The pull in Makun's chest had grown from a string into a rope, thick and insistent, dragging him through the narrow streets of Old Town. This is it. I can feel it.
He followed it deeper into the maze of cobblestone alleys. Old buildings leaned over the streets like old men sharing secrets, and the spiritual energy here was thick, the translucent particles floating through the air like snow that never settled. The streets were empty apart from the odd drunk or late-shift worker, and Makun kept his eyes down as he passed them. Don't draw attention. Not tonight.
In one doorway a homeless man slept among empty bottles. As Makun walked by, one of the bottles rolled straight into his path; his foot caught it, and he stumbled and only just caught himself on the wall. Even here. Even now. Then he noticed the man's shopping cart. One of its wheels had broken off and lay exactly where his next step would have landed. If he hadn't tripped on the bottle, he would have come down on that wheel and probably twisted his ankle.
His bad luck had just protected him from worse luck. That's a new one.
At 11:32 he turned down a street where the pull felt strongest, and twenty steps in he hit a dead end, a blank brick wall. The pull vanished as if someone had cut the rope. He swore and backtracked, trying to find it again, but there was nothing except the faint ache in his skull and particles that seemed dimmer than before.
By 12:23 panic was creeping up his throat. The market ran until four, but what if he never found it at all? This was his only lead, his only chance to understand what was happening to him. He closed his eyes and tried to focus the way he had in his apartment. Don't think. Feel. The particles were still there, drifting like dust in sunlight, and when he reached for them with whatever sense was growing in him, he felt the difference again: some drifted at random, and some moved with purpose.
Follow the ones with purpose.
He opened his eyes and let the energy choose the route instead of the streets. It led him two blocks over, then left, then right into an alley so narrow his shoulders nearly brushed both walls, and the rope came back stronger than before.
At 12:41 the alley opened onto a small, old plaza with cobblestones worn smooth and a fountain in the middle that hadn't run in years. There was nothing else. This can't be right. Yet the energy here was so thick it was almost visible, swirling around the plaza like a slow tornado.
Makun stepped into it, and the world shifted. It wasn't dramatic, just enough to make his stomach drop, as if the ground had tilted by a degree or two. The fountain was running now, clear water catching light from lamps that hadn't been there a second earlier. And there were people, hooded figures standing in the shadows around the edges, talking quietly, carrying bags and baskets and objects he couldn't make out from where he stood.
The market. His heart hammered. I found it. I actually found it.
He took a step toward the nearest group.
"Stop."
The voice came from directly behind him, and he spun around. A tall figure in dark clothes stood at the mouth of the alley, wearing a silver mask over half its face. Geometric patterns were etched into the metal, and they seemed to move whenever he wasn't looking straight at them.
"Who are you?" The voice was neither male nor female, strangely processed, as if it were coming through water.
"I—" Makun's mouth went dry. "I'm looking for information."
"Everyone here is looking for information." The masked figure stepped closer. "The question is whether you belong here."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Can you see the market?"
Makun glanced around at the hooded figures, the running fountain, the lamps throwing warm light on weathered stone. "Yes."
"Can you see me?"
"Obviously."
The figure tilted its head. "Many people walk through this plaza at night. Most see empty space and a broken fountain, and they keep walking. You stopped. You can see. But can you pay?"
"Pay for what?"
"Entry. Knowledge. Safety. Whatever the market asks." The lamplight slid across the mask. "Everything here has a price. If you aren't prepared to pay it, this place is not for you."
Makun thought of Zuri's warnings and the list folded in his pocket. Silver jewelry. He couldn't see any jewelry, but the mask was silver; maybe that counted. Eye contact. The mask hid half the face, but the eyes were visible, dark and fixed on his. Questions about bloodline. The figure hadn't asked about his family. Zuri's list, it seemed, was already earning its keep.
"What kind of price?"
"That depends on what you want." The figure stepped aside and gestured toward the plaza. "Entry is free for your first few visits. After a couple of weeks, you pay. But once you are inside, you play by our rules. Understood?"
"What rules?"
"No violence. No theft. No questions about real names or addresses, unless the other person offers them. Payment in full before services are rendered, unless both sides agree otherwise. And if you cannot pay"—the voice dropped—"you leave. Immediately."
Makun turned the rules over and understood how they really worked. Nothing physically stopped you from asking someone's name or address; it was the other person who decided whether to report you, and if they did, you were in trouble. So you only asked when you were sure they would answer.
He nodded. "I understand."
The masked figure studied him a moment longer, then stepped fully aside. "Welcome to the Night Market, newcomer. Try not to get consumed."
The moment Makun crossed some invisible threshold, the energy changed and turned electric, like the air before a thunderstorm, and he saw that the hooded figures weren't simply standing around. They were doing business. Stalls that had been invisible from the entrance were everywhere now: wooden tables, cloth-covered booths, blankets on the ground with objects laid out in careful patterns.
And the objects were unlike anything he had seen.
A woman sold bottles of every size, each glowing a different color, with handwritten labels: Childhood Wonder. First Love. Mother's Lullaby. She was haggling with a customer over a small vial marked Wedding Day.
"Three years off your natural lifespan," she said. "Final offer."
"Two," the customer countered. "It's only a partial memory."
"Two years and six months. The memory includes emotional resonance."
They shook hands. The customer's hair turned a shade grayer, and the woman handed over the bottle.
They're trading memories. Actual memories. What could anyone use them for? The feelings, the information, or something else they gained from them? Zuri had said practitioners traded anything that helped them along their Route, so somehow memories must help.
At the next stall an old man sat behind a table of jewelry that wasn't quite jewelry. A necklace of silver links crawled across the cloth like a snake, rings changed color as Makun watched, and a bracelet hummed with music he could barely hear.
"Protection charms," the old man said, noticing his attention. "Luck enhancers. Spiritual shields. What's your poison?"
"I'm just looking."
The man's eyes sharpened. "First time?"
Makun nodded.
"A word of advice. Don't just look. Someone will think you're casing the place. Buy something small or move along."
"What do you recommend?" Makun asked, looking over a table full of things that made no sense to him.
The old man reached under the table and brought out a plain copper bracelet. "Basic spiritual awareness. Helps you sense when something supernatural is focused on you. Fifty dollars."
"What's the catch?"
"Smart question. No catch. It's entry level, like training wheels." He leaned forward. "But I can see you've got bigger problems than basic awareness. Something's been feeding on you for a long time."
The word sent ice through Makun's veins. Feeding. Eaten. It was what the presence had told him, in fewer words. "How can you tell?"
"Your spiritual signature. I can barely feel it. It's depleted, drained, like someone's been siphoning off your life force for years." The old man's face turned serious, and for a moment he seemed to be looking at something much further away than Makun. "I've walked a lot of markets in a lot of cities, boy. Far from this one." Then his eyes came back. "That isn't random bad luck, boy. Someone's been farming you."
"What kind of person does something like that?" Makun asked, beginning his hunt for information.
"Anyone with the skill. A rival. An enemy. Someone who wanted to keep you weak while they harvested what you had." The old man studied him more closely. "But you're awake now. Which means either the farmer is dead, or the harvest is ready."
Makun's hands began to shake. "Ready for what?"
"Collection."