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  Zayn placed the items in a row. He moved them around like letters on a Scrabble bench, trying to conjure ideas from them. He had a lot of practice repurposing back in Varna, since their home was a couple of shipping containers stacked on top of each other. His family lovingly called it the Stack.

  When an idea came to him, Zayn got right to work. He made an origami crown from the newspaper, something he'd learned from his younger siblings, the twins: Izzy and Max. Then he painted his dark skin, his boxers, the newspaper crown, and the table leg with the gold paint. Covering his face without damaging his eyes was the hard part, but he put tape over the lensless glasses to make them an eye guard as he sprayed.

  He found a good spot in the park near a mermaid fountain. He set the bucket on the ground and made himself into the Statue of Liberty, holding the gold table leg like the torch.

  Within a few minutes, a handful of change had been thrown into the bucket.

  "Thank you," he said after the man, then remembered that he was supposed to be silent, and gave him a wink for good measure. A little later, an old woman wearing too much perfume with a gray cat on a leash threw a few coins at his feet. The hefty feline had long gray fur and marched like a bulldog.

  The first few hours were relatively easy. Zayn was able to keep his muscles absolutely still and the change came quickly, but as the day wore on, so did his muscles. By the afternoon, he could barely keep his arm up and had to switch hands frequently before the shaking hit.

  Zayn was so lost in trying to tame his muscles, he didn't notice the ratty brown terrier until the hot stream of urine hit his leg.

  "No! Bad dog!"

  The terrier hurried away, but it was too late. Zayn moved to the fountain, splashing water on his leg to clean off the dog urine.

  "I didn't realize those living statue assholes were allowed to move," said a rough voice from behind him.

  "That must mean he's not one of them, which means this pretty little blue bucket is fair game," said a second voice.

  Zayn glanced over his shoulder to find four young men around his age standing near his bucket. The second speaker, the one who'd put a claim on his money, had a patchy beard and was scrawny pale, as if he'd spent the last three years in his parents' basement. The other three were variations on the same, but they clearly thought of the fourth as their leader as they watched him squat down and rattle his hand around in the bucket as if he were fishing for minnows in a pond.

  But Patchy was watching Zayn, waiting for a reaction. There was something about the guy that bothered Zayn, and not because he was about to rob him. He had the look of someone who was holding back a dangerous secret, one that he would gladly reveal if Zayn was willing to push back. Given that it was the city of sorcery, and that it had the highest concentration of supernatural creatures and mages in the world, Zayn felt it would be unwise to assume he was a normal human.

  Not that four guys couldn't knock the crap out of him with ease anyway, as he wasn't supposed to use magic for the challenge. But he couldn't stand giving up the money he'd earned and would need for whatever test this was, and he wouldn't put it past the Academy to be the ones behind this gang.

  Letting his southern accent thicken his words, as there was no use hiding where he was from, Zayn said, "Maybe it's the paint I've been sniffing all day, but you boys look dumb enough to drown in a desert."

  Within half a breath, they'd surrounded him. He heard the telltale click of a switchblade opening.

  The guy with the patchy beard put his finger against Zayn's chest. "You might want to rethink your words, country boy."

  The blade pressed against his side, leaving no doubt about the danger. There were a lot of things he could do in the situation, but running wasn't one of them because he'd come to the Hundred Halls to save his family from the Lady of Varna. But he had to do a lot of things before he could confront the Lady: the first thing on his task list was to convince a couple of fuzz-faced gang members not to put a switchblade deep into his guts.

  Despite the precariousness of his situation, he wasn't "knocked a hornet's nest off a branch" kind of worried, maybe just the "big fat horsefly perched on his arm" kind. He'd been in worse situations. His Uncle Jesse's funeral came to mind, and in a way, the best part of that day were the bruises and the cracked ribs.

  Chapter Three

  Varna, October 2007

  Even a bad day can always get worse

  Zayn had never wanted to have his ribs kicked in by the Clovis brothers, but sometimes these things had a way of happening, especially when his cousin Keelan was involved. It didn't help that Keelan had just lost his dad, and while Uncle Jesse was a garbage person, you only got one father, and you had to make do with what you had.

  His parents had sent him after Keelan when he disappeared from the trailer. Zayn was relieved it wasn't the middle of summer, since he was tromping through the Alabama forest.

  The sound of a rock hitting metal echoed through the vine-choked trees, which meant that Keelan was nearby, but Zayn wasn't about to call out and chance him running again. It was bad enough that they were supposed to be at Uncle Jesse's funeral in an hour.

  The woods, which stretched from the trailer park to the old plantation road, was the place people dumped their old junk to rot in the Alabama heat. Which meant that Keelan could be throwing rocks against just about anything. A couple of years ago they'd found an old wood-paneled station wagon with the windows still intact. They'd planned to come back the next day with slingshots and knock the windows out, but they could never find it again.

  Luck was on his side today, and Zayn found Keelan in a patch of sunlight, side-arming rocks against a cluster of old metal barrels. The way the barrels absorbed some of the impact suggested they were half full of oil or some other waste material. Probably from the Varnation Garage.

  Zayn watched his cousin for a moment before speaking. Keelan was a year younger, but already taller and wider in the shoulders. The high school football coach was already trying to recruit Keelan as a running back. People often confused them for brothers, though Keelan's skin was lighter like his father's. Jesse liked to say they were like two bullets in a chamber, firing off one after another, causing trouble.

  But as close as they were, both socially and physically, Zayn knew they were different inside. And he knew that one day that might come between them.

  "You pitch like a drunk falling over," said Zayn, leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing.

  Keelan turned around in his brown suit that Aunt Lydia had bought him with the donation from the Lady. It wasn't a Goodwill suit like Zayn's. They'd gone into Selma and picked it up from a store in the mall.

  His eyes were puffy and red. Keelan could barely stand, making little correction steps and shaking his head as if he were having an argument.

  "And you look like an ice zombie banged your mother," said Keelan, and though it was a joke he'd told a hundred times about Zayn's ice-blue eye color, this time it came out with a streak of meanness.

  "Everyone's at the trailer," said Zayn. "And Doc said he can't wait forever to take us to the funeral home and back. He's got a junk pickup at three."

  "Tell them to leave without me," said Keelan, launching another rock. It went straight over the barrels, crashing into the trees.

  "That would break your momma's heart, you know that," said Zayn. "And things are tough enough after her surgery."

  With fists at his sides, Keelan said, "I don't know why we gotta go to his funeral. He got himself killed and now we gotta pay the price."

  Keelan wiped his nose with the back of his coat jacket, which hung disheveled on his broad frame. His cousin looked like a person ripped apart and then put back together with safety pins and glue.

  "I can go back and tell them I couldn't find you if that's what you want," said Zayn. "But you really want that on you? You know Aunt Lydia holds a grudge like a banker does gold. You know when she's making you pancakes, she'll pour you syrup and be all like, here's
some syrup, son, you know I love you even though you didn't come to your daddy's funeral."

  "But his body ain't in the damn casket," said Keelan, a thread of desperation in his voice. "We're gonna say our respects over an empty hole."

  Zayn gave him the side eye. "You think that's gonna stop her?"

  Keelan shook his head exhaustedly. "No. You're right. If I don't go, it'll be a lifetime of hearing about it. I don't think I could take that."

  They walked back towards the trailer park. Keelan was quiet, and Zayn let him be that way. They passed a giant tangled web stretched between two trees with a purple-veined spider crouched at the top. They gave the web and spider a wide berth.

  "I hate this damn place," said Keelan, glaring at the spider. "Someday I'll leave it."

  Zayn hushed his cousin. "Don't be stupid, you never know if she's listening."

  Keelan raised his voice towards the spider. "What does it matter? She knows we all hate this place."

  He raised his arm to throw the rock in his fist, but Zayn grabbed him around the wrist. "We got trouble enough for one day."

  When they were far enough away from the web, Keelan muttered, "I do wanna leave."

  "So do I," said Zayn, taking a speculative glance behind him. "But that ain't the way it works. Not unless you want to work for her, and then, you're even less free than you were before."

  There was a strangled realization in Keelan's brown eyes, a little loose and off, as if he were a rat drowning at the bottom of a well, claws scraping at the smooth stone walls.

  They came out of the woods near Route N, a quarter mile down from the trailer park, behind the Varnation Garage. Across the lonely road was the Clovis Diner. There were three trucks and five motorcycles in the gravel parking lot.

  Keelan threw the stone in his hand against the brick wall of the garage. The impact made hardly any noise, but suddenly three of the Clovis boys were there.

  The town of Varna was like any other town in Alabama. It had the Haves, the Have-Nots, and the ones trying to move from the second group to the first. The Clovis family were members of the last group, as the father was a deputy in the local police force. The Clovis boys had names, but nobody called them by those. He was thankful that Big Clovis wasn't there, but Mean, Rock, and Wheezer would be trouble enough. Mean was only a freshman running back at Varna High, but playing on the varsity squad.

  "You two fairy lovers holding a dinner party in the woods?" asked Mean.

  Zayn put his hand on Keelan's arm. "We're heading to his dad's funeral."

  He hoped that was enough to defuse the situation, but Wheezer spat out a mouthful of brown tobacco juice and said, "Shit, son. You mean the Lady letting him have one after all that ruckus?"

  "Shut up, Wheezer," said Mean. "If it's your daddy's funeral, why you out in the woods? What you hiding, fairy boys?"

  "We ain't lying," said Zayn. "Just letting off a little steam, and we got lost on the way back."

  Mean's forehead knotted. He glanced at his brothers. "I think you two are bullshitting me. And you know what they say about bullshitters."

  Under his breath so only Keelan could hear, Zayn said, "You like to eat what we speak."

  Normally this would have gotten a reaction out of Keelan—a smirk or a light snort—but he kept staring straight ahead at Mean as if he were waiting for the firing squad to get it over with.

  "You got something to say?" Mean asked Zayn, to which he shook his head. "Anyway, as I was saying, you can't bullshit a bullshitter. Now, I don't know why you all dressed up in the middle of the forest, but I know you lying to me. The Lady don't give funerals to traitors. But since I don't know what you been up to, I think we should tell the Goon about that dumb bastard Keelan throwing a rock against his garage. The Goon probably not like that. And since the Goon is one of the Lady's favorites, maybe we gotta teach you a lesson for him."

  Zayn checked with his cousin, who was dangerously quiet.

  "Mean, please. I'm not lying. You can come with us. Everyone's waiting at my Aunt Lydia's trailer."

  As soon as he mentioned his Aunt Lydia, Mean's eyes lit up like a searchlight. He had a leering grin.

  "That one-armed bitch? She was hot before the Lady took her arm, but I'd love to get a piece of that action now," said Mean.

  For a brief moment, Zayn thought that Keelan wasn't going to react. He went calm, his body completely relaxing as if he were lying on a bed of soft grass. This confused the Clovis brothers too, as if they'd expected Keelan to act right away. But then Keelan shot out like an arrow at Mean. He caught him with a right hook under the chin, and the bigger kid went down.

  Zayn didn't hesitate, throwing himself at Rock before he could get to his cousin. His fist connected with Rock's elbow, and then he lost track of the comings and goings of the fight, as he was outweighed and outnumbered.

  When Zayn looked over next, Mean was on top of Keelan, pounding away at his face with two hammer-like fists. This sight was brief, as Wheezer kicked Zayn right in the gut, exploding the air from his lungs like a bellows.

  Completely defenseless on the ground, Zayn thought things were going to get worse until he heard another voice. The Clovis brothers climbed off them and disappeared. Keelan ran off too, back into the woods, as Zayn wiped blood and gravel dust from his eyes.

  He found himself looking into the face of the Goon, who was leaning against his garage in a straw cowboy hat. He was one of those people that either looked fifteen or fifty, never in between, and had stayed that way for as long as anyone had known him.

  "That cousin of yours is gonna get you killed," said the Goon.

  "His dad's dead," said Zayn, trying to rub the life back into his lower jaw.

  "And his momma had her arm taken, all because they were stupid. The Lady is not cruel, but she does not brook with traitors," said the Goon. "And what the hell is picking a fight with boys that can whoop you gonna do about a dead father?"

  "I don't know, I didn't start the fight," said Zayn.

  "But you got yourself in the middle of it, just the same. Like I said, he's gonna get you killed. I've seen boys like that, and deep down inside they know there's only one end for them, and they be rushing headlong to get there," said the Goon.

  "What should I have done then?" asked Zayn, realizing that his good pants were ripped at the seams on his right leg, and his good shirt had blood all over it.

  "That's for you to figure out, but everybody wants something. Your cousin, he got what he wanted. So did the Clovis boys. What did you get out of it? A dumbassed beating?" asked the Goon.

  "Why do you care?" asked Zayn.

  "Because you're a smart boy, Zayn Carter," said the Goon.

  "Keelan's smart too. He gets straight A's," said Zayn, a little bewildered that the Goon knew his name. It was like opening up a history book and finding your picture inside.

  "I always liked your parents. Maceo and Sela. Smart in ways most people don't get." The Goon glanced over his shoulder as if he had somewhere to be. "If you ever want to work some odd jobs, make some extra money for your family—I know you could use it—come see me."

  "I appreciate the offer, but no thank you," said Zayn.

  "If you change your mind, the offer stands," said the Goon, who tipped his straw hat, and headed across the street towards the diner.

  With Keelan fled back into the woods, Zayn dusted himself off and started the lonely walk back to the trailer park where his Aunt Lydia lived. He prepared a story about falling down the culvert when he was out looking for his cousin. He knew the adults wouldn't believe it, but they wouldn't say anything either. Zayn was busy thinking about what the Goon had said about the fight, and how everyone had gotten something out of it but him.

  He hated when someone pointed something out to him that he hadn't already figured out himself. But he wasn't too proud not to take his advice to heart, especially in Varna, where to be too stubborn was to court death herself.

  Chapter Four

  Tenth Ward, Se
ptember 2013

  How not to make friends and still influence people

  The key to a good con was to make sure the mark was focused on anything but what you really wanted. This wasn't the best of circumstances for Zayn—painted gold and wearing nothing but his boxers—and he hadn't a lick of planning, but the Goon had told him more than once that he'd taken to improvisation like Coltrane did to jazz.

  The tip of the switchblade pierced Zayn's side, letting a bead of blood form against his gold skin. Having survived a few beatings in his younger years, Zayn was acquainted with the looks one received before they started, and this gang of young men, only slightly older than him, would not hesitate to leave him bleeding against the mermaid fountain.

  When Zayn opened his mouth again, he spoke to them as if they were acquaintances working out a business deal.

  "I take it you fine gentlemen have never been noodling," he said.

  Patchy frowned, eyes creasing with the decision: do we stab this guy or let him talk? His friends seemed more curious than angry, but they weren't the ones he had to convince.

  "What the hell you talking about, country boy?" asked Patchy.

  "Noodling is when you dive down into cool river waters, searching for a nice hole to shove your hand in," said Zayn, holding his hand up as a fist. This display brought tension but no action, yet.

  When no one stabbed or punched him, he continued, "The goal to this seemingly inexplicable action is that sometimes, big river fish like to hide in these holes, waiting with their wide mouths for little fish to come rest, and when that moment comes, they snap down"—Zayn squeezed his fist for effect—"and that little fish joins the bones in the big fish's belly."

  "Where you going with this, country boy? You think you're the big fish and we're the little fish?" asked Patchy.

  "No," said Zayn, imbuing that word with warmth and support. "No, you are neither the big fish or the little fish. Like I said at the beginning, when you dive down to the bottom of the river, holding your breath like the world gonna end, and shove your fist into a hole, you're hoping there's a big fish in that hole and that you shove your fist right down its gullet."