Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
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Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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It turned out that dinner duty was the art of finding food in local dumpsters they could reheat in the microwave or on the sandwich press. Mason assured me the fare was surprisingly fresh; restaurants often loaded entire trash bags with whatever didn't sell that day, typically sandwiches and pastries, as they were reluctant to ruin their reputations by serving stale goods the next morning.
I peered into the first bag they hauled up. It was a lot of carbs and sugar, but not much protein or fresh produce. One look at the squished mass of ham and cheese croissants had me pulling out Chance Nightshade's company card and punching numbers into Mason's phone. A local Indian restaurant picked up and I asked for two of every main dish and an obscene amount of naan bread. I paid in advance over the phone and was told to pick it up in an hour.
Mason didn't say anything out loud, but I could read the question in his dark eyes. "Perks of a high risk job," I said with a shrug, shoving my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans.
The children were ecstatic at the thought of a hot, fresh meal, practically bouncing off the brick walls. We decided to go for a walk to burn off that energy, wandering through a concrete jungle of grimy, trash-strewn gutters and breathtaking street art. It felt good to stretch my legs after being cooped up in Colden's cottage for so long. My body was starting to feel lighter, surer as the remnants of the sedative gradually wore off.
The air was thick with the sweet rot of rubbish bins put out for collection in the morning, underlaid by the bitter, low-riding smoke churning out from fluted chimneys, smothering the stars. The smell was oddly reminiscent of burnt toast, even popcorn at times, and Mason explained it was coming from the coffee roasters. When I asked how that worked, he shrugged and told me to ask Isaac when we got back; apparently he loved to talk people's ear off about all the different varieties and blends, though he rarely indulged in a cup, preferring to dedicate his money to things everyone in the community could use.
"Left or right?" Mason asked as we came to an intersection. One side boasted gloomy backstreets, while the other led to the main road. It was neon and lively, people spilling out of bars and onto the sidewalk, talking about everything and nothing as smoke spiralled from their nostrils and nonsense spilled from their mouths.
"Left," I muttered. It was a Friday night, and this was not a place for children.
The hybrids obeyed without question, chasing each other into the wan light of the street lamps. One of them found an abandoned shopping trolley upside-down on the nature strip and they started pushing each other down the road.
"Good choice," Mason said, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he started down the path.
I was beginning to notice Mason had a frustrating habit of deferring judgement. Even back in the warehouse, he'd only played a supportive role while I took charge of the medical emergency, content to wait for Isaac to wake up (or stop pretending to sleep) and make the real calls.
