by Amanda Foody
Each of their eyes widened. Of course they had. It was one of the many legends whispered on the streets of the North Side; a legend shrouded in equal parts awe and fear.
Levi continued to deal the cards as he talked. “The Phoenix Club claims that the players always lose.” He nodded for the other players to keep going, keep betting. They did so, but they weren’t really paying attention to their cards. They kept their gazes fixed on him. “The stories were right about everything except that, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here now.”
“You beat the Shadow Game?” Mansi asked incredulously.
Levi reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gleaming silver Shadow Card: the Fool. He threw it in the center of the table, but none of the others dared to touch it. Everyone held their breaths.
“Why are we called the Irons, Tommy?” he asked.
Tommy blinked—he’d still been gaping at the card. “Because we fix games. We’re mechanics. Cheats.”
Levi nodded. “That night, I didn’t just cheat the odds—I cheated death. And now Semper is rotting in a grave, and I’m here.” He raised his arms, indicating the entire building. His palace.
“And Séance?” Stella asked. “The papers said she was there, too.”
“Are you rivals now?” someone behind her asked.
“I heard she’s as deadly as Ivory.”
“I heard she is Ivory.”
Levi pursed his lips. Maybe this entire time, he’d just needed to don a mask in order to fashion himself a legend.
“Séance is a new ally,” Levi said. “And this is the part where you listen closely.” They leaned in further, some standing up off their seats. They might’ve all been charmers and smooth talkers, but Levi was the one who’d taught them, and he was the best of them all. “You heard about what happened at the Orphan Guild, right?” They nodded. “Eight gangsters dead. Before we focus on volts or glory or anything, we need to focus on staying alive.”
Levi stood up, and they trailed after him as he walked back to the stairwell. He pointed upstairs. “I’m sleeping in the back room of the second floor.”
They blinked at him. “You’re staying here?” Linton asked.
“I’m done at St. Morse. I want to be here, watching over Olde Town, watching over you.”
They shared appreciative glances. Even Mansi gave him a smile.
“There’s some work to be done,” he continued. “Rooms to clean. Things to buy. Dens to talk to. When we’re not on our shifts, I want everyone here. Not only do we want this place to be habitable, we want it to be safe. This location stays secret. Watches around the clock. Olde Town has always been our claim, but now we have a home.” After a pause, he added, “Well? What are you waiting for? Go check it out.”
While the others scattered to explore the rest of the museum, Tock hung back. “Impressive show,” she said, yawning. “It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”
Levi pursed his lips. “Yes, well, I’m not sure if I have their trust yet, but their admiration counts for something. Plus, I don’t know how the dens are reacting to the news. What casino will want Irons dealing if there are bounties on all their heads?” If the Irons didn’t have work, they’d run out of volts fast. “That’s our first priority—making the den owners feel secure.”
“That won’t be enough,” Tock said. “Right now, if we call this a real war, then the South Side has already won one battle, and the North Side has won zero. The dens will need to think you can protect them. And you’ve done nothing so far to prove that.”
Levi grimaced. Tock might have been lazy, but she wasn’t thick. He was just one person, though—one very broke person. So he had no idea how to do that. Not alone.
A desperate thought occurred to him. “Then this is what we’ll do—we’ll send a message to each of the other lords named in The Crimes & The Times: Ivory, Scavenger, and Bryce Balfour.” He could tell Enne himself. “You know where to find them, right?”
Tock nodded hesitantly. “Sure, I guess.”
“Tell them, after what happened with the Orphan Guild, we need to meet. All of the lords together. Ten o’clock at the Catacombs, tomorrow night.”
Tock raised her eyebrows. “You think you can convince Narinder to agree to that?”
“Well, what do you think? You know him better than I do.”
“He doesn’t like risk. Doesn’t even like gangsters. He just likes you because you have a pretty face.”
Levi wasn’t positive how he felt about that, but he settled on flattered for now.
“It’s the only place I can think of.” With the whiteboots bribed to stay away from Olde Town, it was the safest. It was also public and crowded, so it would be difficult for the other lords to try something. “Let’s hope my face is pretty enough.”
“When should I send the messages?” she asked.
“Right away. I don’t want to wait too long.”
“Do you think they’ll agree to this?”
Levi straightened. His messages to the other named lords might not even be acknowledged. Sure, he’d helped kill the Chancellor, but to them, he’d always been Pup, the boy playing at being lord, the punchline of the North Side.
Still, he let himself imagine his call being answered. He would meet Ivory, a street legend. He would gather all the lords in a single room, a feat never before accomplished in criminal history. He’d be able to provide Harrison the intel on the others, like he’d asked for. Everything he’d ever wanted would be right in his grasp.
“Let’s hope so,” he said. “I’d also like Jac there.” Last night, Jac had called from some pay phone in the Factory District. He’d chosen a den to approach, and it seemed like the right move to Levi. Even though the specifics had made the job feel suddenly all too real, their conversation had actually put him at ease. Jac had given his plans a lot of thought. “He’ll be at a den called Liver Shot tonight.”
“I’ll leave now, but you better hope Narinder says yes to all this,” she said drily.
Levi flushed and straightened his tie. He could use another distraction. “I’ll do my best.”
She rolled her eyes. “You just convinced a whole room of people you’re some genius, but you’re just a hustler and a harlot.”
He furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re a dagger to my ego, you know that?”
“Somebody needs to be.”
As she marched to the door, Levi added a quick, “Be careful.” Walking into the lairs of the other lords was a dangerous assignment, and even if Tock gave him a hard time, he admitted she was growing on him.
Tock paused at the door and turned around to smirk at him. “I’m not someone who needs to be careful.” She rolled up her sleeves, as though ready to get her hands dirty, exposing the fresh tattoos on each of her arms. As she left and let the door close behind her, Levi decided she wore the Irons well.
4
“I know it’s just a Faith story, thickhead. But I swear it. A fellow I knew—Sullivan, his name was—he saw one once. A malison, they’re called. He said it looked like a human, and that it had eyes the color of blood.”
—A legend of the North Side
JAC
Jac Mardlin knew a bad idea when he saw one.
Liver Shot didn’t look like much from the outside—no signs, no music, no welcome of any sort. But customers found it all the same. Its acidic aroma wafted all the way down the block, guiding you toward it as firmly as a hand on your shoulder. It smelled of harmless curiosity and a chemical rush, and even if it wasn’t the soothing smell of Lullaby, it made his heart pound all the same.
A man knocked shoulders with him, and Jac staggered on the front steps.
The man cursed. “You shouldn’t be here, kid.” It wasn’t clear if he meant “in the way” or “at this drug den.”
Either way, Jac didn’t need a stranger to tell him that. He mumbled something and darted aside, fiddling with the tape around his knuckles. The man opened the door, letting out the faint sounds
of cheers.
The door closed. Once more, Jac waited in the darkness.
He took a deep breath.
Jac Mardlin knew a bad idea when he saw one. But rarely—hardly ever—had that stopped him from greeting it.
He followed the man inside, over the red paint along the threshold that marked the den as Torren-owned. It was dimly lit, and everything smelled of Rapture. The cheering he’d heard had come from the back room—the boxing pit.
He shuddered as he made his way down the hallway. He’d never tried Rapture. Unlike Lullaby, which quickly lulled you into a haze after injection, Rapture did the opposite—it was euphoria, designed for bright lights and loud rooms and lots of space. Jac’s eyes flickered to the den’s shadowed corners, expecting to find someone lost in slumber. He fiddled with the chain of his Creed necklace, which was tucked beneath his shirt.
This place is different, he reminded himself. I’m different.
As soon as he stepped into the back room, Jac’s shoulders relaxed, if only slightly. The odors of sweat, the sloshed beer on the floor, the shouts of the men in the ring—this he recognized, this he knew. Levi always hated it when he fought, but truthfully, Jac didn’t know what he would do without the fighting. No matter how broken and bloody he left the ring, he would always jump back in. It was his favorite bad idea.
Jac found the bookie hunched over a table in the corner. He was scrawny with wide-rimmed glasses, chewing on the ice in an otherwise empty glass. “Do you have any spots?” Jac asked.
The man’s eyes roamed over Jac’s frame, but showed no sign of recognizing him. Despite his wanted posters being in every city newspaper, Jac really did look different with his dark hair. “Do you have a name?”
“Todd Walsh.” It was the name of someone he used to know, someone who wouldn’t need that name now. He’d met him in a place sort of like this.
“There’s a slot in a half hour. Nine forty.”
Jac scanned the room, searching for the usual uniforms of Torren grunts: pin-striped suits, red ties, breast pockets bulging with switchblades and orbs. He spotted several at a table in the back, smoking cigars, watching the fight.
“You hear me?” the bookie grunted. “Nine forty? You want in or not?”
“Yeah,” Jac answered, distracted. As he turned his attention away from the suppliers, he noticed someone else—a girl. She wore an oversize black smoking jacket with a red rose tucked into its breast pocket. Jac might’ve thought she worked for the Torrens by that getup, if she wasn’t standing across the room from them.
If her gaze wasn’t trained on him.
He adjusted his glasses—as if they offered much coverage to his identity—and nervously turned away.
“Stand by the entrance when it’s about time,” the bookie told him. “They’ll let you in.” He nodded at the group of Torren suppliers. Jac was about to ask for one of their names—anything to get him a means of introducing himself—but the competitor waiting behind him pushed him aside.
Jac turned around and coughed as he accidentally inhaled a cloud of Mistress, an Augustine drug that must’ve been snuck inside. He swatted it away, even if it wasn’t enough to give him a contact buzz. The woman who’d blown it laughed, high-pitched and too loud. “You’re going to fight?” She batted her eyelashes and reached toward him. “A shame to do any more damage to that handsome face.”
Jac was used to this. More than once, girls had scrutinized his features in the light of tired mornings after, and told him he was better looking each time they looked.
“But you don’t give people the chance to look twice, do you?” one girl had murmured, while Jac was already muttering an apology, collecting his clothes, and making his way out the door.
But he wasn’t used to it in a place like this. As the woman’s nails traced down his cheek, Jac ducked away, the touch overwhelming. His palms were sweating. He itched to have something in his hands, something to distract him.
He lit himself a cigarette. When he turned around to watch the fight, the girl from earlier stood in his way. Up close, he noticed her brown curls reached her waist, and she had a diamond piercing just below her lips, which were lined in cherry lipstick. She was tall—an inch taller than him, and at least several more in those boots. She was prettier than a Guillory Street heiress, she dressed like a casino crook, and she had a look in her deep green eyes like she was daydreaming—of glamour or murder, he couldn’t tell.
She smiled at him, and Jac’s stomach clenched. This night was full of bad ideas.
“You’ve never been here before,” she purred. “I’d remember that face.”
Jac ran a sheepish hand through his black hair. “You don’t look like a regular, either.”
“What do I look like?” She tossed her head to the side.
“Trouble.” He took a drag from his cigarette and tried to squeeze around her. He was here for a reason.
“If you get a job, you’ll be working in places like this, you know,” she said, and he paused. How could she tell he was looking for work? “They won’t want someone who doesn’t look comfortable here. And you are uncomfortable, aren’t you?” It was worded like a question, but it sounded like a statement.
He didn’t respond. There were a thousand and one things in this den making him uncomfortable, and she now topped the list.
She handed him something—a piece of Tiggy’s Saltwater Taffy, the signature absinthe-flavored treat of New Reynes. “The bookie will have you as the underdog. See that I win back my bet.”
She was challenging him, but he wasn’t sure what for. She strode away and, to his surprise, collapsed into a chair at the table with the Torren suppliers, chewing on her taffy and twirling a dark curl around her finger. She paid him no more attention.
Of course, Jac saw the red flags. She had no reason to take an interest in him. This was some sort of trap, and even if it wasn’t, his heart was racing so fast that his mind was already thirsting for old, familiar ways to calm it. He scratched at the old abscess scar on his inner arm and took a long drag of his cigarette. Feeling trapped and anxious always set him off, and he’d been here barely fifteen minutes.
He considered leaving—was even making his way to the door—when he bumped into someone. The girl looked about his age, with unevenly cut short hair, light brown skin, and—to his surprise—Iron tattoos.
“Jac Mardlin?” she asked, crinkling her nose at the smell of his cigarette. “Pup said I’d find you here.” She looked around the place disapprovingly. “Not sure why.”
“Who are you?” Jac asked. His heart pounded with guilt. Had she noticed he was about to leave? Would she tell Levi?
“Tock Ridley. I’m the new Chez.” She leaned in closer and whispered in his ear. “Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. The Catacombs. The other lords and seconds will be there.”
Jac’s eyes widened. He didn’t know Levi had been planning such a gathering, but of course the others had agreed to come. When Levi asked, the city answered.
“But what about the Torrens? What about the job?” Jac asked.
“I don’t know about the job, but this is just for tomorrow night. And you know how Levi is. He’ll want his second there. A proper show.” Jac couldn’t argue with that statement. “This is a sorry lot, isn’t it?” she commented, looking around the establishment.
“I’ve seen worse,” he muttered, and he had.
Tock gave him a look like she already knew that. No matter how many tattoos he inked, what color he dyed his hair, how he changed his clothes—it still lingered on him, a scar everyone could see, and that he always felt.
“Will you be there?” she asked him.
Jac’s breath hitched. Muck. He was already anxious from being in this den, confused about the girl, nervous about letting Levi down, and now he had to worry about tomorrow night on top of everything else.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he muttered. Because when Levi asked, Jac answered, too.
She slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t do
anything I wouldn’t do,” she said. Jac wasn’t sure how to take that. Tock looked like the sort of girl who came with a warning label. Before he could respond, she nodded and headed back the way she’d come.
The Torrens tonight, the lords tomorrow. Jac tried to douse the nerves burning inside him. He couldn’t leave now, not when he knew he’d see Levi tomorrow. Levi was depending on him. Jac needed to bring good news.
Jac put his cigarette out in an ashtray and made toward the ring. He held his breath as he walked, trying to focus on the sweat, the whistles, the cheers. He had a routine before his fights.
It started with a song.
I sold it all but my pride when I came to this town.
The song wasn’t about him. It was about legends and glory and ambition, but sometimes, when Jac’s stomach churned with anticipation and the room around him thundered with shouts, he could convince himself otherwise.
Bought my ticket at a crossroads for the long way down.
Someone slapped him hard on the back. Jac turned and stared into the yellow-toothed smile of a Torren supplier. The man removed his jacket and placed it on the referee’s table. He would be Jac’s opponent.
Jac hesitated—he hadn’t been expecting to fight someone he’d hoped would hire him. But maybe this wasn’t bad luck. Maybe it was an opportunity.
Jac stripped down to his undershirt, laying his orbs, his pistol, and his belongings with the man’s. He examined the tape around his knuckles. “You fight much?” he asked.
“I’m in the mood.” The man turned over his shoulder and waved at the girl from earlier, who shot him back a winning smile. Jac’s eyebrows furrowed. What sort of game was she playing? Hadn’t she bet on him? “You look like a fighter, though.”
“I’m out of work,” Jac responded smoothly. “Need some voltage.”
“There’s always work here if you’re willing to look.” The man offered him a grin.
The referee whistled and motioned for them to enter the ring, and Jac held his breath. Should he let the man win, or try to win himself? He examined the man’s broad shoulders and impressive height. Without a doubt, the bookie would’ve marked Jac as the underdog. The girl said she’d bet on him, but she worked here, and Liver Shot would pocket more volts if Jac lost. If he wanted a job here, he should think about the den first.
