Scavenge the Stars (Scavenge the Stars #1)(60)

Sometimes he wondered if the real Cayo existed only in the Vice Sector. The Cayo who didn’t care what anyone thought, who wasn’t afraid to get his clothes dirty and his hair mussed, who always had someone eager on his arm. Perhaps more than the high of winning, he missed the sheer freedom of it, stripping off the gilded varnish of the merchant’s son and revealing the rusted foundation beneath.

He couldn’t be that Cayo again. He couldn’t afford to be. Soria needed him, and his father needed him. They both preferred this Cayo: shining and bland and obedient.

Countess Yamaa didn’t seem to prefer that Cayo. She’d seemed to prefer who he was in the inlet: messy and flawed and honest.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed off the building and followed the familiar path to Diamond Street. The crush of people strangely calmed him, and he let them push him down the street like a school of fish, passing jugglers and musicians and even a Kharian fire swallower.

The Scarlet Arc was on a side street the locals called the Gauntlet—tourists only knew it by its original name, Malachite Street—as the dens there were infamous for their abysmally low chance at payout. Everyone knew it was because the owners and their dealers cheated, but that was part of the fun: Could a cheater cheat another cheater?

In a sense, Cayo thought, that was exactly what he was trying to do with the Slum King. At the sight of the red sign hanging above the Arc, fear swooped low in his belly at the idea of even catching a glimpse of him.

But he had to do this. For Bas. For Soria. For himself.

He waited until a group of drunken toughs walked out the door to slip in past them. He was immediately assaulted by the crimson walls and dripping red chandeliers, pressing in against him like the walls of a bleeding heart.

His own heart pounded in his chest as he kept to the shadows, staying out of eyesight. It was probably pointless, given how loud and distracted everyone was as they tried their best at the card and roulette tables. Still, he hugged the far wall and followed it to the back, the smell of strong, cheap alcohol burning in his nose.

Cayo hurried into the hallway leading to Salvador’s office. He pressed his ear against the door; nothing. The Slum King was usually out this early in the night and likely wouldn’t return until midnight or later. He only had a short window in which to do this.

Fumbling with the key, he breathed out in relief as the lock clicked under his hand and he could push inside. As he closed the door soundlessly behind him, he regarded the office as a soldier would survey a battlefield, calculating his best chance at survival.

The only thing that would help him now was haste. So he began to pore over the bookshelf, pulling out tomes and flipping through their pages. He found secret compartments containing drugs, and even a volume on alchemy, which he eagerly skimmed through—but there was nothing in its contents about the manufacture of counterfeit coins.

He turned to the desk and froze. The jar with Sébastien’s eyes was still there.

The Slum King was using it as a paperweight.

The breath shuddered in Cayo’s chest. He thought back to Bas on the dock, the bandage around his eyes and the fury in the set of his mouth. The softness of his cheek under Cayo’s lips.

His hand hovered above the jar. He wanted to smash it, or take it with him—he wasn’t sure which. After a moment of painful deliberation, he turned instead to the desk drawers and began to pull them open. His chest was tight and hot, his eyes stinging, but he had to put that aside and focus. Once he got the evidence he needed, the Slum King would get what he deserved. But all he found were invoices for the Arc, shipment supplies, signed transactions with other dens—

“Is the puppy sniffing for a treat?”

Cayo jumped and slammed the desk drawer shut, banging his finger in the process. He cursed and shook it out as Romara looked on from the doorway, unimpressed.

“I knew you had to be the one who took my key,” she said as she closed the door behind her, the words menacing on her black-painted lips. “I think I underestimated you, my dear fiancé.”

Cayo held his throbbing finger, watching her cautiously as she approached the desk. He had entertained the notion of the Slum King catching him, but Romara was a whole other species of threat.

Salvador was somewhat predictable. His daughter was not.

Romara stopped on the other side of her father’s desk and crossed her arms. She wore a sleeveless red dress with a scalloped hem and a low neckline. An opal pendant sat in the hollow of her throat, and he wondered if she had received it from a recent admirer.

“I’m feeling generous today,” she drawled, “so I’ll give you three chances to explain yourself.” Then she sniffed and furrowed her brow. “Did you just crawl out of the ocean?”

“I…” Cayo’s mind was still trying to make sense of the situation he had stumbled into. His thoughts were jumbled like a rat’s nest: Countess Yamaa counterfeit Soria the taste of seawater medicine Romara Bas’s eyes Countess Yamaa—

Romara sighed and gave an impatient wave of her lace-gloved hand. “My father comes back in about an hour, so I suggest you start talking.”

“I was just…coming for this.” Cayo grabbed the jar and pulled it toward him. The eyeballs sloshed sickeningly within the liquid.

“Two more chances,” she warned.

He sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. How much could he get away with telling her? He hadn’t come to the Vice Sector to gamble, but now Romara was forcing his hand.