“Eli Whitman,” a woman snaps at me. Beside her, a man is holding Pressa firmly by her arms.
It’s the tense look on Pressa’s face that chills me.
“You funding this race with counterfeits?” the woman asks me. As she does, she tosses Pressa’s envelope of corras to the ground.
“Counterfeits?” I manage to say.
Pressa shakes her head. “I didn’t know they were counterfeits,” she argues. “They were approved right at the window! Your own guy held them up to the light. Someone’s framing us.”
But the woman just glares at her. “This race is forfeit,” she announces. A roar erupts from the stands—outraged gamblers who’d bet on me, smug viewers who’d lost money on the race. “You need to repay in real corras right now, plus double for a penalty.”
Pressa glances at me, warning me to stay out of this, before folding her arms across her chest and looking at the woman. “And if not?” she says.
“Did I say that was an option?” the woman asks, and the man grabs Pressa’s arms, pulling them back so hard that she screams.
“Hell on earth!” my friend spits out. “I didn’t know they were damn counterfeits! Let me go, and I’ll get you your real money, I swear it. Or cut it from our winnings. We all know who won tonight.”
They don’t look amused by her words. For an instant, I think about bringing up my own bank account—but anything I send them down here will be tracked to my real identity. They won’t accept something that isn’t untraceable cash. “Come on,” I start to say to the man and woman. “She already said she didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’ll withdraw from the race, okay? Let her go. We’ll come back with the money in an hour.”
Pressa curses at me. Her eyes are wide with anger. “Shut up, Eden,” she snaps. “I’ll handle this. Don’t withdraw!”
But they’re not listening to either of us anymore. The man starts dragging Pressa away—and in his hand, I see the glint of something sharp and metallic. Ice grips my heart in a vise. They’re going to kill her. Already, the audience—excited at the thought of blood—have risen to their feet, their shouts reaching a fever pitch.
“I can pay,” I start to shout. Even though I don’t know what I’d do to stop them, I lunge forward, ready to yank Pressa out of their arms if I have to. “I can pay!” I say again. “I have the money in my account. I just need a way to get it to you untraced. Please, I—”
Then, without warning, the plaza goes quiet. It’s as if a switch just turned everyone off.
The woman and man halt too. Pressa blinks, as confused as everyone else. I look around, trying to understand what has just happened.
Everyone has stopped to stare at a figure that has appeared from one of the other halls with several men on either side of him. He waves them off. Then he’s walking toward us, and as he goes, anyone around him quickly steps aside, lowering their eyes.
The figure is a man, and at first glance he doesn’t seem like much to look at. He is slender, even delicate, and young, his skin so pale it catches the red hue of the bulbs overhead, his hair thick and midnight black. His suit’s perfectly tailored and neatly pressed. He moves with surgical grace. His gaze is fixed easily on me, but there is something about his expression that makes me shrink instinctively away.
I can sense the way this man’s presence tightens a noose around the air, the way it makes the entire audience just a little bit tenser. This is someone that everyone here fears. Pressa and I exchange a quick, uncertain glance.
The man nods at me. “I’ll be this boy’s patron,” he says, his gaze going from my backpack to my face. “So I suggest you start preparing for the finals tomorrow night.”
My first impression of him is that he seems too young to have such an effect on everyone else around him.
I mean, my brother is Daniel—I know what it looks like for a young person to be revered. But this is different. This guy isn’t that much older than Daniel, but the ripple of his presence through the crowd almost feels like a living thing.
He stops in front of me and nods now, extending his hand. His expression seems kindly, almost fatherly. “That was an excellent race,” he says. “Your drone is impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, not knowing what else to do.
When I take his extended hand and shake it, he leans in close to me. “Your name’s not Eli Whitman, is it?” he whispers.
A shiver of terror crawls down my spine even as I try to lie. “It is,” I say.
“Don’t be afraid,” he adds. “I’m not saying this as a threat. If we’re going to work together, we need to trust each other. Right?”
Then he leans back and, before I can respond, smiles and raises his voice so that those around us can hear. “Let the girl go,” he says, nodding at Pressa.
The man holding her back releases her immediately and steps away. Just like that. It’s such an instinctive reaction that I could swear it was as if the newcomer could control his mind.
Pressa rubs at her wrists as she glances quizzically at my patron. He folds his hands behind his back in the silence. “I’m going to cover the ten thousand corras for this young racer,” he announces, repeating his vow so that everyone can hear. “To me, it’s beyond a doubt that he won this race. Does anyone question it?”
Just a few moments earlier, everyone had been up in arms about my win. Boos had filled the square. But now the silence is deafening. No one even dares to look directly our way. They just glance at their neighbors and then down at the ground.
He smiles briefly. “Good,” he says before looking back at me. There’s a rasp to his voice that reverberates from deep in his chest, the kind of sound indicative of some long-festering condition. “You’ll be paid for your first win,” he says to me. “As your patron, I’ll take my share from what you’ve earned.”
As soon as he says this, someone steps forward and motions for me to stretch out my hand. I do as he says, then look on in stunned silence while he counts out a thick wad of cash into my hand, an amount directly proportional to how much of a long shot a bet on me was. I look down at my hand, numb.
One hundred thousand corras.
Beside me, Pressa stares in shock at the amount. Neither one of us has seen this much money all together in our lives. Not even Daniel gets paid like this.
The man seems pleased with my reaction. “I think we’re done with this race.” He holds a hand out in front of him, suggesting that we take a brief walk together. Already, everyone around us has made a wide berth for us to pass. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
My instincts tingle with warning and confusion. I don’t know what to make of him. All I know is that he may have just saved Pressa’s life, and mine too. “Sure,” I say as we both fall into step with him. He guides us down one of the alleys branching into the plaza. Everyone makes a deliberate point to ignore us.
“What should I call you?” I ask the man when we’re somewhat alone in the alley.
“That depends,” he answers with a small smile. “What should I call you? Because you’re not Eli.” He glances at Pressa. “You, I’ve seen at the races before. Pressa, is it? Your father runs an apothecary in the center of the Undercity. Hardworking man.” He nods respectfully, and Pressa’s lips twitch with a surprised smile.