by Amanda Foody
Charlotte shrugged and grabbed herself a piece of candy from the bowl beside her. “I give it to Marcy. She lives for it.”
Enne looked around at the girls and realized Marcy, the youngest girl among them, who wore glasses so large they made her face look bug-like, was the only one actually working. The others were reading from Enne’s stash of romance novels or braiding their hair.
“This place is a mess,” Lola said flatly. “It’s a good thing we’re not hiring a boy, otherwise none of you would get anything done.” She tipped Charlotte’s bottle of pink nail polish over on her magazine.
A number of voices chorused around the room.
“That was from Kipling’s,” Charlotte snapped first.
“We’re getting a boy?” Marcy asked, flushing and dropping her piece of chalk.
“As if you ever do anything here other than chauffeur Enne around and sneak out every night,” Grace muttered to Lola.
Lola whipped around, as though trying to decide who to strike first. Enne whacked her over the head with Grace’s notebook.
“Enough,” she hissed. “Charlotte, I want you to call the potential investors on the next sales list and see if you can make up these losses. Grace, if you’re going to spend time fixing Levi’s math, I expect you to charge him for it. And Lola—um, play nice.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “I hate all of you. And I especially hate this.” She kicked a pink fur pillow across the floor.
“I’m going to my office,” Enne groaned, and then she swept off down the hallway. It’d been several hours since she last manned her phone, and knowing Vianca, she’d probably tried to call a dozen times in Enne’s absence. Lately, the donna’s list of requests grew ever longer and more absurd, including demanding the Spirits run election polls and forcing Enne to recite all the reasons why Harrison was a failure as a son.
Lola followed Enne to the headmistress’s office, which the two of them shared. She slung her top hat on the desk and instinctively reached for the radio.
“The North Side isn’t a no-go zone,” Harrison Augustine told the reporter in a muffled voice, like he was pushing the microphone away. “The Mole lines are operating normally. In fact, violent crimes in the North Side have decreased by—”
“The Senate vote regarding the registration of the Talents of Mysteries is tomorrow,” the reporter interrupted. “You’ve expressed reluctance regarding this in the past. How do you feel now that the vote is this close?”
Enne sighed and reached for the half-full mug of tea on her desk, sweetened with six teaspoons of sugar. The election wasn’t for three months yet, and she already needed a vacation.
“Public fear is on the rise, and I think what everyone—North and South Side—wants is extra peace of mind. That’s my only comment.”
“What a mucking useless answer,” Lola spat. “It’s no wonder Prescott is beating him.”
Enne’s heart clenched. Even if she hated the First Party for its connections to the Phoenix Club, Enne had a vested interest in seeing Harrison win the election. If Harrison won, then she and Levi would be free of Vianca forever.
“Just because our polls say one thing, doesn’t mean—” Enne started.
“Our polls are right.” Lola fiddled with the radio dial, switching between talk shows, music, and static. “You know, Vianca would probably approve of a publication that shows the North Side’s support for Prescott, since no one else will print the truth.”
“Is that how you’re pitching things to me now? How they would please Vianca?”
“You use the name Séance, which was Lourdes’s pen name. It’s her legacy.”
Enne knew Lola felt more strongly about politics than she did, but she’d never imagined Lola would play such a card.
“It wasn’t her legacy,” Enne snapped. “It was her death sentence.”
The words might’ve been harsh, but they worked. Lola quietly returned to changing the radio stations, and Enne slipped out of the room to clear her head.
Enne climbed the stairs to the dormitories and spotted a cat perched on the bannister. In an effort to make the finishing school feel more like home, Marcy had adopted thirteen strays, which she’d named after famous legends from the North Side.
“You’re not supposed to wander,” Enne told him, picking him up. Marcy had named this one Veil for the black fur on his head, matching the tales of how Veil had kept his face hidden. As Enne carried him back to the dormitories, she noticed the calico, Inamorata, curled up asleep in the hallway, and that one of the doors had been left ajar.
Suddenly a hand clasped over Enne’s mouth. Another hand circled around her waist and held her firmly.
“Don’t move,” a male voice whispered in her ear. She ignored him and thrashed in his arms, dropping Veil. The cat paid no mind to her distress and ran down the hallway.
Then she felt a knife press into her back.
“I said, don’t move.”
Enne froze and swallowed down her scream. The man pushed her forward, walking her into the bedroom where the cats had escaped. The window was shattered, and a rope stretched down from it.
Keeping the knife pressed against her and his hand covering her mouth, he turned her around to face him. A mask concealed his features, except for a pair of dark eyes and a few tufts of dirty blond hair. Enne didn’t recognize him, but she felt she knew his voice from somewhere she couldn’t place.
“We’re going to climb down,” he told her, slapping a handcuff around her wrist and the other around his belt. “You aren’t going to make a sound. You aren’t going to fight.”
Enne tried her best not to panic, but her bounty was worth the same if she was dead or alive. He might let her live for now, but if she fought back, there was nothing stopping him from slicing that knife across her throat.
The Spirits were all downstairs. How long would it take them to realize Enne had gone missing?
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a gag. He stuffed it in Enne’s mouth, even with one hand still clutching his knife. Enne guessed he favored his left hand, and judging from his size, she wouldn’t overpower him in a battle of strength.
But she was not weak.
While he secured the knot around her gag, she grabbed the hand that held the knife and twisted it away. His balance veered, and she kicked his feet out from under him. It sent them both falling, but she landed on top.
She punched him as hard as she could in the face.
“Muck,” she cursed. It hurt. As she shook out the pain in her fist, he grabbed her by the shoulder and flipped them over.
He pressed his knife against her throat. “You’re more of a pain than I expected.”
“Yes,” Grace said at the door, making him jolt. She dropped Veil onto the floor. “I’m very proud.”
Then she lifted her boot and kicked him in the chest. He sprawled backward, his knife skidding across the floor, sending several cats dashing after it. Enne, too, was yanked by the handcuff, getting brush burn across her arms. Grace pinned him down with her knees and ripped off his mask.
He had a young, handsome face, with cheekbones so strong it was no wonder Enne had nearly broken her hand on them.
Grace reached over and pulled the gag from Enne’s mouth. Enne sputtered out a thank-you.
“I’m not alone,” the handsome man said sharply. “The captain knows my position.”
“I was there when the whiteboots shot up the Orphan Guild,” Grace said. “So either you’ve all lost your rifles, or you’re alone. I’m guessing the latter.” She dug through his pockets and removed a pouch of orbs, his badge, and the keys to Enne’s handcuffs. She handed the last item to Enne, who quickly freed herself. “How did you find this place?”
He said nothing, only turned his head to the side and glared at the wall.
Grace punched him on his other cheek, and she didn’t curse like Enne had. “You will tell us who you are and who else knows about this place, or I will kill you very, very slowly.”
> He seethed, but remained silent.
“Enne, get the rope,” Grace ordered, and Enne pulled the whiteboot’s escape rope up from the window. She and Grace forced him into a chair in the room’s corner, then bound his arms and legs to it. “I say we kill him. I hate whiteboots.”
“Kill him? Here?” Enne echoed. The Spirits were accountants—not assailants. “In Marcy’s bedroom?”
“He knows our location now, and he’s seen you without your mask. We can’t let him live.”
Grace had a point, but Enne still stopped her as she reached for his gun. “No,” she commanded. Even if she’d needed Grace to save her, she was still the lord. She would decide if and when they killed him. “I’m going to get the others.”
“But... You can’t—”
Two minutes later, all nine of the Spirits huddled in Marcy’s bedroom. Several of them still carried the tabloids they’d been reading. Others clutched knives, as though a bruised man tied to a chair still posed a threat.
“Holy muck,” Marcy murmured, which was the first time Enne had ever heard her curse. She squeezed one of her cats for support, even as it squirmed in her grip. “Look at his face.”
“Let’s keep him,” Charlotte declared, and several of the Spirits nodded in agreement.
“Let’s kill him,” Grace growled, waving around his badge. “He’s a whiteboot.”
Enne didn’t like the idea of murdering someone in cold blood, but Charlotte’s alternative sounded no better. He would be a liability if he escaped, which meant someone would need to watch him around the clock. That was one less girl working, and they were already growing short-staffed.
“We can’t keep him here,” Lola said matter-of-factly, “or Marcy will have a stroke.”
“He could be a hostage,” Charlotte suggested.
“I am not a hostage,” the whiteboot spat. He turned his face away from them, exposing the blossoming purple mark on his cheek. “You might as well kill me. Captain Hector won’t negotiate with...” His eyes roamed over the girls, each dressed in little more than pajamas, with rollers in their hair or green charcoal masks still on their faces. “Gangsters.”
“I know who you are,” Lola said, stepping forward. “I know your voice. You’re Sergeant Roy Pritchard. You’re the whiteboot who led the Orphan Guild operation. You gave an interview on the radio afterward.”
The other girls quieted. Nearly all of them had been present for the attack on the Guild.
They definitely weren’t giggling anymore.
“If that’s true,” Enne said, “then why are you here alone?”
Lola picked up the mask that Grace had thrown away. “I knew I saw something strange earlier. I spotted someone wearing this when we were leaving the Orphan Guild. He followed us here.”
Enne didn’t like this. Why would the sergeant have acted alone? Once he’d spotted the finishing school, he could’ve left at any time and called for backup. And if he’d done that, he wouldn’t have snuck inside by himself—he would’ve planned an ambush.
“If you don’t want to kill him,” Marcy suggested, “the Scarhands know people who can muddle memories. I’ve done jobs for them before.”
Enne didn’t fancy the idea of visiting Jonas, but that was the best idea they’d come up with. “Someone call the Scarhands and schedule me an appointment for tomorrow morning with Scavenger. Lola, see if you can find any information about whether the sergeant was recently let go from the force, or a reason why he’d be acting alone.” Roy stiffened at her words, but still said nothing. “Grace, get everyone back to work. We’ll need to spare someone every few hours to watch him, and we can’t afford to fall further behind on work. I’ll take the first shift.”
As the girls scattered, Enne flopped down on Marcy’s bed. She grabbed Marcy’s pistol from her bureau and set it on the nightstand, then reached for the most recent edition of The Kiss & Tell.
“If you try anything, I’ll kill you,” Enne told him, and she meant it. She would protect her girls, no matter what.
Sergeant Roy Pritchard turned his pretty face away and glared at the floor. Enne ignored him as she stroked Veil and read the front page exposé, which speculated about the woman behind the criminal enterprise that had revolutionized the North Side.
After finishing it, Enne flipped back to the glossy portrait on the tabloid’s cover and gave her own wanted poster a kiss.
JAC
In the month since their meeting with Harrison Augustine, Jac and Sophia had mastered the art of persuasion. Defeating Charles Torren wasn’t like a simple game of cards. It was night after night of sweet-talking dens and clientele and Apothecaries into abandoning the man currently paying them, all to support a teenage girl they’d never heard of.
It began with intimidation.
“How do I know you’re really who you say you are?” a den manager might ask.
“Charles has never once denied who I am,” Sophia would respond. “You should ask him, after you tell him how you agreed to meet with me.”
Then they needed to charm.
“There’s been trouble all across the North Side,” Jac would say, taking a protective step closer to an Apothecary. The woman was nearly twice his age, but the team had learned her sort was the type he could most easily sway. “We all know Charles’s reputation. If you were in trouble, would you rather be going to Charles, or to us?” He stood taller, arms crossed, trying to emphasize the build of his strength talent. “To me?”
“W-well...” the woman would stammer, a flush creeping across her face.
The last, most important step was to remind them that even though Sophia and Jac were inexperienced and risky, they were also rich—thanks to the under-the-table support from Harrison Augustine.
“We’ll give you twenty percent more than whatever he pays you,” Sophia would say, batting her eyelashes at the burly supplier. “Maybe even twenty-five, just for that smile of yours.”
Now they controlled almost half of the Torren dens in the Casino District. They were earning volts in addition to spending them. And they could finally celebrate.
Jac was all grins as he swirled a straw around his glass of iced water, his head lazily propped on his hand.
“I don’t know why you’re so proud,” Sophia teased from beside him. “I wouldn’t be, if the only people I could make swoon were lonely, forty-year-old women.”
“I believe what you keep meaning to say is ‘thank you,’” Jac said.
“So you keep trying to remind me.” She leaned into his shoulder.
Jac bristled. He didn’t want to dredge up their same, familiar fight, but he couldn’t help himself as he swept aside the taffy wrappers on the bar and pulled their ledger closer. On it was a list of dens, some circled, some crossed off.
“I don’t understand why Charles hasn’t made a move yet,” he murmured. “That doesn’t seem like him.”
“Stop doing that,” Sophia said sharply. She turned her head so her chin rested on his shoulder, and Jac could feel her warm breath on his neck. He’d seen Sophia flirt with enough den managers to know how she used charm like a weapon, but Jac wouldn’t fall for it—not even if he wanted to.
“Then tell me the truth,” he told her, forcing himself not to stare at her lips. “Tell me why Delia never recognized you. Tell me what happened between you and your family.”
Sophia pulled away from him with pursed lips. Jac scolded himself—he was staring. “You’re right—this isn’t like him. Charles hits when you don’t expect it. He hits where you are weakest, and he hits until you break.” She shook her head. “Now I’m anxious. Does that make you happy?”
He sighed and stood up. “I’m going to find the washroom.”
Before he moved away, Sophia reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. She threw them across the bar.
“What was that for?” he snapped, even though he knew his smoking habit had worsened recently. “I’m just going to piss.”
“Then
it shouldn’t matter to you.” She waved him away, her face buried in the ledger, her fingers fiddling with her coin.
Jac groaned under his breath as he made his way around back. They made good partners, but she still kept a wall between them, between her and the world. And she only reached over that wall to steal his cigarettes.
So what if she cares? he thought angrily. If she cared more, she’d treat him like a real partner, and she’d tell him the truth.
After he finished in the washroom, Jac opened the door back into the hallway and was startled to find a man standing behind it.
“Oh, um, sorry,” Jac muttered, moving aside to let him walk past.
The man shoved something in Jac’s hands. A red envelope. Jac stared at the words on the front for several moments until he worked out what they said. Todd Walsh.
As the man who’d delivered it hurried out the back door, Jac frowned and tore the envelope open. He spilled the contents into his hand, and a syringe gleamed on his palm. It was filled with a clear, murky liquid—a high enough dose of Lullaby to lull out for twelve hours, maybe even more.
Jac froze. He knew where the delivery had come from, and suddenly, it was like the past two years of sobriety meant nothing. No matter how many times he’d resisted, and prayed, and made himself stronger, he hadn’t changed.
He hits where you are weakest.
Jac’s palms began to sweat, and all of his worries from the past few weeks surged inside him. That Charles would come for them. That the North Side would crumble. That Levi’s stunts would finally get him killed. All the scenarios he’d dwelled on returned to him in such vivid detail that he could almost convince himself they’d already happened. His heart beat furiously, his pulse anxious and all over the place. His lungs felt tight. His life might be different now, but he was still trapped, still overwhelmed.
And part of him still wanted the fix.
He tried to pull himself out of it. He thought about the smell of gasoline at the den he’d burned, and how good it had felt to destroy a place so like the others that haunted him. But still, he didn’t let go of the syringe. He didn’t move at all.
