by Amanda Foody
Jac didn’t actually think he could have felt worse, but now he did. “Very eloquent. You have a real way with words, you know that?” he snapped. “But you missed the last bit you meant to say. The ‘we’re doomed’ part.”
She half smiled, the sort of expression that told Jac there was an element of truth to his joke. “You know how they say this city is a game? Well, I always felt like I was surrounded by players. My bosses at the Orphan Guild, my brothers, and now Enne... I’m the sort of person who watches from the outskirts of the story. Who hopefully lives to tell the story.”
“I get that,” Jac said, and he did. At least up until the point about living to tell the story. He’d honestly never been quite so optimistic.
“So when are you going to this place? Liver Shot?” Lola asked. “Tonight?”
“No, it’s a Thursday. If I wait until tomorrow, it’ll be busier, and my chances of talking to the right people will be better. I have a few volts. I’ll stay at a hostel.” He could save his volts and go back to Levi’s, but he didn’t think he had it in him to face his friend a second time.
Lola checked the expensive watch she’d stolen from him. “I have to meet Enne soon. I...” She bit her lip.
“You know, I only told you because I thought you of all people wouldn’t worry about me,” Jac said.
She punched him in the arm. “Of course I’ll worry about you, muckhead.”
Jac smirked. “That didn’t hurt much. You won’t jaywalk. You’ve got no strength. No wonder you collect all those knives—how else would you convince people to fear you?”
She scowled. “I have my methods.”
Jac wondered why someone like Lola would stay in New Reynes. When they were in the National Library a few days ago, she’d claimed she had people she cared about in this city, but as far as he could tell, she was alone. But she was smart, and she could read, and even if it was sometimes easy to forget, the world was a lot bigger than the City of Sin. And a lot kinder, too.
“If volts weren’t an issue,” he started, “if you weren’t some assistant to the Orphan Guild, if you weren’t Enne’s second... What would you be? What would you be if you could be anything?”
“A librarian,” she answered matter-of-factly.
He couldn’t help himself. He hollered. “I can’t believe you just admitted that you’re actually a softie.”
She crossed her arms. “What’s your answer, then? What would you be?”
“I don’t know,” he said. It was a depressing thought. “But thanks for coming out here. I don’t... I don’t actually have a lot of people to talk to, other than Levi. But you get things that he really doesn’t. You’re a good friend.”
“Friend.” She squinted. “That’s pushing it, don’t you think?”
“Acquaintance?” he offered.
“Better,” she said, smirking.
The two of them stood up, and she eyed him with suspicion. “You look like you’re about to hug me. I don’t like hugs.”
He held out his hand. “Fine. Acquaintances.”
She snorted and shook it. “The ones who never wanted to be players.” And with that, she gave him a final order to be careful and a wave goodbye. Jac watched her walk down the block and disappear around the corner.
He was glad he’d called her—he did feel better now, with far less of an urge to smoke, at least for a few hours.
But there was still something that bothered him. Something about the last words she’d said.
The ones who never wanted to be players.
Sure, maybe Jac had never asked to be a player.
But Lola’s words about him weren’t entirely true.
ENNE
Lola scanned Enne’s ruffled sleeves, visible even beneath her black trench coat. “That’s what you’re wearing? To meet my bosses?” Her voice was barely more than a squeak.
“I like the blue.” Enne pouted her lips and followed Lola into the Tropps Street Mole station. Though it hadn’t rained in several days, the cement steps were mysteriously and disturbingly covered in puddles, which Enne carefully avoided.
“You have a reputation now,” Lola groaned. “You have to look the part, otherwise we won’t attract the best.”
“And what attracts the best?”
Lola frowned at Enne’s necklace. “Not pearls.”
“This city thinks I killed the Chancellor. Everyone knows I killed Sedric Torren. And I did so while wearing pearls.”
“You’re in a mood,” Lola grumbled as they slid their tickets through the turnstile and followed the signs for the gold line.
Enne thought of her meeting that morning with Levi and soured further. “Maybe I am.”
They descended the steps and waited along the platform.
“If you could buy anything you wanted, what would it be?” Enne asked her.
Lola narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve just been thinking about it lately.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. It’s—”
“Only a question.” Enne leaned her head back, smiling to herself wistfully. “I bet I can guess it. You strike me as a Houssen girl. In silver? In—”
“In black,” Lola answered quickly. This was clearly a fantasy she’d already given some thought. “Are you trying to buy my contentment for some reason? Because we should really be discussing the plan for today. You said Levi would—”
“There is no plan,” Enne responded. “I’d hoped Levi would have one, but he didn’t.” Her voice dripped with resentment. At least she’d learned her lesson: if she wanted something in New Reynes, then she needed to learn to depend on herself.
The train sped its way to the platform in a rush of wind, saving Enne from having to look at Lola’s undoubtedly frustrated expression. They claimed seats in a shadowed corner of the train. Advertisements by the doors featured perfumes held by famous opera stars and prima ballerinas of the South Side, or the address of a real estate agent selling “Once in a Lifetime” properties on the up-and-coming New Reynes boardwalk.
“Then what were you and Levi doing all morning?” Lola hissed. “No, no, I don’t actually want to know.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Enne said, flushing. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”
“So that explains the mood,” Lola remarked. “Regardless, you can’t be distracted. Not today. In fact, we need to be very, very careful. I don’t like Bryce on a good day, and after what happened at the Guild, he’s distraught.” She looked around the train car nervously, as though Bryce might’ve been able to overhear. “And he’s not typically a stable person.”
The more she heard Lola speak of Bryce, the more the prospect of this meeting intimidated her. “Tell me more about the Guild?” Enne asked.
“It works like a temp agency,” Lola explained. “If you’re interested in work, Bryce will find it for you, whether it’s with the gangs or otherwise, temporary or permanent. Bryce sets the price of each guildworker based on their talents and various skills. Two thirds goes to the worker, and one third goes to him.”
“Why give a portion of your earnings to Bryce when you could find a job yourself?” Enne asked.
“Some people aren’t looking for steady work. And some places only hire from the Guild, like the Doves. Expect a lot of assassin hopefuls there.”
Enne nervously tucked her ruffles into her sleeve. Maybe everyone else’s jokes were right. Maybe she was about to be eaten alive.
Lola drummed her fingers on the metal seat. “So we have no idea how to earn an income. No idea what sort of talents we’re looking to hire. No place for them to live—”
“I want to find a place in the Ruins District,” Enne told her.
“By tonight?” Lola asked with exasperation.
“Well, I don’t want to bring them to St. Morse. Can’t they stay with you?”
“I live in a studio. I’m not hosting some would-be killer for a slumber party in six hundred square feet.”
“Who said they
have to be a would-be killer?” Enne asked.
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to find a lady,” she muttered, piquing Enne’s irritation. “I’ve convinced Bryce you’re some aspiring street lord, and so you’ll need to act like it. For starters, we need a trademark. The Irons have tattoos—”
“I already have that covered,” Enne said hotly, pulling two pairs of lacy, cream-colored gloves from her purse. “Let me guess, you hate them.”
“These are...ridiculous,” Lola sputtered with exasperation. “They’ll stain. A bit of dirt, a bit of blood—”
“Well, then,” Enne replied, her voice weary with fatigue and nerves. “Don’t get blood on them.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, as they wove through the Deadman District’s maze of alleys, Enne slipped on the black silk mask that she hadn’t worn since the Shadow Game. She and Lola walked the path side by side, dressed all in black except for the whites of their gloves and the bits of blue ruffle peeking out from Enne’s jacket. As they approached the end of the street, Enne suddenly wished she’d listened to Lola’s advice and changed her shirt.
After the attack, the Orphan Guild had relocated into what had once been called the National Prison. It was the tallest building for a mile in either direction, with a watchtower that overlooked the entire North Side. The metal gate stood open, one door broken off its hinges and leaning against the adjacent wall, the other in pieces on the ground, rusting away to nothing. The pathway inside was littered with loose barbed wire, cigarette butts, and wrappers of Tiggy’s Saltwater Taffy.
Unlike Scrap Market or Olde Town, which crawled with Scarhands and Irons, the National Prison looked vacant, a ruin from a ruined time. If they were to encounter anyone here, it would probably be the ghost of a prisoner executed within these walls, or a revolutionary who’d given their life to see the building blown apart.
Enne and Lola walked inside. There was no noise, no sign of life, except for the scurrying of a rat.
“Are you sure they’re here?” Enne whispered.
“They were this morning,” Lola answered. A crow cawed from outside. Lola jolted so much her top hat fell off, and she had to pick it up and dust it off. Even though Enne knew much of Lola’s tough exterior to be a farce, it was still strange to see her so openly on edge. “Let’s turn through here.”
A hallway spanned a hundred feet in either direction, lined with cells—most of them empty. The few occupants slept on cots or hung cheap artwork and torn pages of The Kiss & Tell in their new living quarters.
Enne had already decided she would pick a girl—she had enough male gangsters in her life. But the girls she passed were unbathed and ungroomed, slouching, stinking, with a ferocious look in their eyes. Enne had been naïve to think Lola had ever seemed frightening. She merely collected knives. These girls were knives.
Everyone looked up as they passed. Some whispered. Enne heard Séance’s name murmured behind her.
She’d seen her own wanted posters across the city, but here, she felt the effects of her reputation. And, seeing the skepticism on their faces, she already knew she wasn’t living up to it.
Lola held out her arm for Enne to stop walking. She nodded toward their right.
A young man sat in a cell, just like the rest of them.
But he was not like the rest of them.
His clothing—a white undershirt and black trousers—hung on him, an extra notch cut several inches into his belt to hold the ensemble together. His bones jutted out at unusual angles, all broad shoulders and crooked elbows and protruding hips. The way he stood, with one arm bracing him as he leaned against the wall, his head down, his other arm limp at his side, accentuated the harsh curve of his vertebrae and protrusion of his adam’s apple.
He looked starved enough to slip through the cell’s iron bars—ghostly enough to haunt the prison, not to own it.
He made no gesture to show he’d noticed them, and Lola called no greeting.
Beside him, a show played from a radio. “No,” a female actor murmured. “No, I couldn’t. What would my family think? It wouldn’t be right.”
“George knew this was the last time he’d ever see her again,” the narrator voiced. “And he knew nothing he could say would change her mind. She was meant for that six o’clock train to somewhere, just as he was meant for his father’s twelve acres of nowhere.”
“‘Dorothy,’ George said, in spite of it all, ‘Don’t leave like that. Without even saying goodbye.’”
The narrator returned. “The look Dorothy gave him was not what he expected. It was full of reluctance. The sun was rising, the train was whistling, and Dorothy had one hand on her ticket and the other fiddling with her parents’ ring on the chain around her neck. Just as the train’s whistle sounded across the tracks, he pulled her in for a kiss to make her forget all those dreams of New Reynes, to make her forget about saying goodbye.”
The Guildmaster reached over and turned the radio’s volume down. “The world isn’t like that anymore,” he mourned.
Lola rolled her eyes. “It never was.”
He looked up for the first time, giving Enne a view of his features. His eyes were black; his smile was taut. His lips were full and swollen red, matching the marks trailing across his neck and collarbone.
“No,” he said. “Dorothy stays with him, in the story. And they marry and have a child and die—tragically—of the fever. And their only child takes that six o’clock train to New Reynes, where he either becomes a victim...or he crawls to me.”
Enne flinched at the statement. The hall was silent, everyone clearly eavesdropping on their conversation, and the Guildmaster had described the workers here as little more than strays. She supposed that must truly be how he felt, for how else could he suffer a brutal attack from the whiteboots, see several of his associates murdered, and still be open for business in a new location the next day?
Looking at the Guildmaster, panic rose like bile in her throat. She’d come in the wrong clothes. She’d come without a plan. She was silly and naïve for thinking she was anything other than silly and naïve.
“I was hoping you’d come,” Bryce Balfour said to Enne. “I didn’t realize until this morning that you knew our little Lola, here.”
Anyone who described Lola as “little” or in the possessive, Enne suspected, was eager to lose several teeth. But Lola made no sign she’d heard. Although she was over eight inches taller than Enne, she seemed smaller than she ever had, her gaze fixed on the cement floor.
“She’s my second,” Enne explained. Even to herself, she sounded timid and quiet.
Bryce gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Abandoning me, blood gazer? We’ve been through so much together.”
Lola took the smallest, almost imperceptible step back. “It was time for a change.”
“You hate change.”
Lola didn’t reply.
Enne didn’t like the way Lola had gone silent, or the implication that Bryce knew her second better than she did. She cleared her throat. “Is there somewhere private we could speak?” The air here was thick with tension and stares.
“Of course.”
Bryce unplugged his radio and led them through the hallway, to the warden’s office.
A girl sat in the desk chair. She was beautiful, someone who belonged on the front page of the Guillory Street Gossip, sporting the latest designs of Regalliere or taking tea at the South Side’s trendiest salons. Instead, she was in a ruined prison, wearing a dozen strands of fake gems the color of blood and drinking murky coffee out of a tin beggar’s cup. Her hair was golden blond and hung down to her hips. Her eyes were wide-set and her face soft, like a model from an oil painting. At first, she looked like someone lost, but the keenness in her expression as she watched them enter told Enne otherwise. She was exactly where she belonged.
When Bryce arrived, she got up and kissed him so passionately that Enne flushed a shade as deep as the girl’s necklaces. The display—groping hands and
labored breaths—looked more unappealing than erotic, clearly meant to make Enne and Lola uncomfortable rather than show intimacy. Now Enne knew where the numerous marks across Bryce’s neck and chest had come from.
In a corner of the room, Harvey Gabbiano scowled. Enne recognized his corkscrew curls from the night she’d met him at the Sauterelle, when he’d used his Chainer blood talent to try to coax Enne into joining the Guild. He referred to himself as a salesperson, but Reymond had called him a poacher.
When the couple finally broke apart, Bryce said, “This is Rebecca.”
Rebecca looked Enne up and down. “I’m his partner.”
Harvey scowled a second time.
Enne watched Harvey with unease. When they’d met, she hadn’t been wearing this mask. But unlike the other members of the Guild, he showed no interest in her or any hint that he recognized her. His gaze only followed Bryce as the Guildmaster sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms.
“Can we call you something other than Séance?” Bryce asked.
“Séance is fine,” she answered, not wanting to compromise her identity. “Um, please,” she added.
Bryce gave her an odd look and scratched at the marks on his neck. “And what business have you come for?”
“I’m looking to hire a girl.”
“What sort of girl?”
“I don’t have anyone particular in mind,” she answered blandly.
“How...unusual. For a permanent position?”
“Yes.” Though, after paying Bryce his cut, she’d only have enough volts to compensate this person for two more weeks. Maybe whoever she hired could find a solution for their income predicament.
