Chapter 37: No Tomorrow - The Night Market

The air inside Leroux Tower was heavy with incense and promise. The Night Market had taken hold like ivy on stone – climbing every stairwell, curling into corridors. Its music pulsed faintly beneath the marble floors, a low rhythm, seductive and strange. Vendors barked their trades. Enchanters flicked ash into crystal bowls. Children of the night laughed and bargained and danced. You wouldn’t have known the city was on the edge of something terrible.

Pepper didn’t feel here. Not really.

Her steps were slow, uncertain, each one echoing in her chest. Every face she passed felt like it saw through her. A merchant with a tray of teeth. A vampiric tailor with scissors that gleamed like silver talons. A trio of Ode Enforcers, standing like statues, their eyes following her just a beat too long.

A deep breath in. Out.

Then, before she could slip out of the hall and vanish into her plan, she was intercepted.

‘Miss Montgomery. Just the person.’

Pepper’s spine locked straight at the voice.

Canis Cavendish emerged from the crowd wrapped in a maroon-red coat trimmed in bands of bronze. He looked as if he’d walked out of a painting and into the present. He smiled like he always did – as if nothing in the world had ever truly troubled him.

But the woman close by, who cocked her head at Pepper as if deciding whether she remembered her – or whether she was worth remembering – made her mouth uneasily dry. Initially, she presumed they were just another one of Canis’s indulgences, a metal-head better suited to a mosh pit than among money and suits, who looked almost bored to be there.

Her body was bare in all the right places: a tight-cut leather crop top clung to her shoulders and ribs, leaving her abdomen exposed. Buckled shorts rode low on her hips, chains draped from belt loops to thigh straps, metal flashing in the ambient glow. The sweep of a tartan sash fell from one side, torn deliberately, clashing with the pattern of black fishnets. Combat boots laced to the shin. Black eyeshadow framed her gaze like parallel stars in the night; her hair sculpted into scruffy black spikes with shaved accents replacing an unruly blonde forest. Silver studs in her ears caught the light like splinters. She was a riot of skin and style and menace, bound in a black bomber jacket sporting a collar of white fur. All topped off with a red score on the palm of a ring-covered hand.

Pepper blinked.

If it wasn’t for the storm-cloud eyes, Quinn Cavendish would have been unrecognisable.

The Cavendish heir, notably, said nothing. Her eyes were unreadable, all trace of her manic fire tempered into something distant, something looming. It was very unnerving.

‘Good evening,’ Pepper said with a faint incline of the head. ‘I . . . I trust you both have everything you need?’ She tried to keep her tone light, but her fingers twitched at her coat sleeve. ‘I’m actually in the middle of—’

Canis’s voice fell firm, low.

‘Whatever you may be busy with at the moment, Miss Montgomery, I assure you that nothing can be more pressing than what we have to discuss.’ Canis stepped past her, implying that refusal was not a possibility, eyes serious and drawn. ‘Come. We’ll need somewhere suitable to talk. And it is illuminating, wouldn’t you agree, sister?’

Quinn mechanically shifted her gaze back and forth. No wild laughter. No riddles, no twitching fingers. Just a roll of her tongue tip over a fang-point and a quick nod.

They led the way to the elevators. Pepper followed, her thoughts moving faster than her steps. They know. They know something. They’re not here to talk. They’re going to expose me.

They ascended via a velvet-curtained lift, moving through the tower’s spine until they reached a high balcony overlooking the arena floor. The architecture here was more refined. The seats below were beginning to fill. A low buzz of anticipation filled the air. The arena had once been an auditorium, built for announcements and power plays, but tonight, it had been transformed into something more primal.

The sleek tiles had been replaced with smooth, matte stone flown in from the north – dark, iron-veined, faintly reflective beneath the low light but known for its exceptional strength. A broad circle marked the combat space, etched with runic designs that seemed to faintly hum. Gilded railings wrapped the upper walkways, where guests were already seated, their laughter and wagers hanging like smoke above the blood to come.

Soft incantation-lamps ringed the ceiling, pulsing with a violet hue that made the shadows seem thicker, more expectant. Two pillars on either side of the arena held crests – the black-gold sigil of the Cavendish on one, the violet-grey of the Ode Family on the other. The gulf between them, a no man’s land.

And whether by design or chance, this wasn’t a fight pit. It was theatre.

Canis rested both palms on the railing, looking down at the arena where Laik stood speaking with Reese, pointing at this and that, the two of them half shrouded in shadow. His voice was too calm for Pepper’s liking.

‘Do you remember that little thing we did in the Vault?’ he said. ‘I put word out to try and locate a proposed Relic you were troubled with. Some little box, I believe it was. Ring any bells?’

Pepper didn’t answer. Her fingers were tightening around the strap of her bag. Apprehension was screaming for the woman to move. To run. But she didn’t. What she could manage was a nod.

‘Well, I have news. Earlier today I received word from the Archivists,’ he said. ‘This box of yours. The one that imprisoned the thing Laik carries? It’s been found. And a lot more besides . . .’

He drew out his phone.

‘It surfaced last in the hands of a Relic retrieval company outside of Bath. From there, it was stuck in a warehouse gathering dust. One would presume on account of its unremarkable appearance, there was little incentive to discover the story behind it. That’s the problem with the plain and ordinary. Ordinary rarely excites. Or sells. What is particularly surprising is this part.’ Canis prodded his phone screen, bringing up a diagram with multiple names at each junction. ‘There was success in tracking the previous owners of said Relic, down through the years all the way back to the seventeen hundreds. Are these names familiar: Bethan? Eluned? Briony?’

Pepper’s mouth fell open. No sound came.

‘Because,’ Canis calmy continued, setting his eyes upon her, ‘they share the same surname as you: Montgomery. A surname that was never replaced for generations, even in marriage, on account of its weight.’

Pepper’s eyes flickered at the revelation.

‘Briony was my mother. Eluned, my grandmother. But the other—’

‘Bethan. Your great-grandmother according to this. And last known possessor of your lineage of the Relic. Seems like they had dug up a fair bit on her.’

Quinn interrupted, speaking just as flatly.

‘Apparently, your surname was synonymous with parts of Wales. Traditions, hereditary talents passed on and taught to other generations. Not famous at all, but popular enough to make a mark. They got paid to lift curses, bless good fortunes, all that. And this Bethan, well, she didn’t exactly have the same knack. Made mistakes along the way. Sold fake spells on all accounts, no idea as to the why, but – and this is the interesting part – her own grandma was a notable Sin Eater. One who shunned convention and stuffed people’s wrongdoings in a box.’ Her eyes narrowed as Pepper attempted to process this. ‘That’s what’s in Laik, isn’t it? The fetid remains of her doing, swimming around in his guts.’

The tonal shift was unnerving. Gone was the manic hurricane who once howled through rooms like a banshee chasing ghosts. What stood in her place was quieter. Not reined in, but refocused. Her perpetual chaos had either been tempered into behaving or abandoned her completely. Pepper couldn’t tell which.

Pepper’s mind raced. ‘Canis knew that it—’

‘But I fuckin’ didn’t,’ Quinn snapped. ‘It’s barbaric, and if I had—’

‘Sister, calm. You’re winding yourself up.’ Canis stepped between them. ‘This is hardly Pepper’s fault. All she is doing is tugging on a piece of string. And anyway, now she has confirmation, it would seem that the onus is on her.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pepper asked.

Quinn sharply inhaled, leaning back on the rail, studs striking the metal.

‘These troubles that your relative saw fit to steal away do not dissipate without the correct behaviour. They don’t just sit still in a box to be taken out like toys. They fester and ferment. They rot. And they have been rotting in Laik for a loooooong time.’

Her eyes flashed with something dark. ‘You, Pepper, are a descendant of the one who took the sins of others as their own without considering the consequences. The Montgomery line carries the rite – you carry the rite – swimming in your blood. A grim inheritance that leaves you responsible for its behaviour.’

Pepper fought not to slump in one of the seats or upon the rail.

‘Responsible, how?’

Canis was watching her now, not unkindly, but without the usual glimmer of amusement he so often wore as Quinn continued.

‘What do you even think blood is? A simple stream of wet to keep the flesh? No. It’s more than that. Illnesses, genetic disorders, things that science can measure, these backpack through generations, riding on the red, you get me? But there’s plenty that cannot be seen that does the same, plenty that humanity dismisses. Calling it magic, or superstition or fate or whatever. Blood carries memories and contracts. Benefit and blight. Even purpose. It always remembers. Your Sin Eater descendant collected the sins of others totally unaware that she wasn’t just constraining them in some poky box – she was forever binding them to her. And that contract, she was writing, was forged in the blood. Leaving their ownership to be passed on to your grandmother. To your mother. And then finally—’

Quinn theatrically paused, letting Pepper come to the horrific discovery.

‘To me.’

The steel railing vibrated as Quinn gave it a slap.

‘Now she gets it! Every single fucking one of them willing to do whatever you say because they have to. Hundreds, maybe thousands of snippets of wrongdoing – some small, some grand – function like a shoal of fish. And fish always follow the food.’ She extended a ringed finger sporting a blood-red nail. ‘That makes you the carrier of a big bucket of worms. Toss them in to keep them happy. Starve them if you feel the need. Rile ’em up. Make ’em angry. Put ’em out their misery. Either way. The control is yours.’ She pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes from a pocket, drew one between her teeth and lit it with a silver lighter.

‘Control it?’ Pepper stared. ‘I don’t even fucking understand it.’

‘You don’t need to.’ Quinn’s face held none of its usual erratic twitch, as she scissored the cigarette away with her fingers, ‘You just have to choose what happens next. Blood gives life. Sustains it, sure, our kind knows that more than most. But in your instance? It’s red venom.’

Pepper stood at the edge of the overlook, arms folded tight, trying to hide the way her stomach was churning. Below, the arena waited in silence, its great black floor ringed with a low iron guard and crimson lights smouldering underfoot like embers. Laik moved along one side, exchanging quiet words with Reese. From this distance, he looked like a man preparing for war, yet completely unaware he was already in one. He was unaware that the Eternal Rose could only be used once. Now, she unwittingly held the leash of the monster within.

The striking of a bell ran from ceiling speakers. A voice crackled above them, making her jolt. It announced that those wishing to witness the duel should journey to the arena as it would begin in twenty minutes, and as soon as it began, entry would be barred until it was over.

She wasn’t breathing properly. Too shallow. Too quick.

Her family.

Her blood.

Her fault.

She couldn’t breathe. The walls of the balcony seemed to press in, the murmurs of the crowd thinning to a single pulse in her ears. Pepper muttered something about air – about needing a moment – and turned before either Cavendish heir could answer. Her boots struck the marble, echoing down the corridor like falling coins.

The deeper she went, the quieter it became. The scent of incense lingered – pungent, suffocating, impossible to escape. Her reflection followed in every dark panel she passed: a ghost in a green felt coat, a pale face beneath a halo of light.

Her chest tightened. Her stomach rolled.

Each step felt looser, the world swimming slightly at the edges.

Two vampires in crisp suits brushed past, their voices soft and perfumed with wine. One gave her a courteous nod; the other simply watched her go, eyes dark with curiosity. She forced herself onward, pulse pounding in her ears, until she reached the restroom door and pushed through.

She barely made it to the sink before the nausea caught her. Her palms slapped the rim, body folding as the first wave hit. Bile scorched her throat as she retched, the sound harsh and desperate in the hollow room. The taste was acid and metal, a ruin of nerves and fear. It came again, urgently, sharper each time, until there was nothing left but the dry convulsion of breath.

Water. She turned the tap with shaking fingers, let the stream run cold and clear, rinsing the sink before splashing her face again and again until her skin burned.

With slow, suffocating clarity, it was dawning on her: if Claire was going to live – if all of this was going to mean something – then she would have to do the one thing that clawed at every decent instinct she had.

The thoughts came: clear and merciless, cutting through the dizziness like a blade.

You’re going to betray him.

You’re going to make it run rampant.

You’re going to feed him to that thing.

You’re going to get him killed.

Just so you can have your distraction.

He doesn’t deserve that.

And you know it.

Her reflection blurred behind drops of water. She hardly recognised herself – eyes bloodshot, skin too pale, mouth trembling. She scrubbed at the tears beginning to fall, telling herself there was no other choice, that this attack of conscience was fleeting and needless. The gold locket swung from her neck like a pendulum, catching the light each time she shook.

Footsteps snapped outside. Pepper straightened, forcing her spine rigid. She wiped her mouth, smoothed her blouse in a hurry, and turned away as the restroom door opened to a trio of women discussing something so important that they didn’t even acknowledge her standing there.

Then she turned, one trembling breath later, and walked back into the corridor. Each step rang sharp and final, carrying her toward what she already knew she could never forgive herself for.

But she’d do her best to pretend.