LITMIR.BIZ

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Sorina Gomorrah,” he says.

      “You’re the gossip-worker?”

      “Among other things.”

      He stands up, adjusts his clothes and walks over. He wears the same hideous velvet vest with clockwork stitching and the same belt full of vials. He also has that black, silver-tipped walking stick leaning against the table, as if his rich-boy getup needed a finishing touch.

      He holds out his hand for me to shake.

      “I don’t remember giving you my name when we first met,” I say.

      He smiles. He has dimples. I realize, in that moment, that I really like dimples. I also realize that I’ve been holding his hand for too long, and I’m acting like a complete fool.

      I wrench my hand away. This is business. Not the time for flings. Besides, he has a beautiful prettywoman sitting right beside him, so beautiful that I try not to gape at her slender neck, gorgeously full lips and the curves of her chest. Between her perfect complexion and my lack of eyes, it’s not difficult to determine who would be Luca’s choice. And with Luca’s dimples, it’s easy to see who hers would be, as well.

      Their loss, I try to tell myself.

      Luca has very nice brown eyes. Bedroom brown eyes, an embarrassing voice in my head giggles. A voice that sounds an awful lot like Venera. I tell that voice to shut it.

      “You’re that boy whose life I saved, right?” I ask. Playing it smooth. Pretending I barely remember him—not that I did, until this moment. I’ve actively tried to forget most of the details of that night.

      “I hardly think I’d say that. I had it handled.”

      “You were about to watch your guts spill into your hands.”

      “Nothing I can’t manage.” He cocks an eyebrow and laughs. “I’m pretty durable. Quick to heal.”

      Luca’s strange healing ability was amazing to watch, but I find it difficult to believe that he would fully heal if someone stabbed him through the stomach with a sword.

      “Yelema, if you don’t mind, I’d love to discuss that customer more with you at a later date,” Luca tells the prettywoman. “I hope you enjoyed the tea. It’s a mountain-herb blend.”

      “Delicious, as always,” she says. She extends her hand, and he kisses it.

      “I don’t mean to interrupt your...” I say.

      “It’s fine. I know to leave when he has clients,” Yelema says. “Besides, I have a client of my own in an hour.” She waves as she leaves, and I ponder over her words. Perhaps Luca is more than just a client to her?

      Luca points to the chair opposite him. “Go ahead,” he says.

      I slide into the seat. “I’ve never heard of that kind of jynx-work before.”

      “Which one? The one on the sign outside? Or the one you witnessed the other day at the proprietor’s tent?”

      “The healing one. But I’ve never heard of a gossip-worker, either.”

      “Gossip-worker is simply a title,” he says.

      “Bestowed by who?”

      “By whom,” he corrects, and I grit my teeth in indignation. I already don’t like him. “And bestowed by myself. I make it my business to collect information on everyone in Gomorrah.”

      “Why?”

      “Because the people here interest me. Because I know a fortune-worker here who claims to use the same coins his ancestors did in Gomorrah over one thousand years ago. Because you’d never believe the intricacies involved in supplying constantly fresh food for an entire city that travels across the world. Because nobody dull runs away to join this place.”

      Judging by his expensive clothes, he’s probably some rich Up-Mountainer who decided to run away to Gomorrah, and he thinks himself interesting and cultured because of it. He’s not going to be much help if he was consorting with a prettywoman during business hours. Clearly he has other things on his mind.

      “Why are you here?” he asks, not impolitely. “Doesn’t Gomorrah’s princess have more important places to visit than my tent?”

      “I haven’t decided yet,” I say. I’m still curious about his healing ability, about the strange belt full of vials he wears and, if he has information on everyone in Gomorrah, whether that information could help lead me to the killer.

      As if sensing my thoughts, he unclips his belt full of vials and lays it on the table. He points to each one. “Cyanide. Arsenic. Hemlock. Nightshade. Black Maiden. Belladonna. You’re welcome to test one out.”

      “I’m not drinking hemlock.”

      He smiles the most insincere smile imaginable. His face makes the motions—his lips curl up, his eyes squint and his teeth show—but nothing about it appears genuine. Perhaps it is the performer in me, but it looks as if he has slipped on a mask that only I notice. “I meant pick one for me. I’ll drink it. Go ahead.”

      “Why would I want to poison you?” I ask, both alarmed and curious.

      “Most people seem to enjoy it. Or stabbing me through with their swords. Strangling me.” He tips the scarlet vial from side to side with his index finger. “They pay excellent money for it, attempting to kill someone who cannot die.” The vial slips off the table, and with perfect reflexes, Luca catches it inches off the floor. “I call it poison-work. Another name I’ve dubbed myself with, since I am, to my knowledge, the only poison-worker in the world.”

      “How do people know that red stuff isn’t just cranberry juice?” I ask.

      “Because I keep a collection of cockroaches on which to test out my poisons. Cockroaches are almost indestructible. Just not nearly as much as me.”

      “It’s cruel to kill cockroaches for your show,” I say. Then, to my dismay, the words keep spilling out of my mouth. “Cockroaches are actually really fascinating insects, you know. They can make decisions collectively in groups. Females can carry forty eggs at one time. And they can survive over a month without food.”

      “It’s a cruel line of work, people paying to kill you. And—” he laughs “—you are clearly more informed on cockroaches than I am.”

      So maybe Luca is good-looking, but I’m not into people that kill innocent creatures. Isn’t that something serial killers do?

      Maybe I shouldn’t have come in here by myself. Maybe those dimples of his just hide terrifying intentions.

      “Most people say they don’t believe me. Most people say my jynx-work is impossible,” he says. “You don’t seem so questioning.”

      “I’m a trusting person, I guess,” I say.

      “A dangerous thing. Is that why you’re here? To entrust me with something? It’s unusual, as I don’t get many clients from the Uphill.”

      “How can you tell I’m from the Uphill?” My clothes don’t look any different than the ones people here are wearing. Other than my mask, of course.

      “As if Villiam would allow his adopted daughter to live in the Downhill,” he says.

      I sigh inwardly. I’m not convinced he’s going to be of any help. He seems like an ass. He’s clearly an Up-Mountainer. And my gut—plus that smile of his that doesn’t look like a smile at all—tells me he’s hiding something.

      “You’re still contemplating whether or not to trust me,” he says.

      “You know too much about me. You sound like a creep.”

      “I told you—knowing about the people here is my business, the one I call gossip-work. It’s a hobby of mine when I’m not being stabbed

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