by Amanda Foody
She smiled weakly. They were, in more ways than one.
As he opened the door to leave, she asked, “What were you talking to Sedric about? I saw you speaking earlier, in the Tropps Room.”
He paused and looked back at her for a moment, his expression perfectly blank.
“Nothing,” he said. “We were only talking about a card game.”
Before Enne could ask another question, Levi was already closing the door behind him.
DAY TWO
“If you must visit, reader, then I implore you: remain only on the South Side. Do not cross the Brint. Do not believe their smiles. Do not stray into their lairs. Or you may never come out.”
—The City of Sin, a Guidebook: Where To Go and Where Not To
LEVI
In an abandoned park in Old Towne, Jac Mardlin leaned against a wrought iron fence, his newsboy cap tilted down over his face. A briny morning mist hung in the air from last night’s rain. Everything was dark; it was perpetually dark in Olde Town. The buildings were made of glossy black stone, their spires and archways casting barbed shadows into the alleys. It all looked and smelled like a grotto.
Jac was a mere silhouette in the mist, still and quiet.
Levi might not have recognized him if not for the signature gray aura encircling his friend’s body. It was light and smelled of linen, and Levi felt himself relax from its familiarity, like returning home after a long day.
Levi tapped him on the shoulder, and Jac opened one eye. It was gray. Everything about Jac seemed gray and colorless, except for the red card tattoos on his arms and the faded scars beside them.
“’Lo, Levi.” He yawned and crossed his heart.
“Long night?”
“I had a shift.” Jac worked as a bouncer at a gambling den called the Hound’s Tooth a few blocks from St. Morse. The den’s owner was one of the Irons’ oldest clients.
Unlike the other gangs, which operated on crime and on New Reynes’s constant appetite for sin of all sorts, the Irons appealed to only a single vice: greed. They worked as contractors. Every few months, Levi selected a new gambling establishment and promised the owner that, if they hired his kids, he could raise their profits by 20 percent in three months. First, Levi brought in the card dealers, his expert cheats. Then he brought in the bouncers, the actors, the bartenders. He could sweeten every pot and rig every game—he had his consulting down to an art—and all he asked for in return was 15 percent of any growth. It was a deal very few could refuse.
“You look like you had a long night, too,” Jac said.
Levi rubbed his eyes wearily. He’d lain awake for hours last night, replaying his vision from the black-and-white hallway, revisiting the moment he’d held Enne and promised her he’d do the impossible. Then, around five in the morning, he’d pounded on Vianca’s door to let her know exactly what he thought about Enne’s new permanent position in her empire, only to learn that Vianca was gone for the day. Out of town at some monarchist rally, preparing for a hopeless campaign for the November senate election. Typical.
“Sedric Torren brought me a gift last night,” Levi explained. He probably shouldn’t have said it—worries had a way of undoing his friend—but he needed to tell someone. He hadn’t told Enne last night. Hadn’t had a chance to tell Vianca this morning. And he needed some of the burden lifted off his shoulders.
“I wouldn’t accept a gift from the Torrens if it was a kilovolt tied with a ribbon,” Jac said seriously. “What did Sedric give you?”
Levi pulled the Shadow Card out of his pocket. Jac paled, then snatched it from Levi’s hands and turned it over, running his thumb across the metallic silver back. “This is some serious muck. He didn’t...he didn’t invite you, did—”
“No. It’s a warning.” The invitation card was the Fool, not the Tower. And invitation was a misnomer: the Fool card warned you of your upcoming execution. Upcoming as in immediately.
“A warning about what?”
“The investments. He said I have ten days.” Nine days now.
“Ten days?” Jac croaked. “You... You’ll think of something. You always do.”
Jac had always had too much faith in Levi, starting from the first day they’d met. Levi had been twelve, crouched in an alley off Tropps Street. He’d worn all black and kept his face covered—as was the signature look of Veil, a legend of the North Side and Levi’s hero—and he’d dealt out a deck of cards, goading passersby with a game of fifty-fifty chances. But no one had stopped. They’d all recognized him and his cons by then.
“How would you like to make a hundred volts today?” Levi had asked Jac as he walked by. Even then, Jac was big. Not tall—he’d never been tall—but in his shoulders, in his build. The sort of strong that could’ve been concealed. He looked like a card Levi might want up his sleeve.
Jac tapped Levi’s near-empty orb jar with his boot. “That’s big talk.”
“I aimed low.”
They’d earned two hundred volts, and they’d spent them all in one night, feasting and drinking at a lousy cabaret. So they met up again the next day. Soon it was every day, a new place, new con, new spoils. It lasted for one year, until Levi met Vianca, and Jac met a drug called Lullaby.
“Did you get a...vision or something?” Jac whispered. “Ain’t the Shadow Cards supposed to be jinxed?”
“Nah, nothing like that,” Levi lied, because Jac was already pulling out his Creed, the necklace he wore that was a symbol of the old Faith. Not many believed anymore; the Mizers had perpetuated its stories for their own gain, and, after the Revolution, the wigheads had declared the Faith illegal. If Levi told Jac about the hallway and the graveyard, Jac wouldn’t sleep for a week, and he’d spend the next few days quoting Levi verses from some text Jac couldn’t even read himself.
Jac rubbed the Creed—which looked like an intricate knot in the shape of a diamond—between his fingers.
“Speaking of warnings, do we have anything to give to Chez?” Jac asked. “More than, you know, the usual?” Lately, the usual hadn’t been much. Levi could manage to give him and the other Irons only the minimum at the last few weekly meetings.
“We don’t collect from the dens for a few more days,” Levi reminded Jac. It was the only excuse he could offer.
Ever since the investment scam began to crumble, Levi hadn’t been able to run the Irons like he used to, and they were falling apart. The minimum wasn’t going to cut it much longer. It wasn’t enough. And it killed him.
Membership in a gang was more than a simple contract: it was an oath. Once you swore to a lord, they had power over you. Nothing unbreakable, like an omerta, but a power that carried orders down a chain of command and prevented the gang’s circle of trust from being violated. There was magic to an oath, and even if Levi didn’t understand it, he respected it. Everyone on the streets did.
They’d sworn Levi their loyalty, and he’d promised them more. If not greatness, if not wealth, then at least roofs over their heads and dinner in their stomachs.
Enne had given him one thousand volts last night, volts she thought were going to help the Irons. And Levi wished they were, but he needed them. They brought him one thousand volts closer to paying Sedric. He’d be no good to the Irons if he was dead.
Nine more days. All he needed was to survive the next nine days. Then the Irons would go back to being the richest gang in the city. Then Levi could finally give his kids what they deserved.
Levi checked his watch. “We need to get going.”
Jac walked beside him, his shoulders slumped with weariness. “You haven’t said anything about that missy you were with yesterday. N-something.”
Levi would rather not involve Jac in all that muck, not if he could help it. The monarchists were a dangerous lot. “I got her a job at St. Morse.”
Guilt simmered in his stomach as he remembered where exactly
that job had led Enne. He had admittedly thought her a bit snobbish when they first met, but he wouldn’t wish Vianca’s omerta on anyone. Had he even suspected Vianca would take interest in Enne that way, he would never have brought her near St. Morse.
You were supposed to help me! she’d yelled at him. You told me to trust you!
Levi had failed her in the worst way. At the start, finding Alfero for her had been a way to save himself, and since Sedric had given him a Shadow Card, it meant salvation now more than ever. But since last night, it was also more than that—it was about Enne’s forgiveness. It was about making things right.
He’d originally thought Enne wouldn’t last more than a night in New Reynes, but he’d been wrong about her. Sedric had terrified Levi down to his very core, and Enne—Enne—had poisoned him, the wolf of the North Side, and she felt remorseless. No, she wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
Jac snorted. “A job doing what?”
“I told Vianca she was an acrobat.”
“Think you could get me a free ticket to their next show? I need a good laugh.” Jac kicked an empty beer bottle across the street. It clunked loudly—too loudly. This section of Olde Town was lifeless except for them.
Then footsteps thumped through the silence. Chez strutted out from the alley next to the old church, Mansi following close behind. Chez was scowling, which had lately become as permanent a feature of his face as his protruding brow bone and sharp sliver of a nose. He saluted Levi, quickly and haphazardly.
Mansi, however, brightened the moment she saw him and didn’t hesitate to cross herself. Like most kids in the North Side, Mansi took the laws of the streets seriously. Every rule. Every myth.
She looks skinny, Levi thought. Skinnier than usual.
He sighed. He was so tired, in his body as much as his soul. It exhausted him, carrying all this guilt. If all his failures were a sea, then he was drowning, and the omerta was the ball and chain dragging him down to rock bottom.
“’Lo,” Levi greeted them.
“Where were you last night?” Chez demanded. “Either of you?”
“Working, same as we both have every Saturday for the past year,” Levi grunted. Chez already knew this. “Why? What did we miss?” That was a question that, as the Iron Lord, he should never have had to ask.
“A run-in with the Scarhands,” Mansi blurted. Her gaze shifted wildly from Levi to Chez.
“What?” Levi growled. He would’ve never sanctioned such a brawl. Nor would Reymond. But street law had more power than the lords, in the end. Besides, Levi’s history with Reymond wasn’t common knowledge outside of this circle. The other Irons would view it as a breach of loyalty—Chez certainly did.
“Where was this?” Jac asked sharply.
“Near Revolution Bridge.” Not far from the border between Iron and Scar Lands.
“Was anyone hurt?” Levi asked, searching Mansi for scratches and bruises but, thankfully, found none.
“One of our rats pulled a knife but didn’t get a chance to use it,” Chez answered, his chest puffed out. “Scavenger had it coming.”
“Someone pulled a knife on Jonas?” Levi couldn’t imagine which of his kids was that thick. Jonas was the deadliest agent in the Scarhands. He’d even killed a Dove once.
“Will Reymond be upset? Didn’t mean to anger your missy, Pup,” Chez said, then instantly froze.
Both Jac’s and Mansi’s mouths fell open. It took everything Levi had not to cringe, to remind himself that he didn’t deserve this.
He was meant for more than this.
Levi slowly slid his knife out of his jacket. Not the smart one Vianca paid for, but the one with the rusted handle he’d used in the old days.
Chez eyed the knife but didn’t move. Levi flipped it a few times in the air as he walked toward him, and the blade’s edge twirled around Levi’s fingers with deadly finesse. Chez wasn’t the only one who could show off.
“It was a joke. You gonna gut me?” Chez said it more like a dare than a question, but they both knew that this was more than that. Six months ago, these comments were a joke.
Now they were a threat. To Levi’s power. To his pride.
Levi didn’t know how far he would go, but, oh, that knife felt good in his hand. Reymond or Ivory would’ve never allowed their third to talk to them like that. But Levi had sworn long ago he wouldn’t be like Reymond or Ivory. He wanted glory, not fear.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Levi could gut Chez, or simply kick him out. He’d need to replace him with someone else who could relay Levi’s orders to the other Irons—Jac couldn’t do all that himself. Mansi would run to the edge of the world and back for Levi, but she was only thirteen—how would it look if the third of the Irons was just a kid? The other gangs thought Levi was just a kid. If he made Mansi his third, they’d think he was a punch line.
He hated to admit it, but he needed Chez—at least until he got Sedric his payment and could focus on the Irons again. Or maybe Chez would grow more tolerable after that. He used to be better, before he’d decided the Irons’ problems were his responsibility, not Levi’s.
They’d been friends, once.
It all came back to respect, in the end. Levi would rather earn his respect at the card table than demand it at gunpoint. But it was Reymond who had once told him that respect and fear were two sides of the same card. Since it had come this far, Levi needed to play his hand.
He placed the edge of the blade against Chez’s throat. Chez went rigid. He didn’t dare to breathe. But he didn’t fight back, either. He didn’t think Levi would truly hurt him.
Levi barely recognized his own voice as he growled, “I could gut you.” Beside him, Mansi’s eyes widened with uncertainty. It was a look Levi wouldn’t soon forget.
“Oh, is that how you’re playing now?” Chez rasped.
“The question is how you’re playing,” Levi hissed. “What makes a lord isn’t the bravest, the smartest or the first person to whip out a knife. It’s the one who earns the volts and keeps everyone alive. No one else can lead like me.”
Levi felt the wisps of Jac’s aura grazing his shoulder, as if trying to calm him. Jac probably didn’t even realize his aura was doing it. Levi knew he wasn’t acting like himself; the Iron Lord didn’t have a reputation for pressing knives to his subordinates’ throats. But this was the hand he’d been dealt. He didn’t know how else to play it.
“The Irons have more volt flow than any other gang in New Reynes, thanks to me,” Levi continued.
“Maybe once,” Chez challenged. “Not anymore.”
“This is temporary. Give me nine days, and I’m going to solve all our problems.”
Chez’s eyebrows furrowed. “What comes after nine days?”
My freedom, Levi thought, although that wasn’t entirely true. In nine days, if he did manage to pay back Sedric, he’d be free of the investment scheme. But he’d never be free of Vianca. When all this was over, she’d just give him a new assignment, a new way to get himself killed and put volts in her pocket.
But maybe not. This was by far the worst job he’d ever done for her. She wouldn’t demand such risk from him next time. He hated how much he was under her power, how he had to cling to the hope that next time, she’d take pity on him. That next time, she’d show compassion.
You’re her bitch, Reymond had said yesterday. He’d been joking—Reymond was always joking—but it’d stung.
Levi was and always had been the Iron Lord, and it was time that meant something again.
“Our paycheck comes after nine days,” Levi answered. This wasn’t a lie; once the scheme was over, Levi could pay the Irons what the Irons were actually earning again. They were still the richest gang in the city, even if no one but him and Jac knew it.
“From now on,” Levi commanded, dropping his knife and stepping back from Chez, “if you’re thinkin
g about pulling a knife on another gang, you clear it with me.”
Chez’s eyes narrowed. Levi could tell he was debating whether to challenge that order. Chez was coming awfully close to learning the truth of it: that Levi was stealing from his own gang. But it wasn’t that simple, and Levi wouldn’t do it if he didn’t need to. He loved the Irons, but he wasn’t sure he loved anything enough to die for it. Not when the problem was so close to vanishing.
Much to Levi’s relief, Chez nodded. Mansi nodded even more fervently, beaming with the kind of loyalty that made Levi’s stomach hurt. He didn’t deserve it.
Only Jac failed to react. He was exceptionally gray and still and quiet, even for him. It made Levi uneasy.
“Any other news to share?” Levi demanded. “Any questions?”
Chez shook his head.
“Then maybe we can get on with our meeting.”
Levi pulled out the bag of orbs in his pocket and handed them out. As the third, Chez was responsible for distributing the shares to the other Irons.
Chez didn’t waste any time. He pulled his meter out of his pocket and counted the volts, as if Levi would sting his own crew to their faces. “We need more,” Chez said, “for the dealers taking more shifts. They’re pulling extra weight, and they could use the volts.”
“We don’t collect from the dens for a few more days,” Levi said, echoing the excuse he’d given Jac earlier. “I would if I could.” He was tired of those words. Even if they were the truth, they felt like a lie. He could always do something more, give something else. Except, this time, he was truly out of options.
Chez’s eyes narrowed. “There should be more. Where are the other volts going? Where are the extra shares from last week?”
The extra shares were now in the whiteboot captain’s pocket.
“There weren’t any,” Levi said, swallowing his guilt.
It’s not supposed to be this way, he thought.
“But things are going to change,” Levi swore. “Real soon. In fact, an opportunity has come up, and I have a favor to ask both of you because of it.” Mansi nodded enthusiastically, but Chez didn’t respond. As always, he looked skeptical. Levi supposed Chez had little reason to believe him anymore. His word didn’t hold much value these days, and Chez needed more than promises from him—he needed action. “I’m looking for information about someone called Lourdes Alfero.”
