Chapter 6 · Debtors Don't Get Crowns

The crown on Ivy's wrist won't stop glowing.

She's staring at it like it bit her. Her good hand—the one that's not shaking—hovers over the mark, fingers curled like she's about to claw it off. The gold pulses in time with the mall's hum, and I can feel the sync from here. That's not supposed to happen. I didn't do that.

"Get it off." Her voice cracks. Not loud. Worse. Quiet and sharp, the kind of tone that means someone's about two seconds from doing something stupid. "Get it off me right now."

I don't have hands. I don't have a body. I'm wired into every tile and wall, and the best I can do is dim the lights so she doesn't have to look at the glow reflecting off the cracked floor. "I didn't put it there."

"Liar." She's on her feet now, backing toward the broken gate. Blood's still dripping from the cut on her palm—the one she made when she shoved her hand into that hole in the floor. The hole that wanted to eat both of us. "You said you needed help. You didn't say you'd brand me."

"It's not a brand."

"Then what is it?"