Scavenge the Stars (Scavenge the Stars #1)(80)

“Can I help you, miss?” asked a startled guard by the doors.

“The Vaults,” she gasped. “Where are they?”

He pointed to a marble staircase leading down to an underground floor. She sprinted for it, ignoring his call asking if she was all right.

Amaya nearly fell down the last few steps, gripping the banister before she could break her neck. She barely even noticed that it was colder down here, the walls made of limestone and the floors shining marble. Her boots squeaked as she hurried down the corridor, passing wide, gleaming metal doors that had been painted gold.

The sound of crashing echoed down a nearby corridor, and she turned the corner to find one of the Vault doors thrown open, a collection of papers and junk piled in the hall. Men were hauling it out from the Vault and placing it into stacks. They didn’t notice her creep closer, eyeing the things they were handling so roughly.

Her father’s things. Hers to inherit, by birthright.

It didn’t amount to much. Just some old furniture, most of which she recognized from her home, and papers. So many papers and files and ledgers, stacks and stacks of them.

Amaya knelt and grabbed the nearest file, flipping through it quickly while the men went to grab their next armfuls. It contained reports and transaction receipts and handwritten notes, some in her father’s hand, some not.

She stopped when she saw the name Jun Salvador. The Slum King.

Cold washed over her. Individually, the papers didn’t make sense, but together they painted a terrible picture: Kamon Mercado had been, or perhaps still was, in business with the Slum King. The file contained various accounts of their dealings within the Vice Sector, from Mercado liquidating gambling dens that were taking profit away from the Scarlet Arc to the Slum King supplying thieves to hit Mercado’s biggest competitors.

The most recent transaction was dated the year of her father’s death. He had scrawled a note over it that read:

Thousands from Mercado to Salvador for use in the Arc. Fake coins. Distribution?

Amaya’s teeth chattered as she stared at the note, then at the mountains of paper before her.

Blackmail. All of it. Her father had been gathering it for years, all to take Mercado down and expose him for who he truly was.

And Mercado had killed him for it. Not because Arun couldn’t repay a loan, but because of the havoc that would be unleashed with this information.

The men’s voices snapped her out of her thoughts. She stood, only slightly comforted by the weight of the knife at her wrist.

Then she walked into the Vault.

She recognized him not because he looked like Cayo, but because of the way he stood, the arrogance of his expression and the indifferent crossing of his arms. Cayo had the same dark, teardrop-shaped eyes as Kamon, but that was where the similarities ended; Kamon’s hair was deep brown, not black, and his features were broader.

He was directing his men with words only, not bothering to lift a finger to help. When he saw her, though, his arms dropped and his carefully blank face folded into a frown.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

He said it as if he knew her, as if she were a pest he couldn’t get rid of. Amaya stood her ground and forced herself not to flinch, to look her father’s murderer in the eye. Her blood ran hot, itching under her skin.

“Because you weren’t where you were supposed to be,” she growled. “In a cell.”

One careful eyebrow rose. “They released me because there’s no substantial evidence.”

“That they know of,” she countered, lifting the file she’d taken. “Now I have all the proof I need to show the city who you really are.”

“We seem to have fallen into quite the predicament,” he said, signaling his confused men to wait outside, “as I could say the same of you, Countess.”

Amaya swallowed her gasp and fisted her free hand, the other holding tighter to the file.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

He laughed. It was an unnervingly attractive laugh, all low and controlled, meant for dinner parties and soirees.

“Countess Yamaa,” he murmured to himself. “I doubt Yamaa is even your real name. When my son began to take an interest in you, I made sure to do my research, and guess what I found? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Countess Yamaa only came into being a little over a month ago, when she docked in Moray. Before then, she may as well have not existed.”

Amaya tried to swallow. She and the other Landless had worried about being found out, recognizing that they only had a certain amount of time before it became an inevitability. Still, to have it happen now, falling from the mouth of her enemy, sent thorns of panic tangling around her spine.

“A fake name, a fake reputation, and I’d even wager fake wealth,” Mercado went on. “My dear, the only counterfeit you should be worried about is yourself.”

She bared her teeth at him. “What do you mean, fake wealth?” She didn’t bother to try to lie—it would have been pointless.

He shook his head, almost as if in pity. “It was a good job, I must admit, to have lasted this long. The coins are barely distinguishable from the real thing.” His eyes gleamed with sudden intent. “Tell me, who are you working with?”

“I don’t…”

“Whoever they are, I can offer you protection from them. But only if you give me a name.”