Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy Book 2)
Chapter 8

Stabbed through the chest—her signature move.

I crouch beside the crumpled guard, blood-stained sand crunching beneath my boots. A face that can’t be much older than my own looks up at me, dark eyes leached of the life he barely got to live. Running a hand through my disheveled hair, my gaze travels over the bloody splotches staining his red uniform. Each one tells a story.

After drawing blood your whole life, every stain begins to speak, if only you listen.

Or maybe I’m just insane.

The wound to his heart seeps crimson across his chest, spilling over to puddle beneath him. The sand surrounding him shows signs of a struggle, a fight portrayed in footprints.

Well, she had a reason to kill him at least.

My eyes trail back to the man beneath me, skimming over the smeared blood on the hem of his shirt, opposite his wound. I inch my face closer, nearly choking on the metallic and morbid scent.

“This was her,” I say, without bothering to look up at the men circling me. “She was here. She is here. He’s only been dead for a day at most.” I eye the blood on his shirt where she hastily wiped her hands.

She must have been in bad shape to leave evidence like this in plain sight.

At that thought, I sigh, running dirty hands through dirtier hair for what is likely the dozenth time. If she’s hurt, then she can’t have gotten far. If she’s hurt, then I have an advantage.

If she’s hurt, I need to be okay with that.

I shake my head, pitying the man who got too close to her. “Grab him. We’ll hand him off to his fellow guards to deal with.”

A few Imperials exchange glances, silently inquiring who among them will have the unfortunate task of dragging the decaying body. I stand, shaking out my sore neck before turning my back on them to stroll toward the looming city. “If you need some encouragement, I’m happy to…”

Uncomfortable coughs and shuffling feet drown out my words, the Imperials wasting no time before following with the dead body in tow. But we don’t have to trudge much farther before we’re swallowed by the swarming city.

I push aside a sun-bleached banner hanging low between crumbling buildings, offering me a better view of the city that is nearly as harsh as the people who inhabit it. Glowering glances greet us, eyes speaking of suspicions that the people of Dor are smart enough not to voice to the Elites strolling through their city. It’s like they can smell the abilities in our blood all while looking down their noses at us.

I offer a curt—and borderline cocky—nod to a few, not shocked in the slightest by their reaction to me and my men. It’s not as though Dor is subtle about their loathing for the Elite kingdom, seeing that they have taken in the most Ordinaries over the decades.

Ilya hasn’t had allies since before the Plague. Since before the kingdom isolated itself to hoard its Elite powers. Since before Ilya suddenly became a threat to anyone outside it.

Spotting a guard that looks entirely too bored to be doing his job even remotely right, I push through the crowded market street we’ve stumbled upon and make my way toward him. Inch by inch, the guard straightens with every moment his eyes rove over us.

“I believe this belongs to you,” I say, gesturing to the dead guard now laid at the feet of the wide-eyed one before us. “We found him on our way into the city. He was stabbed in the chest.” The guard blinks. “And I know who’s responsible. My question is whether or not you’ve seen her stumbling around.”

“H-her?” the guard stammers. “A woman did this?” His eyes widen slightly with recognition. “It was her? The Silver Savior?”

It’s a struggle not to visibly cringe at the title. “Yes. Her. The girl you have plastered all over your city.” I gesture to a tattered poster beside the guard’s head, barely sparing a glance at the face I’d once memorized. No, what catches my eye is the script scrawled across the bottom: TWENTY THOUSAND SILVERS FOR PAEDYN GRAY’S ARREST. DEAD OR ALIVE.

Dead or alive.

And Plague knows she wouldn’t go easily. It’s unlikely she’d allow anyone to return her to Ilya alive. Though, that is what Kitt wants, despite what he tells the surrounding cities.

I turn my attention back to the baffled guard before me. “You didn’t answer my question. Have you seen her?”

“If I had, I’d have already dragged her back to Ilya for them silvers.” He laughs, half snorting. “So, your king’s really got all the cities lookin’ for her, huh?”

Yes, he does.

“If you see her, or anything of suspicion, you are to report to me,” I say, dismissing his question.

Another snort. “Like hell I’ll report to you. Who are you to steal my twenty thousand silvers from me?”

I inch closer, studying him long enough to make his throat bob. “I’m the man with the twenty thousand silvers.”

Watching the realization make his jaw drop is comical. “You’re… you’re…”

I turn on my heel before he’s even finished stuttering my title.

Enforcer.

The word hovers in the air, turning heads as I pass. My appearance is well-known throughout the neighboring cities, seeing that they view Ilya and its royalty like a bedtime fairy tale. We’re idolized in the way that mutual dislike brings people together, providing petty gossip when there’s a lull in conversation.

I scan the street for anything edible, searching for a merchant’s cart. I’m drained and beginning to feel dizzy, as though all the frustration filling my body has finally settled in my head. I set off toward a cluster of carts, content to shove anyone standing between me and my appetite.

But the crowd parts as though the Plague walks among them.

Whispers wash over me, my name falling from lips pulled into firm frowns. I ignore them and their accompanying scrutiny. Judgment is a familiar feeling, almost comfortable with its predictability.

Though I am regretting my lack of composure that has so quickly identified me.

“Do you have any meat?” The merchant’s back is to me when I place a few coins atop his cart and begin grabbing stale loaves of bread, each of them nearly as solid as the wood they’re stacked upon.

The merchant twists, roaming his dark eyes over me and the coins sprawled before him. “Just wild boar.” His voice is exactly what I’d imagine it to sound like, as gruff as he looks.

I nod once. “I’ll take enough for my men and me.”

My request is met with a long stretch of silence. “For you”—the man’s eyes narrow at the coins—“double.”

I duck my head, a humorless laugh slipping past my lips. The merchant shifts, his body tense when I rest my palm atop the rough wood. I nod down at the coins. “You and I both know that meat isn’t worth half of what I’ve already given you.”

“Double,” he grunts again.

“And why”—my voice is lethal—“is that?”

“Because I don’t like you or your kind.”

I almost laugh at that.

Your kind.

To think that anywhere other than Ilya, I’m the enigma. The unnatural thing to dispose of. I stare at him, this man who is essentially an Ordinary himself, though he lacks the Elite-weakening disease running through his veins. It’s no wonder the surrounding cities despise us for banishing the Ordinaries who are just like them.

“So you know what I am,” I say quietly, “and yet, you still choose to charge me double?”

“You don’t scare me. Not here.” His bearded face does little to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “I know yer used to Elite privilege, but you won’t get none of that here. This’ll prolly be the most respect you’ll get from anyone around here.”

“Noted,” I say, far too stiffly for my liking. I don’t exactly relish the idea of people being aware of their ability to ruffle me. With a slight roll of my neck, I exhale the frustration from my lungs—a familiar, well-practiced action. “Well, if this is the most respect I’ll receive in Dor, then I suppose you’re cutting me a good deal.”

The man blinks, slightly taken aback by my swift shift in tone. I almost smile at that, enjoying the reactions of those who are not yet accustomed to the many masks I slip on and off at will. My smile is sharp as I dump more coins onto the wood, joining the several I’d already placed there.

It’s not long before my Imperials are passing around dried strips of what I was told is wild boar, though I’m hardly convinced. “Make yourself scarce,” I order. “We’ll meet back here at sundown.”

The men exchange confused looks, an expression that never seems to leave the planes of their dirty faces. “But, sir—” Matthew starts, stepping forward from the cluster of crumpled uniforms. He’s one of the few Imperials I bother to remember by name—one of the few I don’t have a constant itch to leave behind in the desert.

The glance I cut in his direction has the words dying in his throat. “We’re drawing far too much attention to ourselves. We’ll never get the information we need, or food and board for that matter, if people know who I am and where we are from.” Matthew nods alongside the other men, understanding dawning on them. “Split up. Learn what you can.”

I nod curtly to the group before turning on my heel and slipping into the crowd, suddenly no one of importance.

Ordinary, if you will.