A Silver Coin for a Rascal Named Jace

"Do you have any parents, kiddo?" I asked, my voice gentle.

The boy simply shook his head from side to side.

"No, lady," he said, and the words were a physical blow to my heart. An ache bloomed in my chest, a desperate wish that I could do more. Then, a thought sparked: perhaps I could.

Sensing my height might be intimidating, I knelt to his level, bringing us eye to eye. "What's your name?" I asked, pressing the heavy, cool silver coin into his small, bony hand.

"Don't got a real one," he told me. "Street vendors call me Rascal."

"Rascal is hardly a proper name," I murmured softly. "Would you like one from me? A real one? That way, when you're all grown up and famous, the world will have a proper name to call you by."

The child's eyes, already wide, grew even larger. He bobbed his head with such enthusiastic speed I worried it might detach from his neck. I suspected then that he was older than five, his diminutive stature a tragic result of long-term malnourishment.

"How about Jace?" I suggested. "I've always been fond of the name Jace. In the nation where I was born, it's a name of strength. Many of our Praetors—our version of kings—had strong names like it."

The boy beamed, a radiant smile that lit up his grimy face. "It's the best name ever," he declared. My own heart swelled in response. It seemed painfully clear that very few people had ever shown him kindness.

"Lady?" he piped up. "Will you come get bread with me? The baker won't believe I didn't steal this if you don't. He might call the guards."

I hesitated. Morgan would be waiting, and I loathed being late, but I couldn't abandon this child. Nodding, I took his small hand in mine and let him lead the way.

It proved to be a journey unlike any I could have imagined. Jace didn't guide me through the main thoroughfares. Instead, we squeezed through narrow gaps between buildings, scrambled over low walls, and navigated a labyrinth of back alleys before finally arriving at the baker's shop. By the time we reached it, I was thoroughly exhausted and hopelessly lost. It seemed odd that we hadn't simply taken the main streets, which surely would have been faster; Jace didn't look to be in much better shape than I was.

Before we entered, I asked him why. His answer sent a chill down my spine.

"I think I saw some bad men following you, pretty lady," he whispered. "But don't you worry! I think we lost 'em."

Viktor. Could he have noticed my absence already? He had left me largely to my own devices for the past few days, allowing me to spend ample time with Morgan.

As Jace and I stepped into the small shop, a glint of metal flashed through the air. A small knife flew directly toward him. On pure instinct, I shoved him behind me, shielding him with my own body. A white-hot, searing agony erupted in my back. A scream of pure pain tore from my throat. It was a pain beyond anything I had ever known, a new dimension of anguish for which my tolerance was utterly unprepared.

A fresh wave of agony pulsed through me as someone rushed forward and wrenched the blade from my back. They hurried Jace and me into a back room, his small hand gripping mine in a desperate, terrified clutch as he sobbed. A man, whom I presumed to be the baker—perhaps thirty years old—was apologizing profusely, his words a jumbled, panicked mess. But all I could register was the fire consuming my back. It was my entire world. Through the haze of pain, I heard Jace apologizing, explaining that the baker had threatened to kill him or call the guards if he ever returned without money.

I could guess which option the baker had chosen.

The baker scrambled out to fetch a doctor. By the time he returned with someone in tow, the room was spinning and my head felt light. The man was not Isaak. I thought I heard the baker mention how lucky we were to have found this man, who apparently "knew medicine." Not a real doctor, then. For some reason, this newcomer seemed to frighten Jace, and a terrible feeling began to creep over me. I was so tired, but I could hear Jace's small voice, begging me not to close my eyes.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" I asked him, my words slurring together.

I never heard his reply. My eyes slid shut, and I plunged into a deep, dreamless dark.

A Day Later

I awoke to absolute blackness. Beside me, I sensed the small, soft weight of a child's body. A familiar, cold dread crept up my spine. I hated the dark. Where was I? Who was this child? Then it all came rushing back—Jace. It was Jace. And Morgan. Oh, no. She must have left without me by now! Damn it!

"You awake, Pretty Lady?" Jace's sleepy voice mumbled from the shadows.

"My name is Natalia," I whispered back. "Call me Natalia." I couldn't see, but I felt sure he nodded. "Jace," I asked, my voice thick with a dawning fear, "the man the baker brought… was he one of the men who was following us?"

This time, I felt more than saw him nod again. I sighed. "I can't see you; you're going to have to speak verbally."

"What's ver-bully?"

"Close. Verbally. It means to say it out loud. So, was that man following us?"

Jace replied with a hushed "yes," and the sickness in my stomach became a certainty. We were in terrible danger. As if to confirm it, the door to our room creaked open, spilling light and a human silhouette into our dark cage. We hadn't been quiet enough.

Viktor

To say that things were not going according to plan would be a monumental understatement. His men had indeed apprehended the maid—they reported she'd been injured while rescuing some stray street rat in a bakery, a detail of no consequence to him—but Natalia, that infuriating, petulant girl, was nowhere to be found.

Not a single trace of the bratty, spoiled, irritating, and foolish girl. It was galling. A brief, spiteful thought flickered through his mind: perhaps he should just let his men have their "fun" with the maid. It would be a quiet, satisfying reprisal for Natalia's latest stunt. But he dismissed the notion. Markus was one of his few true friends, and while Viktor was certain he would accept the girl regardless, he had no desire to give his friend damaged goods.

It seemed Natalia had finally managed to escape. He was, in fact, shocked that she would simply abandon her friend. He supposed their bond wasn't as strong as she pretended, despite all their talk of being like sisters. Or perhaps the maid was merely at the bakery to procure supplies and knew Natalia's whereabouts. That was a distinct possibility. If so, it would be a simple matter to use the maid as bait and set a trap.

He would have to retrieve the girl himself, then. He would prefer not to dirty his hands with such a task, but it would be useful if Natalia believed he cared for her friends. Another string to pull, another piece of leverage to exploit.

Once she was back in his grasp, the foolish girl would have to be shackled. It was clear now that he had given her far too much freedom. He had noted her vulnerability—her fear of the dark—on the day of the storm that had brought her to his world. Perhaps he would remove the torches and fires from her room again. Perhaps he would move her to a chamber adjoining his own. It was obvious he needed to watch her much, much more closely.

One of the men he had dispatched to abduct the maid entered the room, his face pale. He reported to Viktor that something had gone horribly wrong with the plan.