After a tough week at the black market, I’d planned to spend the weekend with my father. Mine was a familiar name on the streets by that time. I was nineteen years old the day my life changed. He didn’t know that I belonged with them. He wouldn’t have understood if I’d told him why I spent my time with criminals. He thought I was an assistant at an oxygen bar, a badly paid but legal occupation.
There were six of us in his direct employ. My boss was a man named Jaxon Hall, the mime- lord responsible for the I-4 area. I was a mollisher, the protégée of a mime-lord. Pushed to the edge of society, we were forced into crime to prosper. All part of a citadel-wide syndicate headed by the Underlord. I worked among ruthless gangs of voyants, all willing to floor each other to survive.
My father thought I would lead a simple life that I was bright but unambitious, complacent with whatever work life threw at me.įrom the age of sixteen I had worked in the criminal underworld of Scion London-SciLo, as we called it on the streets. There were plenty of jobs in the service industry. It was expected of young men and women to scratch out a living wherever they could, which was usually behind a counter of one sort or another. I attended a private school for girls, leaving at sixteen to work. I had lived in that part of London that used to be called Islington since I was eight. Some of us know, and we never get caught. We live in a way you might consider normal, provided you don’t look too hard. In many ways, we are like every- one else. Not outside of fantasy, and even that’s blacklisted. We are the minority the world does not accept. I like to imagine there were more of us in the beginning.
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