder what was wrong.

Now she knew. That had been the day her mother had sold her to the Brackish.

Slowly, Amaya got to her feet. She felt mechanical. Distant from her body.

But she was no longer hollow. Cayo Mercado perhaps did not warrant her revenge, but she knew someone else who did.



In Viariche, she had once found Boon in a decrepit tavern by the docks. He had been playing a game that involved throwing knives at a crudely drawn target on the wall, eliciting taunts and shouts of encouragement from the other patrons whenever he landed a hit.

Amaya had watched at a distance, observing how he acted much drunker than he actually was. Manipulation; he always seemed to be in the midst of it.

He’d finally noticed her as he paused to take a swig of his drink and rolled his eyes.

“You wanna compete?” he asked, gesturing to the target embedded with knives and daggers.

“No thanks.”

Boon had squinted at her. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She’d shifted uneasily on her feet. He read people entirely too well.

“Boon,” she’d said under the cheers of the tavern dwellers and the thud of steel against wood, “how can you tell who to hurt and who to spare?”

The man had recoiled a bit, as if the question were a fist aimed at his head. But he hadn’t dismissed it. Instead, he had taken long pulls of his drink as he blearily watched the next round of knife-tossing.

“I think you know who to hurt when the hurt they’ve given you makes nothin’ else they do matter,” he said slowly, slurring his words. “When you can’t see them as a person, but just a vessel for your hatred, your pain. Then you know.”

That’s how Amaya came to find the vessel of her pain pissing against the wall of an alleyway. Christano Melchor swayed as he did his business, his aim wide and sloppy. He chuckled to himself, as if pleased with his mess.

When Liesl had done the work of finding all the debt collectors on Zharo’s list, she had used Avi to find their most frequented spots in the city to ensure that they all got the invitation from the countess. Unlike the others, who visited a wide array of dens, Melchor only went to an alehouse called the Rooster.