by Amanda Foody
Her aura filled the stairwell, but it didn’t storm like it usually did; like he would’ve expected. It was trembling, and that was how he knew not to bite back.
Instead, Levi pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“What is this?” she asked, unfolding it. Then her eyes narrowed. “This is for the market.”
Last night, Levi had written the list of every possible investor they should approach. Enne had asked him yesterday to give it to Grace, but Levi hadn’t made a promise to Grace. He’d made it to her, and he was determined to keep it.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry about every deal I’ve made.” He swallowed, thinking of the events that had transpired at Harrison’s this morning. Levi understood why Jac felt the need to destroy the thing that had nearly destroyed him, but he couldn’t fathom why Jac was putting himself in such danger to do so.
It went far above and beyond Levi’s original request, and it was of Jac’s own volition...so Levi couldn’t help but wonder if all their initial promises still applied.
One promise, in particular.
I told you I’m going to help free you, and I am. I’m going to see that through.
The memory of Jac’s words instantly triggered another rise of shame inside him. Levi should’ve felt only gratitude for Jac’s sacrifice, but all he could think about were his own desires. He’d already come close to breaking his promise.
Levi raised his eyes to Enne’s. “Please let me try to fix this.”
Enne slid the paper into her pocket, and for a brief moment, Levi thought she would walk away again. He didn’t know how many more cuts he could take.
“Fine,” she huffed. “Tomorrow night. The first place on the list.”
And then she disappeared into the club.
Levi sighed and let go of the railing. He could still keep both his promises.
Bryce Balfour descended the stairs, so silent Levi barely heard him until Bryce stood right beside him. He looked as terrible as Levi did, his eyes red and bloodshot. But then again, Bryce always looked like that. “Destiny has a mucking awful sense of humor, don’t you think?” he asked with a tinny laugh.
Lately, Levi’s feeling of destiny had been replaced by a sense of hopelessness. “What makes you say that?”
“Because the hero of one story is the villain of someone else’s. It’s all just a matter of who wins.” Bryce sighed and sat at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the railing like he needed the support. Levi didn’t know Bryce and was in no mood for a heart-to-heart, but he also didn’t want to leave him there alone. Bryce looked lost without a companion.
“Where did Harvey go?” Levi asked.
“Gloating. I hate him when he gets like that.” Bryce put his head in his hands. “What do you think of this Harrison Augustine business?”
“Why do you ask?” Levi snapped, harsher and more obvious than he intended.
“Everyone knows about you and Vianca.”
Levi relaxed. Of course. Everyone knew about him and Vianca. “She’s a witch. Even her son hates her.”
“But you can’t actually want him to win the election,” Bryce said matter-of-factly.
Levi furrowed his eyebrows at Bryce’s assumption of familiarity. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re a Glaisyer. Wasn’t your grandfather’s head put on a spike outside the palace with the Mizers?”
Levi didn’t talk about these sort of things—not with anyone. He knew the crimes the revolutionaries had committed against his family. He knew that, for most of the orb-makers, their final act of service to their kings had been dying with them. But Levi didn’t know how to hate his father and also sympathize with him at the same time, so it was easier to pretend that politics didn’t affect him. That Levi’s Caroko skin and family history were like anyone else’s in New Reynes. Even if that was a lie.
“That was a long time ago,” Levi answered.
“The papers mentioned restrictions. Dividing talents by Aptitudes and Mysteries. History is repeating itself.”
Just dwelling on this subject brought back painful memories. Grief could reveal the ugly parts of anyone, but his father had let his fester for so long that it took everything that was left. These weren’t Levi’s first broken ribs.
“Times are different now,” Levi said.
“Yes. This time, we’re the new kings.”
Bryce held out his hand for Levi to help him up. Levi certainly didn’t need to, nor had he enjoyed his conversation with Bryce, but he obliged the Guildmaster anyway.
A chill swept through him the moment they touched, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. Levi jerked his hand away as soon as Bryce staggered to his feet.
And then he saw it.
Bryce’s aura. A curling mixture of black and scarlet, thicker than smoke. The metallic taste of it overwhelmed Levi, and all of his senses ignited in warning. His split talent was weak—he could only sense the auras of those he knew well, or, in Vianca’s case, someone who had power over him. The fact that he could now see Bryce’s...
Levi took a step back in alarm.
“What’s wrong?” Bryce asked, frowning.
Levi opened his mouth, but he could think of nothing to say that didn’t sound shatz. His mother had once told him to run if he ever encountered a black aura. That a black aura belonged to nothing human. A dozen different street legends crossed his mind, each more outrageous and horrifying than the next.
Levi didn’t believe in superstitions, but he did trust his instincts.
So he took off. He pushed his way through the crowded dance floor until he was out the door in the humid July night air, and by the time he returned home, Levi had convinced himself he’d only seen a trick of the light. Yet as he lay in bed, he could picture nothing but that noxious darkness, with its red veins and coppery taste.
Like his own blood.
ENNE
Enne vowed that the first purchase with their stock market earnings would be a bed. She tugged the sheet over herself, trying desperately to avoid thinking about what the previous owner had done on this mattress to leave such disturbing stains. Grace and Lola had retrieved it from a Casino District dumpster, crowing as though they’d stumbled upon lost treasure, but Enne would treasure nothing more than to toss it back into the filth it came from.
“So we starved for two weeks for no reason,” Grace grumbled on Enne’s right. “If you would just make volts, then I wouldn’t need a rich South Side man to cater to me. I’ve got you.”
Enne had told Grace the truth about her lineage that morning, the day after she’d given Enne her oath. Grace had taken it surprisingly well. In fact, she’d been most upset about how Enne refused to use her blood talent, as though she’d taken pleasure in their recent bout of poverty. Lola had made Grace swear on every man she’d ever killed that she’d tell no one, but Enne already trusted Grace. And she was relieved that she’d no longer need to sneak around to apply her contacts.
“Enne’s talent isn’t a joke,” Lola snapped at Grace on Enne’s other side. She held her pillow over her head.
Grace ignored Lola and rested her head on Enne’s shoulder. “I’ve just been thinking...” she mused. “Gabrielle Dondelair must’ve had it pretty good before, you know...”
“She died?” Lola said drily.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You know that even if Enne did make volts, we couldn’t just go flaunting them, right? We can’t just be broke one day and wildly wealthy the next. People would start asking questions.”
Grace shrugged. “So we reinvent ourselves as South Side heiresses. We basically already have.”
“Both of you, quiet,” Enne hissed. “The lords agreed to the market. I’m going to meet potential investors with Levi tomorrow night. We’ve gotten what we wanted.”
“Maybe you have. But I’m going to have to do more math, and that has never been what I wanted.”
“Boo hoo,” Lola muttered underneath
her pillow.
“I’ve actually killed people, unlike you, you fake, sneaky...” Grace reached over Enne to smack Lola, painfully leaning on Enne’s hair in the process. “You act like a killer, but you’re just a killjoy.”
Lola swatted at her, refusing to remove the pillow from her face. “Well, you look like a twelve-year-old without your eyeliner.”
Enne pushed Grace off her and sat up, running her fingers through the knots in her hair. “I would like to sleep if you two could shut up.” She hadn’t slept well in weeks. Every night meant a visit to the same hallway, and for someone who prided herself on her practicality, Enne could come up with no explanation for why this happened—only that it wasn’t good.
“You mentioned that you can’t make orbs without an orb-maker,” Grace said, apparently not finished with their conversation.
“Yep,” Enne answered tersely.
“And Levi refused you.”
“Yep,” she said at the same time Lola responded, “The only rational decision he’s ever made.”
“Have you ever tried just depositing them yourself?” Grace asked. “You know, the way anyone would deposit volts into orbs from their skin?”
Enne had never considered making volts without Levi. “Would that work?” she asked quietly.
“Of course not,” Lola snapped. “What Mizers make isn’t volts. It’s energy. The orb-makers turn it into volts...why are you getting up?”
Enne crept across the classroom to her purse. She retrieved an empty orb and clutched the sphere of glass in her hand, her stomach in knots. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. And even if it worked, like Lola said, creating volts would call attention to herself. But it was her talent. It was a part of her, and she wanted to understand it.
This was the power of kings. And now it was hers.
Enne held the orb to her inner elbow, where people usually deposited volts. She felt the energy pulsing in her blood, felt it leap in the direction of the glass—like a magnetic pull, like a snap. She wondered how many volts flowed inside her. There could be hundreds. There could be thousands.
The orb shattered, slicing open some of Enne’s skin. She yelped in surprise and pain, and blood trickled down her arm. Being barefoot, she froze where she stood and peered through the darkness at the dozens of glass fragments littering the floor around her.
“It was worth a shot,” Grace managed.
Lola stood up angrily, slipped into her boots, and helped Enne back toward the mattress. She tore off a piece of the aged bedsheet and wrapped it over Enne’s cuts, not bothering to be gentle. “Are you all right?”
“It was a bad idea, anyway,” Enne muttered.
The phone rang, making all three of them jump. It was a private line, and only two people possessed the number. Enne carefully tiptoed around the glass to answer it.
“Did you see the papers?” came the voice through the receiver. There was something rasping about the donna’s tone, which was as unexpected as the call. It was well past midnight. “His poll numbers are higher than Worner’s.” Vianca laughed hollowly. “He’s always been good at these sort of things—playing the part. Even when he was a child.”
“It’s...it’s the middle of the night,” Enne stammered.
“These restrictions they’re proposing on Talents of Mysteries. How could he support these? He has a Talent of Mystery! The hypocrisy!” There was a strange slur to her voice, like Vianca was drinking. “He’s a fool if he thinks he can beat me. I killed the last candidate—could I not do the same to him?”
Enne didn’t answer. Honestly, she didn’t think so. Not because Harrison was too powerful, but because she didn’t think even Vianca had it in her to kill her own son.
“Why are you calling me?” she asked tiredly.
“Because this is important. It’s what you’re doing for me, isn’t it?” Vianca snapped. Enne didn’t remember Vianca ever asking Enne to become her late night confidante. “My son will lose. I know he will.”
Enne slid down to the floor and hugged her knees to herself. She waved Grace and Lola away—there was no point in them losing sleep, as well. And then she assured the donna of everything she wanted to hear.
* * *
The next evening, Enne stood at the edge of Sweetie Street, wearing her black silk mask and swallowing down her ladylike sensibilities. She didn’t consider herself a prude—at least, not by Bellamy standards—but seeing the man in front of her parading down the alley shirtless, red lips swollen, lipstick stains across his chest and shoulders, Enne couldn’t help but feel out of place. She reached into her purse and rooted around for her black lipstick. As she applied it, she reminded herself that she wasn’t the same girl who’d left Bellamy. Then she returned the tube to her bag, tucked right beside her revolver.
She was so distracted that she didn’t notice the black Houssen motorcar brake in the alley behind her, splashing puddles onto the curb.
Levi slipped out of the driver door, his collar popped to conceal his face, his homburg hat casting a shadow over his eyes.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.
“Is that your motorcar?” she asked. “Is that how this works now? I get one, so you need to get a fancier one? How did you even buy that?”
“I signed a bunch of contracts for the Irons today. I thought after this, I’d drive you home, and you could give it to Lola.” He had the decency to look apologetic, but she’d already agreed to let him help her tonight. That seemed forgiveness enough.
A memory crept across her skin where Levi’s lips had touched. She crossed her arms. “Or I could drive it home.”
“Can you drive?”
She could not. “Yes.”
He watched her warily, as though waiting for her to snap at him. Part of her liked that she knew exactly how to break Levi Glaisyer. The other part of her found it depressing. He’d apologized, and he’d supported her in front of Ivory when no one else would. She was still hurt, still indignant, but she was also tired, and despite it all, she would rather see him smile.
Levi strolled to the edge of the street and took a step down it. Enne reluctantly followed. “So what does your guidebook say about Sweetie Street?”
“Shockingly, it didn’t recommend touring the red light district with one of the North Side’s top ten most eligible people.”
She expected him to laugh, but instead he tripped awkwardly over a cobblestone. “You saw that?” he asked.
Enne smirked. “Nine seemed too high. Don’t they know you’re better looking in your wanted poster?”
Levi smiled at her, his expression hopeful. Just because they weren’t hurting each other.
Of all the devastating secrets he’d told her, it was this moment that broke her heart the most.
She shook away her thoughts—she couldn’t get distracted. Tonight, Enne would finally claim power for her own.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Levi said, significantly more lightness to his step. Enne plastered on a business face and recited the words she’d perfected with Grace from earlier. The gangs are opening up for investments and you—yes, you—now have the once-in-a-lifetime chance to buy in. After all, no industry in New Reynes is always on the up like crime.
They headed into the first building on their right, its foundation of wooden beams resembling stilts and painted in rainbow stripes. The third and fourth stories leaned to the right, as if trying to spill into Tropps Street, and blue lights blinked from inside, making Enne’s head spin.
“We’ll start with a tame one,” Levi said, pushing open the door. “It’s called the Beck and Call. Pretty clever. So you can have me—”
“At my beck and call,” Enne finished. “Not that clever.”
They stepped into a lounge area. Because it was still early, Enne only spotted a few workers—dancing to the sultry music, wiping down the bar.
Enne felt her shoulders relax. This was no worse than any New Reynes tavern.
“Can I help you?” one of the
workers asked. He was dressed in a suit jacket and matching trousers, but with no shirt underneath. His eyes widened as he took the two of them in, recognition dawning on his face.
“We’ve come to speak to the madame,” Levi explained.
The man nodded and hurried off. He returned a minute later with a surprisingly young woman dressed in gold from head to toe. Although very little of her was exposed, her clothes were tight enough to be a second skin.
“I don’t know why the pair of you are here,” the woman said, “but I don’t want any trouble.”
“No trouble,” Levi told her, “only opportunity.”
The madame narrowed her eyes, but nodded and motioned for them to follow. She led them down a narrow hallway and opened a door to a small office, where Enne and Levi took seats on fur-lined chairs in front of her desk.
The woman pushed away this morning’s copy of The Crimes & The Times to clear off the surface. “Dreadful things in the papers, all thanks to you two. Dark times repeating themselves.” She looked between them accusingly.
“We’re not looking to revive the old war,” Levi said. “In fact, that’s exactly why we’re here. We all share the North Side, and we’re doing our part to keep our home safe. We wondered if you might be interested in helping us achieve that.”
She raised her eyebrows expectantly, but said nothing.
Enne cleared her throat. “Membership in the gangs is exclusive, but now, each of the gangs have committed themselves to supporting the North Side. However, as the attack on the Orphan Guild proved, the whiteboots have weapons, numbers, and resources we don’t. So every business in the North Side is being given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to invest—”
“What you’re saying,” the madame snapped, “is that you want us to pay for our protection.”
“Not at all,” Enne said, all practiced smiles. “Every volt you invest gives you a share of ownership. When the gangs profit, so will you. When the North Side is protected, we are all made safe.”
The woman was silent for several moments, and Enne wondered if they had sold it. According to Grace, everyone in the City of Sin spoke the language of volts, but this was no simple transaction—this was risk. This was history.
