Chapter 8 8

The Bazaar was a sensory nightmare. Neon lights flickered, casting seizure-inducing strobes over the crowd. The smell was a mix of exotic spices, unwashed bodies, and ozone.

Dejah moved through the crush of people like water. She didn't bump into anyone. She anticipated their movements before they made them.

High above, Casimir leaned over the railing. "He moves like a ghost," he whispered. "Just like her."

"It's a dude," Nate said. "Look at the clothes."

"Clothes lie," Casimir said. "But the gait? The conservation of energy? That's a fingerprint."

Dejah stopped at a stall that looked like a garbage heap. It was piled high with rusted metal, old electronics, and books. The vendor was a man with an eyepatch and a hook for a hand-a cliché, but a dangerous one.

He was currently yelling at a tourist who was trying to buy a plastic amulet.

Dejah's eyes scanned the pile of rust. Her fingers twitched. The magnetic resonance was back. It was faint, buried under layers of oxidation, but it was there. A specific frequency that sang to her nerves.

She reached into a box of old screws and pulled out a coin. It was caked in green and brown crud. It looked like a flattened bottle cap.

"Put that down," the vendor growled. "Not for sale."

"Five bucks," Dejah said. Her voice was pitched lower, rougher, utilizing the chest resonance she had practiced.

"Fifty," the vendor spat. "Or get lost."

Dejah reached into her pocket. She pulled out the wad of crumpled bills she had taken from her shoe.

She held out the cash.

"I'll take it," a voice boomed from behind her.

A gloved hand reached out and pointed at the coin. An elderly man in a pristine white suit stood there, leaning on a cane. Elder Sterling.

Beside him was his grandson, Miles, looking bored and arrogant.

"Five hundred," Sterling said.

The vendor's single eye widened. He snatched the coin from Dejah's hand. "Sold! To the gentleman in white!"

Dejah didn't move. She looked at the vendor, then at Sterling.

"I had it first," she said.

Miles stepped forward. He was a head taller than Dejah. "Beat it, street rat. Do you know who this is? This is Mr. Sterling. He buys what he wants."

"I don't care if he's the Pope," Dejah said calmly. "We had a verbal contract."

Up on the balcony, Casimir grinned. "Oh, this is getting good. The kid has claws."

Sterling looked at Dejah with interest. "Why do you want a rusty piece of metal, boy?"

"Because," Dejah said, "it's not rust. It's a ferrous oxide crust protecting a core of 24-karat gold. This is a Roman Aureus. Minted in 44 BC. Specifically, the 'EID MAR' coin celebrating the assassination of Julius Caesar. The weight is exactly 8.1 grams. Gold this pure has a specific density that feels different in the hand."

The silence that followed was absolute. The vendor's hook hand trembled.

"You're lying," Miles scoffed. "It's junk."

"Check the weight," Dejah said. "Scratch the edge."

Sterling looked at the vendor. "Scratch it."

The vendor took a knife and scraped the edge of the coin. A gleam of pure, buttery gold shone through the grime.

Sterling gasped. "My god."

The vendor stared at the gold. Then greed washed over his face. A dark, ugly greed.

"Not for sale," the vendor said, pulling the coin back to his chest. "Mistake. Not for sale."