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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Song of Oestend Sample

  Other books by A.M. Sexton and Marie Sexton

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  Davlova: Book One

  A.M. Sexton

  RELEASE

  Davlova: Book One

  Copyright © 2014, Marie Sexton

  Editing by Karin Story

  Cover art by Reese Dante

  http://mariesexton.net

  EBooks are not transferable. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictionally and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Published in the United States of America by Marie Sexton at Smashwords, June, 2014

  EBook ISBN: 978-0-9914153-3-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9914153-4-2

  Acknowledgements

  This book took me nearly two years to write and practically killed me in the process, so it's not surprising that I had a great deal of help from a great many people.

  Heidi, Troy, Sarah, Annabeth, Gia, Rowan, Kristen, and my husband all read it somewhere along the way. (There were probably others, too. I apologize if I missed you.)

  I want to thank them for taking time out of their day to assist me.

  I want to thank ZAM for helping me make a critical decision.

  I want to thank Karin and Kelly for helping whip the final draft into shape.

  I also want to give an extra large "thank you" to Carter for helping me brainstorm the solution to my last sticky little plot problem, for listening to my incessant whining, and (especially) for pushing me on through the end.

  You probably wouldn't be holding this book in your hand (or reading it on your device) if it weren't for him.

  Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Festival was always a lucrative day for thieves. The rich tattooed folks descended from their hillside townhouses to celebrate in the plazas of Davlova, mixing with us lowborns as if they were doing us a favor. Blood ran hot and beer ran cold, and as the sun worked its way across the turquoise sky, opportunities bloomed like wildflowers in the gardens of the temples. The pureborns thought they owned the city, but down here, they were nothing but easy prey.

  Clan children worked the crowd—begging, pickpocketing, spotting marks for their older peers. Anzhéla’s clan was out in force, but we preferred the alleys to the streets. Deep in the shadowy places between the towering buildings of Davlova, many a man lost his purse or his life. Many a girl lost her chastity, although usually not on purpose. Opportunities were seized. Fortunes made. Of course, in order to take full advantage, a man must be willing to get his hands dirty.

  Or his knees.

  The man who’d led me into the alley this time stank of onions and pussy. I wasn’t the first whore he’d paid today. I hoped for the woman’s sake he’d been a bit more sober when she’d had her turn. Whether it was the alcohol or because he didn’t like what I was doing, I didn’t know, but it took longer than it should have. My knees were sore and my jaw aching by the time he gave up his load.

  I watched him stagger back toward the street, zipping his pants over his fat belly and whistling through his teeth, too drunk to step around the piles of shit in the alley. I didn’t bother to follow. I always made them pay in advance, partly because I’d learned the hard way how impossible it could be to get money out of a flat after he’d come, but also because it gave me a chance to see from where the mark pulled his money. And while I was on my knees with his cock in my mouth and his hands in my hair, I could usually get a pretty good feel for how fat that wallet was, too. This guy was loaded. A scrap of purple fabric peeked out from his back pocket, signaling the location of his wallet, marking him for my clan.

  You have no idea how much that blow job will end up costing you.

  His purse was still secure in his pocket, but not for long. It wouldn’t do to have him walk right out of the alley and find it missing, because then he’d know it was me. All he’d have to do was grab one of the city guards and point him my way. Our crew’s method insured that he’d never know who’d taken his money. But over the course of the afternoon, one of them would find him. They’d wait until he used his wallet one more time, then they’d sidle up behind him and lift it, smooth as silk.

  And the money I’d made here in the alley? That was mine to keep. The pickpocketed wallet and its contents would go to Anzhéla, but she didn’t begrudge us a bit of personal business on the side.

  I wiped my face, trying to rid myself of the smell of him and the woman he’d fucked earlier that day, but it clung to my skin. Even the rot-and-piss reek of the alley couldn’t seem to beat it.

  “Sir, can you spare a penny?”

  I turned to find a young boy, his small, dirty hand outstretched. He was probably less than five years old and thinner than any kid his age should be. His stomach was beginning to balloon from starvation. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone in that regard. Not here in the trenches.

  I sighed inwardly and glanced around, scanning the nooks and recessed doorways around us, searching for more wretches. It was possible he had friends. Even if he didn’t, there might be other beggars nearby. If I gave to one of them, they’d all be on me. I had little enough as it was. But the only person I saw was deeper in the alley, bundled in a blanket between two tottering piles of trash, either sleeping or dead.

  I looked back at the boy, who watched me with huge eyes. There was always a chance he was playing me, working for a clan. But no. A trained beggar would have seen my hesitation. He would have pushed his advantage. Or, better yet, he would have turned on the waterworks and started to cry. But this boy didn’t. He wasn’t expecting me to help him. He looked beaten.

  When it was adults, I could ignore them. But it was harder with kids. Maybe because I’d once been him.

  I scrounged in my pocket and came up with a bit of iron.

  “Here.” I laid it in his palm.

  “Thank you, sir—”

  “I’m no sir. Listen, you know the old theatre, down past Roxy Lane?”

  He cocked his head, thinking. Meanwhile, the coin was still in his hand, his arm held out in front of him. He’d be an easy mark for any clan kid. But not once he became one himself. Then he’d learn. “Is that the building with the monsters on top?”

  “That’s the one. Go down there. Hang out around front for a while. See what happens.”

  He was confused by that, but it was as much as I’d do. Sure, I could have taken him there myself. But there were dozens of other kids on the streets who hadn’t found clans yet. Maybe hundreds. And jus
t as many who were already working for a crew. Even Anzhéla couldn’t save them all.

  I finally emerged from the cool shadows of the alley into the bright noise of the festival. Jabin was waiting for me on the other side of the street. We didn’t speak, but I flashed him the sign that meant all was good. He touched his hat brim in acknowledgment and went back to working the crowd.

  On the surface, this year’s festival seemed like any other. The temperature was soaring. The white bricks paving the streets were hot enough to cook griddlecakes. The plaza was an open oven, buzzing with flies, clogged with people, reeking of sweat and ale and the sausages sold by fat, greasy vendors. Pureborn women in ornate dresses shooed their children through the crowd. Slaves and servants shuffled behind. The husbands stood in clumps, smoking foreign cigars and laughing loudly at private jokes.

  What the tattooed fools didn’t seem to notice was the undercurrent of hatred and resentment that simmered beneath their noses. The angry remarks from merchants. The hostility of the whores. The grumblings everywhere that we lived in filth and squalor because these privileged bastards liked it that way. The plaza had been swept clean of refuse and horseshit for the festival, but it was littered with bright yellow squares of paper, like oversized confetti. If any pureborn had bothered to read what those leaflets said, they would have fled back behind their wall and locked the gates. They would have doubled the guard. They certainly wouldn’t have been so arrogant, or so obvious in their disdain.

  Half an hour and two wallets later, I spotted Jabin again. He was leaning against a wall in the shade, watching me with an intensity that meant he wanted to talk. That surprised me. Jabin and I often watched each other’s backs as we worked, but we preferred to work singly.

  As I edged my way through the crowd to stand next to him, he pulled a fag out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “You read one yet?”

  I didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. “Of course.”

  “These rich fucks have no idea, do they?”

  “Probably not.” The festival was the only day of the year when money from the hill made its way into the trenches in any kind of volume. Whoever was printing those fliers thought it was time we did something about that imbalance. More and more often, the masked men in yellow robes stood on street corners, preaching against the hill and the Council who ruled Davlova. When they’d first appeared a year ago, folks had laughed at the idea of a revolution. But food and jobs had become scarcer. Thieves were more prevalent, and the worst of them wore the uniforms of the city guard. Nobody laughed about rebellion much these days.

  I pulled a lighter out of my pocket, flicked it open and sparked it to life. Only flint and a thumbwheel, so it didn’t fall under the ban against technology. I held the flame out toward Jabin so he could duck his head toward it. This was all just cover. It was a risk talking to me where anybody could see us, and the cig gave us an excuse to talk, although we’d keep it brief. The first rule of Anzhéla’s clan was, don’t get caught. The second rule was, don’t get caught together.

  “What’s up?” I asked as I snapped the lighter shut.

  He leaned back against the building and blew smoke. “The boss needs to see you. Word’s out. Chop-chop.”

  “It’s still early. Lots of wallets to lift.”

  He shrugged again and flicked ash. “I’m only the messenger.”

  So through the crowd I went, chop-chop, like Jabin had said. Anzhéla didn’t often send word onto the streets. It was safer to wait until we all drifted home. My curiosity was piqued, although not so much that I didn’t take a few minutes to liberate a couple of fat wallets from their drunken owners on my way. No alley tricks this time. No marks for the clan. Just a quick lift as I pushed my way past. After all, wouldn’t want to let my skills get rusty.

  I watched the alleys as I passed, alert for other thieves or members of rival clans hidden in the shadows of buildings or trashcans. The plaza was open territory, but here in the trenches, walking on the wrong side of the street could be cause for a fight. I kept my hand near the knife at my hip. But luck was with me. Or maybe it was only that all the thieves were working closer to the festival. I saw plenty of desperate people, but none who seemed keen to test me.

  I was relieved when I finally made it to Roxy Lane.

  Anzhéla ran her crew from a theatre. They even put on shows. That’s how good of a front it was. Of course her little clan of pickpockets was only one tiny piece of her puzzle. I’d been working for her since I was ten. Nearly thirteen years, and I was only now learning how broad her reach was. Anzhéla was a powerful woman, whether the fools on the hill knew it or not.

  The boy I’d sent this direction earlier that morning was asleep outside the door, curled in the shadows against the cool brick. I nudged him with my toe, and he came instantly awake.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I hadn’t intended to be the one to bring him in, but there was no point in leaving him outside, now that I was back. “Follow me.”

  I didn’t go through the front door of headquarters. Frey would have beaten me up one side and down the other if I’d been so stupid. I went past the building, feeling as always that the gargoyles on top were waiting to pounce on me if I looked up. I slid under the fence of a run-down hostel, then through a gate and behind a thorny rose bush that never bloomed. I lifted a drain grate that didn’t actually cover a drain. I had the kid go first, then followed behind, sliding down a narrow tunnel into a cellar. From there, I walked through an unlit, dirt-floored corridor, and finally I knocked our code onto a plain wood door—one, three, one—asking admittance.

  Our den was all but deserted this time of day. The kid guarding the door was the only person I saw. I left the new boy with him and made my way alone through the cramped quarters of our den to the tiny room at the end of the hall. I climbed a short ladder to a trapdoor in the ceiling. I knocked the code again. Got a heavy thump in return, which meant the coast wasn’t clear. I waited, shifting in my boots. Now that I was off the street, down in the safety of my home, I suddenly had to pee. Not only that, but the smell of my mark’s previous whore, still all over my face, seemed stronger than ever. I resisted the urge to knock again. I knew better.

  Eventually the trap door opened, and a hand I recognized as Frey’s—all those heavy silver rings on the long, graceful fingers—descended through the opening to help me up. I emerged into a dark storage space, staring into Frey’s humorless eyes. We were somewhere behind and to the right of the stage. Muffled music drifted through the walls.

  “Took you long enough,” I said to Frey.

  “Fuck you,” he replied. He even though I knew well enough there was no cock between his legs, just like I knew he wore a cloth wrapped around his chest to hide the breasts with which birth had cursed him. Frey had been born Freyja, but I’d seen what happened to flats fool enough to remind Frey of that fact.

  “Why are you guarding the door?” Usually somebody lower in our strange little hierarchy did that.

  “Everybody else is working the festival.” Frey flicked his hand across his forehead. It was a gesture left over from his days as a woman, when he’d pushed his long hair from his face. Now it was shorn within an inch of his skull, even though that meant revealing the strange bald spots behind his right ear that hinted at a neural implant.

  I’d never had the balls to ask about that.

  “I got word Anzhéla wanted me.”

  Frey hooked a ringed thumb over his shoulder. “She’s waiting for you in her office.”

  I stopped in the bathroom on my way, partly to empty my bladder, partly to clean up a bit. Kids new to the clan might show up in front of Anzhéla smelling like a street whore, but the woman had saved my life more times than I could count. I opted to show her a bit more respect than that. I scrubbed my face and hands and used a bit of water to tame my unruly hair where it had escaped from its queue. Finally, I made my way to the room on the second floor that had once ser
ved as a projection room, before the ban. Now, it was Anzhéla’s office.

  No need for secret knocks and subterfuge here. Nobody who wasn’t trustworthy would have made it this far. I knocked only to let her know I’d arrived, but walked in before she could call out a greeting.

  “I hear you need me.”

  One might expect the head of one of Davlova’s biggest crime syndicates to be big and tough. One would have been wrong. Anzhéla looked like some kind of nymph, a few years past the bloom of her youth. She had thick dark hair, just starting to go grey at the temples, and tiny hands. Huge beaded hoops hung from her ears. She smiled when she saw me and leaned back in her chair to prop her booted feet up on her desk. “Got a job for you.”

  “I was already doing a job.”

  She wrinkled her freckled nose at me to let me know what she thought of that. Never mind that it was all for her. She had plenty of kids to work the streets. Apparently, this was bigger. “Talia needs a whore.”

  “I thought Talia had whores.”

  “She needs you.”

  “I’m not a whore.”

  “You are now.”

  I sat down in the chair across from her, a chair I’d sat in a thousand times, and tried to think through what she needed. Yes, I turned tricks from time to time, but I’d never really considered myself a whore. I was a thief who knew how to take full advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves. There was a difference, no matter how small. I always had the final say in who I served and who I didn’t. And Anzhéla had never told me it was something I had to do. Never.

  “Talia has whores,” I said again. “A whole house of them. That’s why they call it a whorehouse.”