Two minutes is still late, he replied crankily.
What are you, the time police?
Great comeback. I could actually hear him scoff.
“Come on,” I replied, finally speaking aloud. “Let’s go see this friend of yours.”
I reached down and slid open the manhole cover, about to climb down when Peter said, “Wait, I’ll go first.”
“Oh, have you decided to be a gentleman after grouching at me?”
“I didn’t sleep very well,” he replied, climbing down the few steps before reaching up to take my hand. I allowed him to help me down, even though I could’ve easily done it alone. Despite his grouchiness, I still wouldn’t miss an opportunity to touch him. His palm met mine, and I suppressed a shudder of awareness.
“That doesn’t sound very much like an apology, but I’ll take it,” I said. “I can be a grump, too, when I haven’t gotten enough sleep.”
Peter narrowed his gaze as I stepped down into the sewer, and he let go of my hand. I scrunched up my face, immediately pulling my scarf up over my nose and inhaling the pleasant scent of my fabric softener to avoid the stench.
We walked in silence, and I considered telling him about my nightmare but decided against it. My dad had reacted severely enough. I didn’t want to freak Peter out, too.
The hustle and bustle of the market could be heard as we neared the entrance. You could buy all manner of goods here, from typical stuff like food and clothing to the unusual, like love spells or curses, voodoo dolls, or magical weapons. Clay Kanumba’s stall was deep in the market. I pulled my hood up and stuck close to Peter, not wanting to be recognised as the daughter of Ethan and Tegan Cristescu. Everyone in this city knew who my parents were, and I didn’t like drawing attention.
Are you okay? Peter asked, clearly noticing my nervousness.
I’m fine. I just don’t come here very often, I said, my eyes roaming a stall selling an array of machetes. Well, that’s not unsettling. I hadn’t intended to voice the thought to Peter, and he shot me an amused look.
I thought you loved weapons.
I do, but there’s something creepy about owning a stall that sells two hundred machetes and nothing else.
On second thought, you’re right, Peter said, surprising me when he reached out to take my hand. Come on. It gets busier the farther you go, and I don’t want to lose you.
Any excuse to hold my hand, I teased to deflect from the fact that I was the one who got a thrill from touching him.
His fingers flexed around mine as he shot me a wry glance. Yes, holding the Darya Cristescu’s hand is a huge honour for a lowly pleb like me.
I chuckled and saw his lips twitch like he was withholding a smile. A bolt of pure sunshine shot through my heart. Neither one of us stopped holding the other’s hand, and when we reached Clay Kanumba’s stall, there was already a line waiting to see him.
We joined the queue, and Peter finally released my hand. I flexed my fingers, missing the warmth of his palm already.
“Maybe we should’ve made an appointment,” I said.
“I didn’t think of it. If you don’t have time to wait, we can come back another day.”
“No, it’s fine. I can wait,” I said, remembering how I’d lied to Dad about where I was going. All I could do was cross my fingers and hope he didn’t find out.
We waited for almost twenty minutes before we finally made it to the top of the queue. A lot of people might’ve tried to fill the time with casual conversation, but not Peter. He stood quietly next to me the entire time, and I couldn’t decide if he was shy or simply disliked talking to me. If the latter was true, then our current predicament must’ve been a nightmare for him.
When it was our turn, a voice called out from inside a small area shrouded by curtains. “Come in.” We entered, and that was when I laid eyes on one of the most intriguing warlocks I’d ever seen.
7.
Clay Kanumba had dark, flawless skin and long dreadlocks that ran down the centre of his skull. Though he was a warlock, the demonic energy surrounding him was palpable. His features were defined, his jaw prominent. He wore baggy ripped jeans and a loose tank top that displayed the entire length of his muscled arms. I was busy staring at the lavish gold chains around his neck while he greeted Peter by pulling him into a jovial hug. “Peter, my man. What brings you here?”
“I was hoping for a favour,” Peter replied, glancing momentarily in my direction. The movement caused Clay to cast his gaze on me, too, his eyes travelling over me in assessment.
“Well, well, well, who is this?” he said, stepping forward.