Page 75 of Terror at the Gates

My next visit answered that very question.

Mistress, a severe woman who kept her hair in a bun so tight, it pulled the skin on her face, took one look at me and told me to get out. I tried to argue even though I had no grounds to do so, and she threw a paperweight at me.

The security at Ellesar’s Gold and Gemstone Gallery turned me away as soon as I gave my name, and when I tried to buzz myself into Joakim’s Emporium, he yelled at me through the speaker and said he didn’t do business withrats.

I turned away from the door and took a long breath, tilting my head up toward the red-tinged sky.

Why did Zahariev ruin everything?

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I felt guilty. It wasn’t a fair thing to say, but there was a reason I hadn’t called him when Abram died.

“Fuck.”

Cherub meowed.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t going the way I planned.”

I had one more option before I hit a dead end, and I’d saved it for last because I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to go. Gomorrah was bad, but the Trenches? They were worse.

There were rules for patrons on Sinners’ Row, rules for operating on Smugglers’ Row. There were no rules for those who ventured into the Trenches.

Once known as Southgate, it had become uncharted territory when a fire broke out years before Zahariev was born. Since then, it had become a home to those in need and to those who did not feel like they belonged in Nineveh. It was a place I only ventured when I had to, like when I needed to sell something my usual buyers wouldn’t take, even though the people who lived there didn’t often trade in money. They traded in things—crumbling books, serpentinite pieces, thebone of an angel wing, things I’d just have to take back to Gomorrah to sell.

It was a waste of my time, and as I passed through the entrance, marked by two scorched pillars, I didn’t think this visit would be any different.

I followed cracks in the broken asphalt, overrun with weeds. It was the only greenery here. Nothing else had survived. Some buildings and homes were still intact but dilapidated and smoke stained; others were nothing more than skeletal silhouettes. Still, if it had a decent roof or aconcrete wall, the locals would use it as shelter, often scavenging wood, brick, and metal from other parts of the area.

I once asked Zahariev why he hadn’t rebuilt. He had enough money. He could give everyone here a nicer place to live.

If I gave them a new area, it would no longer be theirs.

At first, I didn’t understand what he meant, but it didn’t take long to learn. A week in Nineveh, and I had watched those who had take from those who had less and those who had less take from those who had nothing.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. The foundation of Hiram’s wealth had begun in Nineveh with the canal, the desert, the mines. I just never expected to see the same abuse on a micro level, but sometimes people were worn so thin, all they could do was survive.

Overhead, the darkening sky ignited in a blaze of light, followed by a deep, sonorous roll of thunder. It made the ground quake, like the storm had awakened some sort of monster deep in the earth.

Fuck. I hadn’t expected rain on my walk.

Cherub meowed with as much dread as I felt. I didn’t like being out in the rain. It felt like being poisoned.

As the first few droplets fell, I finally found the street I was looking for, memorable because of the wash lines that crisscrossed between blackened windows, some still heavy with clothes. Here, the buildings were less damaged and terraced.

There were a few people out and about, a man smoking outside his convenience store, another digging through bags of trash piled on the street. While neither of them paid me any mind, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Maybe it was the rain, but the few times I’d been here, the area had been farmore active.

The shop owners brought their merch onto the sidewalk and bartered into the early morning. There were no streetlights, so they strung lanterns from the clotheslines. It felt like another world, and I guessed, in some ways, it was. No one else outside this place ever tried to barter with angel bones, save the woman in shop 213. I stared up at the fading numbers over her door. I thought it had once been blue, but the paint was so faded, there was only a hint of color left. She had also carved symbols into the wood. I didn’t know what they meant, but I was certain the church would think it was some kind of witchcraft.

I walked up her slippery steps and knocked on the door. As I stood on her tiny porch, it began to rain harder. I crowded closer, trying to fit as much of my body beneath the short overhang as possible, knocking harder, but there was no answer. Cherub was meowing.

“I know, kid. I’m sorry,” I said.

I tucked her inside the scarf and folded my jacket over her, gritting my teeth as I felt her claws against my skin.

This sucks.

I looked around for some way to peer into the building, noticing a pillar beside the porch that would give me a view inside.

I climbed it, pressing my face to the window as the rain rolled off my hooded head and back. I could see a woman inside standing behind a counter, her face illuminated by candlelight.

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