by Amanda Foody
“Whatever you need, we can assist.” Bryce snapped his fingers. “Lola, the files.”
Lola immediately responded to the order. She hurried to the file cabinet, pulled out a handful of folders, and laid them neatly across the desk. Bryce licked his fingers and perused the papers. Occasionally, he’d show one to Rebecca or Harvey, who would shake their heads or shrug. Rebecca often leaned over to stroke Bryce’s hand or play with the edges of his shirt.
Finally, he handed Lola several files. “Go fetch these girls.”
Lola took them, shot Enne a warning glance, and left the room.
Enne took the seat beside Harvey—not because she particularly liked him, but because it was the farthest position from Bryce and Rebecca. Harvey hummed a ragtime under his breath and fiddled with a Creed necklace, one that matched Jac’s, except for the set of gold keys that shared its chain.
“You called Lola your second,” Bryce said. “Do you call yourself a lord?”
If you’d like, I’m sure you can make them call you a lady.
Enne’s cheeks reddened. “Yes.”
“Do you know how many lords there have been, since the Great Street War?” Bryce rolled up his sleeves, revealing a bandage and gauze peeking beneath one. Judging from the fresh scratches below it, Enne guessed he’d sustained some sort of injury from the attack last night. When he caught her looking at it, he quickly tucked it away again.
“No,” Enne replied.
“Take a guess,” he pushed. Enne had heard enough condescension in her life to recognize it in his voice.
Harvey cleared his throat, saving her from answering. “Don’t mind us. We’re only anxious, as I’m sure you can imagine—plus it’s thanks to you that this war was called. And it’s thanks to this war that eight of our associates are dead.”
Harvey rested a hand on Enne’s shoulder. Even when his words were harsh, his tone was still warm. She had no reason to trust him, yet suddenly, she wanted to.
“Not that you’re the one to blame, of course,” he said, flashing her a gap-toothed grin.
Enne was about to respond with apologies, or explanations, or whatever else Harvey wanted to hear, but even as transfixed as she was, she didn’t miss the dark look exchanged between Harvey and the Guildmaster. Harvey immediately wrenched his hand off her and leaned away, and the spell was broken.
Enne’s skin prickled, remembering just how dangerous Harvey’s talent was. With only a touch, he could probably convince her to spill her deepest secrets. And if she ever accepted a favor from him, Enne would be forever trapped where he pleased.
Every time she thought she’d decided which of the three intimidated her the most, one of them introduced some new kind of threat.
“Courtesy,” Rebecca snapped at Harvey, clicking her tongue.
“You know he can’t help it,” Bryce told her, as though Harvey weren’t even there.
Rebecca narrowed her eyes at Harvey, then she slid her arm around Bryce possessively. Enne leaned back into her seat to avoid their mutual glares. She realized that their attempts to challenge her weren’t what made her so uncomfortable—rather, she felt trapped in the intimate squabbles of someone else’s dysfunctional home.
She sighed with relief when Lola returned. Four girls followed behind her, most old enough to be called women. Enne examined their yellowed teeth and knotted hair with uncertainty.
“All of them are looking for full-time work,” Bryce said. “A variety of talents. A runner, a wordsmith, a truthseer, and a singer.”
Lola rifled through the papers with confusion. “Why didn’t you include Talia? I thought she wanted something full-time.”
Bryce faltered, and a haunted expression crossed his face. “Talia was injured last night. She’s here.” He looked suddenly young as he spoke. There was something darker than grief in his eyes, something that Enne recognized as guilt. “But she won’t be working.”
“Well?” Rebecca asked Enne sharply. “What do you think?”
Enne snapped her gaze away from the Guildmaster. “Is this really all you have?” Enne might’ve been playing at being a real street lord, but she would’ve preferred someone a little...cleaner, at least.
“You haven’t been very specific in your request,” Harvey said flatly.
“I’ll know her when I see her,” Enne said, which she realized sounded absurd. What sort of decision-making was that? Lola scowled in the corner.
“Fine,” Rebecca sniped. She grabbed a heap of files off the desk and thrust them into Lola’s arms. For the first time since coming here, Enne’s annoyance piqued. Lola wasn’t their servant. “Let’s go find this mystery person, then.”
As the others left the warden’s office, Lola and Enne lingered behind.
“You’ve irritated them,” Lola whispered.
“I’m not sure I could’ve helped that,” Enne said. “I’ve never seen you so...submissive. Are you afraid of them?”
“Aren’t you?” Lola responded pointedly.
Enne was, and it probably showed. But now she was also irritated.
In the courtyard were close to sixty people, soaking in the warm June sunshine, playing games of backgammon or Tropps. Many of them stopped what they were doing to stare at Enne. Shoulders straightened, chests puffed out, knives danced between fingers. They were showing off, she realized. The thought bolstered her confidence.
Enne’s gaze wandered until it settled on a book. It was a romance novel by one of her favorite authors, Sadie Knightley.
The girl holding it, however, made Enne pause. Despite the summer heat, she wore black from head to toe. She had dark hair, dark eyeliner, and dark fishnet gloves. A collection of necklaces hung from her, chains and rusted nails and the largest Creed Enne had ever seen, the bottom of its knot sharpened into a blade. Her skirt was obscenely short, making her stockings more suggestive than functional—she was clearly trying to cover nothing. Unlike the other members of the Orphan Guild, she didn’t bother to vie for Enne’s attention, as her gaze was focused on the book.
“Who is that?” Enne asked.
“That’s Grace Watson,” Lola answered. “Her blood talent is counting.”
Enne considered this. A counter was exactly the sort of person who could unravel their financial problem.
“You should know,” Rebecca said, her voice smug, “Grace never does jobs as a counter, even if that’s her talent. She’s one of our most skilled blades. And her price is steep.”
Enne withered. Slumber parties with would-be assassins, indeed.
“And I’m not sure she’d want...” Rebecca’s eyes wandered to the ruffles slipping out of Enne’s trench coat, and she pursed her lips.
Enne’s caution and restraint snapped like brittle cords. The North Side had a host of unspoken rules: how criminals looked, how they talked, how they behaved. If Enne was about to become a street lord, then she could make her own rules. The City of Sin would learn that a pistol painted pink was just as lethal.
Without a word, she marched herself toward Grace. What did Enne care if Grace Watson dressed like a harlot at a funeral? If she was a killer? Enne had killed, too, and if Grace was reading a three-time award-winning romance author, she could hardly be that bad.
“That’s one of my favorites,” she told Grace, nodding at the book. “I’ve read it four times.”
Grace ripped her gaze away from the page with an annoyed expression. She squinted at Enne’s mask. “I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I’m not interested in killing your ex-boyfriend.” She glanced around the courtyard. “Are you famous or something? Why is everyone looking over?”
“I killed the Chancellor and Sedric Torren two days ago.” Unlike earlier, she now spoke clearly, confidently. Speak up, her instructors at finishing school had often snapped at her. Ladies do not mumble. Not even about murder.
Grace snorted and looked over Enne’s clothes. “
Right.” She returned to her book.
Enne mustered up every bit of frustration she’d felt over the past few days and pressed the assassin further. “I’m going to sit here.” She wedged herself between Grace’s leather boots and the bench’s railing.
Grace held the book up to her face and said nothing.
“The love interest dies at the end,” Enne told her.
“Nice try,” Grace said, sounding bored. “But I’ve read this book five times.”
“Have you read the author’s other work?”
“I’m not looking for a job right now, so you might as well stop trying.”
“I want to hire a counter.”
“How boring.” Grace licked her finger and turned the page. “Hire one of the other counters. They come much cheaper than me.”
That was undoubtedly true, but at this point, Enne was determined. Hiring Grace didn’t need to make sense anymore. She’d pay top voltage if it meant wiping the sneers off Bryce’s and Rebecca’s faces. If it meant proving to herself that she could earn the respect of anyone in the North Side.
“Tell me what it would take.”
“Hmm.” Grace smirked and drummed black-painted nails on the glossy cover of the paperback. “You can find me a licentiously rich South Side man to dote over me and cater to my every expensive whim.”
Of all the requests she could’ve made, that had been the one Enne had least expected.
Without thinking, Enne reached into her purse and removed one of Vianca’s salon invitations. She tossed it to Grace.
“Deal,” Enne said.
Grace looked over the invitation with interest. “You said the job would be boring.”
“You said that. The job will be permanent, it will involve counting, but it won’t be boring.”
Grace handed her back the invitation and returned to her book.
Enne’s stomach dropped with disappointment. She’d thought she’d managed it.
“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Grace muttered.
Enne jumped to her feet and shot the others a victorious, smug smile. While Grace slowly got up and squinted into the light, as though intimidating the sun into disappearing, Enne was already at Bryce’s side. She held out her hand to shake. “It’s a deal,” she told him.
Harvey bit his lip to suppress a grin, even as Rebecca and Bryce frowned. But Enne was no longer intimidated by them. She’d passed their tests. And she’d done it wearing pearls.
“It’s done, then,” Bryce said, and he grabbed her hand.
When their skin touched, the air around her instantly turned cold. The ghost of a thread appeared in the corner of her vision, and with it, a thousand more, much like she’d seen during the Shadow Game. Every movement and sound plucked them like eerie violin strings—all tied to Bryce’s hand.
Enne gasped and jolted away. The world, once again, grew still. She briefly wondered if she’d imagined it. Or maybe there were still reasons to fear the Guildmaster.
Bryce’s eyes widened, then the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. He raised her hand and kissed it. “It’s been a pleasure...Séance.”
LEVI
Levi straightened his tie as he waited. It was the day after his meetings with Narinder and Enne, and he’d spent all of last night in the museum, cleaning. His body ached, both from his broken ribs and from the work he’d put himself through in preparing for this moment. It was almost a good sort of hurt. His back felt stiff from sweeping; his arm muscles ached from repetitive motions. But the result of his efforts surrounded him: a clean lobby and at least two habitable rooms.
It wasn’t much—not yet. But standing there, wearing his new suit, he felt like it counted for something. For every hour spent cleaning this place, he was also paying penance for his mistakes. And he’d certainly made a lot of them.
Outside, Tock knocked on the front door, and for a brief moment, his courage faltered. He’d spent the past seven months stealing from the Irons, and even if they didn’t know that, he hadn’t faced them—all of them—in a long time.
He took a deep, shaky breath and opened the door.
Tock stood on the stoop, her arms crossed. Behind her, Levi counted about thirty heads. He didn’t recognize most of their faces, a realization that made him increasingly uncomfortable, but his eyes fell on someone familiar in the back: a thirteen-year-old girl with bobbed black hair and ruby earrings.
Mansi.
She wasn’t looking at him or the museum, just at the ground. The last time they’d faced each other, Mansi had watched as Chez Phillips nearly killed him.
Levi plastered on a smile, trying not to let his feelings of inadequacy faze him. All his confidence from the past few days shriveled away, as he watched his gang inspect the remnants of his wounds with uncertainty. He needed their loyalty—not just because the streets had turned more dangerous, or because of his ambitions, or because of his promise to Harrison Augustine...but because he had failed so many times, and he needed to believe he could really change.
And for their loyalty, he needed to put on a show.
“I know times have been hard lately. We’ve been putting in the work, but we’ve had nothing to show for it.” Levi slapped the marble of the doorframe. “Today your fortune has come.”
Some of them frowned, staring up at the museum. Admittedly, it still looked a mess from the outside, and it was probably best they keep it that way—let the place continue to appear abandoned. But most of the Irons kept their gazes fixed on Levi.
He stepped aside, letting them pass. They gathered at the foot of the grand staircase, staring in awe at the gleaming white steps and some empty, broken frames Levi had found and glued back together. Levi circled around them, careful to conceal his subtle limp.
“You might notice the frames are empty,” he said, his voice practiced, like a tour guide. “But this place will be a museum no longer. We aren’t here to memorialize history—we’re here to make it.”
They stared at him blankly. He was getting ahead of himself. Tock stood behind the group, smirking, and Levi wished Jac was here to support him. Tock might’ve come through on her responsibilities to round up his gang, but she definitely took pleasure in wounding his ego.
“You haven’t seen me in a while,” Levi continued. “And I’m sorry about that. But as you can tell, the Irons will be beginning a new chapter. And I brought you here not to enlist you, but to ask you to be a part of that.”
Levi took a deep breath as he looked them over. Even if he didn’t recognize all their faces, if he walked into any gambling den in the city, he would always be able to point out the Irons. They all had a certain look to them—glitzy jewelry meant to distract, secondhand yet expensive clothes not quite tailored to fit. They were charmers and smooth talkers, whether they were dealers or otherwise. But while they all had a look like they were up to no good, there was something alluring about each of them, in their easy smiles or slender fingers or confident ways they carried themselves. Even after they kissed you and tricked you, you’d still be walking away with red lipstick on your cheek and a foolish grin on your face.
Levi looked at them with pride. They were his, and he would win back their loyalty.
He had to.
Levi led them around the stairwell to the first hallway. He’d moved a rickety desk he’d uncovered in a vacant room to this spot, to become a makeshift poker table. With his injuries, it was easier for him to sit down, and he always looked more impressive with cards in his hands.
He slid into the dealer’s seat and motioned for a few others to join him. He recognized the faces of those who sat down—his dealers. Each member of the Irons had a different tattoo depending on their work, and dealers—like Levi—wore spades. Of all his gangsters, he knew these kids the best. Many he’d taught himself.
Mansi sat directly across from him, her expression still downcast.
“What will it be, everyone?” Levi asked, loud enough that the others huddled around could hear.
The boy b
eside him—Tommy, his name was—tossed in a single chip. The others followed.
“Let’s play, then,” Levi said. He dealt everyone a classic game of Tropps, starting with three cards. “I bet you all have a few questions. Tommy, you play first. What’s on your mind?”
Tommy reddened at being singled out. He was Levi’s age, clumsy and awkward, but with a face so pretty that everything he did seemed charming. He could even make cheating look endearing.
Tommy took his cards. “I’m wondering what happened to Chez Phillips.”
Levi had been prepared for this question, of course. He’d practiced his forced smile in the mirror this morning. “Chez got in over his head.” Levi handed the next player a card. “Stella, do you know how many clients we work with full-time?” When Stella shook her head, he moved on to the next player. “Hwan, any idea what we charge as fees? Do you know what you get paid per hour? How much of your earnings go to the gang?”
“I keep seventy percent,” Hwan said uncertainly.
Levi licked his fingers and dealt Mansi the next card. “Nice try. You keep eighty percent. So, Mansi, our client lists, our fees, our contracts, our profits. Do you know who does know the answers to all those questions?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You do.”
“That’s right.” He tapped his temple. “I do.” The others gave small, approving nods.
Linton didn’t wait for the next question prompt. “We heard you helped kill the Chancellor. That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it?”
Levi fiddled with a chip on the table, trying to stay casual. As good as his poker face was, it was hard to fake that smile, to pretend he didn’t still hear the time ticking down when he closed his eyes, didn’t still feel the weakness of draining his life into those orbs. Three days later, those memories still felt fresh.
But the Irons didn’t want to hear about that. They wanted a tale of bravery and glory—a real-life legend. So Levi leaned forward conspiratorially, shaping his mouth into a grin. “Have you ever heard of the Shadow Game?”
