The diamond earring caught the light, scattering a hundred tiny rainbows across the velvet display case. It was exquisite, flawless, and utterly worthless. Lurelle Veilstorm sighed, the sound was like a plume of expensive perfume in the dusty air of her shop. Explosives and Ether, those were the new currencies on the black market. Few had the desire for expensive accessories these days. Weapons will be next, she thought, making a mental note. Better start stocking up.

  She ran the city’s largest, and only, pawn shop, though she insisted on calling it a jewelry store. To be fair, she had an obscene amount of jewelry. It was the last thing of value most citizens had left to sell, and almost no one ever came to buy. The legitimate side of her business was sinking, and the weight of it was a physical ache in her shoulders. She could only hope Elodie Petalcrest’s ridiculous grand ball might spur some last-minute demand for a necklace or two.

  That reminded her, she needed to follow up with Miss Poppy. The family’s former maid was a genius with a needle and thread, but she kept fobbing Lurelle off, claiming she was too busy with some secret project for Archana. A dressmaker who refused to make dresses. It was just another irritation in a week full of them.

  The worst part had been the Ether. She’d had it, right here in her hands—a small, priceless nugget of the shimmering substance. The score of a lifetime. And then Electra Vicinage had swept in, all righteous fury and official business, confiscating it on the grounds that it was "stolen from the Tanzanights." Lurelle had wanted to laugh in her face. Half the items in this shop were stolen; it was the entire business model. But the price she’d paid for that stone had been astronomical, and now a fresh wave of financial trouble was cresting on the horizon.

  She hated the thought of going to Elara for more funds. Her older sister had provided the initial capital for this store, just as she had for Mirena’s arena. Elara never let her forget it, either, always reminding her how the bloody spectacle of the arena yielded a much higher return than her quiet, sophisticated little shop.

  What Elara failed to appreciate was the store’s true function. Lurelle’s shop was the discreet, beating heart of the city’s high society. It was the only place a stolen heirloom could be moved, a delicate ecosystem she and her sister, Chief of Police Justine Veilstorm, carefully curated. If a stolen item belonged to a Noble Family, a quiet call was made, the thief was arrested, and the item was returned. Everything else was fair game. The city needed a certain level of crime, after all, to justify Justine’s high police budget. And if any competitor dared to open another pawn shop? Another call to Justine, and they’d be shut down for code violations before their sign was even up.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The arrangement was an open secret among the nobles, a convenience most were happy to turn a blind eye to. It also served as an excellent tool for keeping the sisterless in their place. Ambition from the lower classes was a weed to be pulled. When a sisterless had recently tried to open a cinema without a noble partner, Lurelle had arranged for the fire mage, Pyrea, to pay it a little visit. The silly girl had even stayed to watch the flames, forcing Justine’s hand. An arrest had to be made, of course. Appearances had to be maintained.

  There was one exception: Lady Constance. Not a noble, but she had the ear of Elodie Petalcrest herself. As part of her advisory fee, she’d been allowed to buy out the main market, on the condition she kept the rents low for the vendors. A shrewd political move. But Lurelle had seen the ambition burning in Constance’s eyes. She was overreaching. And Lurelle could hardly wait for the day the order finally came down from Elara or Elodie to bring that woman crashing back to earth.

  Lurelle was polishing a silver locket, lost in the satisfying fantasy of Lady Constance's downfall, when the bell above the door chimed, a sharp, intrusive sound. She looked up, her practiced, welcoming smile freezing on her face.

  Blaze Reddington stood there, a living legend framed in the doorway. Her hair was a cascade of brilliant blonde, long and beautiful, but her face was carved from something hard and unforgiving. It was a face that promised violence, a face that no man, if any were left, would ever have the courage to approach. Flanking her were two girls. One was a nervous-looking waif Lurelle vaguely recognized. The other was Pyrea.

  Lurelle’s heart gave a little jolt. She focused her attention on Blaze, deliberately avoiding the fire mage’s gaze.

  "Blaze," Lurelle said, her voice a smooth, silken purr. "An unexpected pleasure. What brings the city's greatest champion to my humble little shop?"

  Blaze didn't smile. She strode to the counter, her movements economical and precise. "I need a gun for her," she said, nodding towards the nervous girl, who was holding a pet raccoon.

  "Something simple, reliable."

  Lurelle reached under the counter, her hands moving with practiced ease. She pulled out a heavy, well-oiled revolver and placed it on the velvet cloth. "My last one. Ammunition is extra."

  "Fine," Blaze said, pushing a small pouch of coins across the counter without looking at it. "And for her?" She gestured to Pyrea.

  Lurelle finally chanced a glance at the fire mage. Pyrea’s eyes were narrowed, a spark of resentment burning within them. Lurelle cleared her throat, her business-like composure feeling suddenly fragile. "And what does the little arsonist require? A box of matches?"

  Blaze Reddington laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that was more terrifying than a threat. "No," she said, her eyes locking with Lurelle's, a dangerous glint in their depths.

  "For her, I need explosives. Have any?"