King Of Fools (The Shadow Game series, Book 2)

by Amanda Foody

  If you disagreed with him, you didn’t trust him. If you tried to please him, he was a burden. Jac didn’t know why he couldn’t just be happy.

  “I thought Sophia would be here tonight,” the den manager told him. She kept a clean office tucked on the second story of the warehouse, with sheets on the walls meant to suppress the noise of music from below. This was the largest Rapture location on the North Side, a club big enough for three thousand delirious, sweaty bodies, crammed inside a metal building like New Reynes cod.

  “I’m Todd Walsh, her partner,” Jac told her. Sophia might’ve claimed that being partners made them equal, but Sophia’s name still carried more influence than his.

  “Should we reschedule?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he answered, trying not to sound bitter. Jac opened his briefcase and slid out a packet of papers. “Now, we know that Charles is giving you thirty percent. We can offer you—”

  “There’s nothing you can offer me.” She slid the papers back toward him. “How old are you? Sixteen?”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “You don’t realize what you’re up against. Delia had the upper hand, didn’t she? Then Charles put eight holes in her head.” The woman leaned forward. “You’re trying to play a game of strategy, but that’s not what this is about. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even care. He probably loves this, waiting you out. You think you’re winning, but you’re just giving him his fun.”

  Jac resisted the urge to reach for his Creed. Their meeting with Charles was tomorrow afternoon, and Jac was growing more and more convinced that, when they entered Luckluster Casino, they’d never walk out of it.

  “You’re giving him what he wants,” Jac countered. “There are more weapons than fear.”

  “Charles is past fear. Do you know what he did to me for betraying him and siding with Delia?” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal a gruesome series of scars, as though fishhooks had been embedded in her skin and ripped free. What remained was gnarled and uneven, rippled colors of still-red wounds.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Jac said.

  “I’d leave the business entirely, but he’d kill me for that.” The matter-of-fact tone in her voice made his skin crawl. “I’m not sure he’d take kindly to this meeting, either.”

  “You agreed to it,” Jac reminded her. “And your support would mean—”

  “No, I think it’s best you leave.” She hastily tugged down her sleeve, as if she’d shown him too much.

  “Should we reschedule?” he tried. “I’ll bring Sophia next time.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish you the best of luck, I really do.”

  Within moments, she’d shooed him out of his seat and out the door.

  Jac paused at the top of the metal staircase, sighing in disappointment. The warehouse pulsed with fast-paced music, and the air reeked of the acidic smell of Rapture. Neon streamers dangled from the ceiling and writhed from the winds blowing in across the rafters. With the band’s music so loud, it was easy to forget a storm raged outside, the pounding of rain swallowed by the bass.

  He ran his hands through his hair and cursed. Sophia had given him one assignment—an important one—and he’d managed to muck it up in only a few minutes.

  Jac climbed down the steps and dodged the dancers on his walk to the door. Outside, the rain splatters danced on the pavement, and the wind was too strong for an umbrella. He flipped his hood and trudged down the street.

  Sirens called faintly in the distance.

  Probably South Side, Jac told himself. After all, the whiteboots hadn’t made it past the Brint in over a month. But the river was over a mile away, and the storm would overpower all but the closest sounds. These sirens were close.

  Jac quickened his pace. He’d planned to take the Mole back to Liver Shot, but escaping would be difficult if the whiteboots somehow shut it down. Still, it was a thirty-minute walk home.

  The sirens grew closer.

  He ran.

  The rain pelted him, and the wind whipped his hood back. He could only go so fast without tripping, with water dripping down in his eyes.

  Soon he realized the sirens weren’t only in front of him, but also behind him, to the east, to the west.

  It only could’ve meant one thing: the North Side had fallen.

  And he wasn’t the only one running. Doors to pubs and cabarets burst open, patrons spilling out and scattering like rats. Jac collided with one of them, so hard he slammed to the ground and dislocated his shoulder with an agonizing pop.

  “Muck!” he cursed, clutching his arm. He tried to run forward, but each of his steps sent a quake of pain through him. He was in trouble.

  Figures appeared at the edge of the street, murky from the rain. They ran toward the crowds, and Jac realized they were whiteboots. Each clutched a baton in one hand and a wooden shield in the other, as if they intended to ram and beat passersby.

  If the whiteboots caught him, then Jac would hang.

  “Muck,” he shouted again, and he sped off in the opposite direction, adrenaline dulling his pain. He ducked down an offshooting alley and mentally mapped out the route back to Liver Shot. In his condition, he doubted he would make it, and Olde Town was even farther away.

  He was trapped in the heart of the Factory District...and he was alone.

  Other panicked North Siders pushed and sprinted past him. Some knocked frantically on doors or threw things at windows. Jac turned around, to see if there was another cause for the chaos, but then he heard gunshots, and he no longer dared to see what chased him.

  The devil themself, it felt like.

  He ran with everything he had. The metal traffic poles swung from the force of the wind, and after several minutes of fleeing, Jac grabbed one desperately to steady himself. With his good arm, he reached for his Creed. He knew a sinner’s prayers were worthless, but he still prayed for mercy. If he could survive the night, he would never cheat anyone ever again. He would never hurt or steal or lie. He would throw the stash of cigarettes Sophia didn’t know about down a sewer. If he could just survive the night.

  Then, as if in answer to his prayer, he saw it.

  He crossed the street toward the church with one arm raised to protect his eyes. Even through the rain, he faintly smelled smoke. Lights in the surrounding buildings flickered from the storm, and he could almost swear that this was the night the world would end.

  Jac threw open the wooden church doors and collapsed onto the damp floorboards. Immediately, strong arms hoisted him up, causing him to scream out from the pain in his shoulder.

  “Asylum!” he screamed. “I seek asylum!”

  But the young man, he discovered, was not a priest. Though a Creed dangled from his neck, he wore regular street clothes, soaked through from the rain.

  And he held a gun to Jac’s head.

  Jac raised his hands, wincing as he did so. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Are you a whiteboot?” he demanded.

  “Do I look like a whiteboot?”

  The man inspected his face with narrowed eyes. “You look familiar.”

  That probably had to do with his wanted poster. “You don’t.”

  “You’re Jac Mardlin,” he breathed, and Jac braced himself for a bullet. After all, Jac was wanted dead or alive. But the man lowered his gun and laughed. “I’m Harvey Gabbiano.”

  Jac recognized the name. Despite their mutual friends, he didn’t relax. Harvey was a Chainer—a bit like Vianca, only he could bind you to a place rather than a person. Jac knew better than to trust him.

  Harvey gestured to the main church area, where a number of others huddled in pews as a priest distributed blankets. “Looks like we have a crowd for the night.”

  Jac didn’t intend to stay more than a few hours, until the madness passed. “Do you know what’s going on out there?”

  “The whiteboots brought in the Republic’s guard to institute a curfew. The North Side is now officially on lockdown until morning.” Harvey shoo
k his head. “They came storming into the variety show where I was, asking for paperwork and everything. The Senate had that vote this morning—the one about the talent registrations. Guess it was about more than they let the public know.”

  Jac had been trying to keep up with the news, but his work with Sophia took nearly all his focus. He hadn’t realized the world had turned so bleak.

  “Do you think the whiteboots will break into a church?” Jac asked. After all, if they were acting like it was the Revolution all over again, then their next step would be closing down all the churches of the Faithful—for good.

  “They might come here,” Harvey said darkly. “But I think they’d go for the gangs first, wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess so,” Jac answered. He still didn’t anticipate getting much sleep tonight.

  Jac crept back into the main hall of the church. Paintings filled each wall, depicting stories that were included in the scriptures. The Faith was a collection of stories, of lessons and superstitions, each one adding more texture to the Faith’s overall fabric.

  The largest painting on the back wall was from a recent story—the martyrdom of a Mizer princess who credited the Revolution to the work of a malison, a Faith term for someone with an unholy talent. The painting illustrated her last moments of life, her head bent low with a noose slipped around her neck. It’d taken place in New Reynes, in Liberty Square—the same place crime lords were executed now.

  A number of blue votive candles burned in rows beneath her, and Jac treaded carefully toward the display. A votive candle symbolized a prayer offering, a wish.

  He wondered if he would die like she did—the death of a gangster. All for an oath he’d made to Levi on a drunken night five years ago. Jac had agreed to this assignment because he’d been prepared to face the worst for his friend, but he wondered if Levi even flinched at the thought of such a death for himself. It was a fitting ending for a lord. For a king.

  Jac reached forward and lit a votive candle for Levi.

  Maybe Jac would die at the hand of Charles Torren. At least then it would be because of his own decision, his own choices, but he couldn’t imagine a more gruesome end. The rumors he’d heard about Charles were frightening enough to paint and frame on one of the walls of this church.

  Jac lit a candle for Sophia. Because of all the rumors he’d heard, he still suspected her tales were the worst.

  Lastly, he lit a candle for himself, and prayed that if he did die, that he’d do so unburdened and unafraid.

  “I don’t meet many gangsters who are Faithful,” Harvey said behind him, causing Jac to startle and knock his candle on the floor. The glass shattered, and the flame flickered out. “Muck. I’m sorry. Let me—”

  “No. No,” Jac told him sharply. He didn’t want a favor from Harvey—a favor from a Chainer meant a debt that demanded something in return. But then pain radiated out from his shoulder, and he let out a groan.

  “What did you do to yourself?” Harvey asked.

  “I dislocated my shoulder,” Jac grumbled. “I’ve had worse.” He realized he said that phrase a lot.

  “Give me five volts, and I’ll fix it.”

  Jac narrowed his eyes. “Like I’d let you help me.”

  “It’s not a favor if you pay me.” Harvey also spoke those words like he said them a lot. “Or sit around and moan to yourself and play martyr, if that’s what you’d like. As if I’d try to trick you in a church.”

  Jac glanced at Harvey’s Creed, the one that shared a chain with an antique gold key. Reluctantly, he paid Harvey his five volts and let him fix his shoulder. This time, he was ready for the pain, and he didn’t make a sound.

  “You’re made of sturdy stuff,” Harvey told him, clearly impressed.

  Jac cleaned up the broken bits of glass and wax and deposited them in an empty bowl of holy water. He slipped into a pew beside Harvey.

  “It’s funny I ended up in a church,” Harvey murmured. “It’s been a while.”

  Jac also hadn’t visited a church for several months. “It hasn’t exactly been an easy year.”

  “No, but that’s when you make the time for it, as my parents used to say. They’re real Faithful people. They’d probably tell me I don’t deserve to step foot in here, not even for asylum.”

  His words reminded Jac of the priest he’d met at the hospital, the night he’d overdosed and Levi had saved his life. The priest who told him a sinner’s prayers wouldn’t go answered. Looking around the quiet church full of trembling North Siders, Jac was feeling more repentant than usual.

  He should’ve just apologized to Sophia about the boxing. He still wished she’d be honest with him, but the last thing he wanted to be was a burden. Not with the way he felt about her.

  “Do you believe in demons?” Jac asked Harvey quietly.

  “Strictly speaking—by the Faith, I mean—demons exist, whether you believe in them or not. They’re just called something else.” Harvey peered up at the painting behind them, featuring a red-eyed malison with a dozen shadows meant to be shades. Shades were curses malisons placed on the souls of sinners, according to more esoteric stories.

  Maybe Jac was too gullible, or maybe it was the sounds of the storm rumbling through the quiet reverence of the church, but he could almost believe in that moment that Charles Torren was as unholy as any story Jac had ever heard.

  “Can you unlove someone?” Harvey asked Jac suddenly, pulling Jac’s thoughts from his own problems.

  Jac cleared his throat awkwardly. He didn’t know Harvey well enough to give advice. “I don’t think so, not really,” he answered. “But you can love someone differently.”

  Harvey sighed. “That won’t be enough.”

  A menacing crack of thunder boomed overhead. Both boys jolted as though it’d been meant for them.

  ENNE

  By the time they reached the museum, Enne’s clothes were soaked through from the storm, her wet shoe leather had blistered her heels, and her gun was out of bullets. Still, she pointed it ahead of her, taking comfort in its steady weight in her hand. The lockdown had begun nearly forty minutes ago, and the rain continued to pour. Water rushed in streams below the street curbs, and the wind at times whipped hard enough to send Enne skidding sideways.

  Levi ran to the wrought iron gates of the museum’s grounds. He shook them, and chains rattled. “Who’s on watch?” he called.

  “It’s Stella,” someone answered through the darkness. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Levi.” Lightning flashed between tree branches and church spires.

  A figure stepped out from behind the trees. “Pup. You’re back. We didn’t know—” Stella stopped as she approached, taking them both in. “What happened to you?”

  “We’ve been running in circles dodging whiteboots. Half the streets in Olde Town are blockaded, and the other half are flooded.”

  Stella unlocked the gate and opened it for them. They slipped inside, and Enne felt a rush of relief to have something separating her and the rest of the North Side.

  “We’re missing a few others,” Stella told him. “Hwan and Liddy.”

  Levi’s face darkened. “Is Tock here?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll go see her now.”

  Stella looked nervously at Enne. “And...Séance?” Last time Enne had entered the museum, she hadn’t been wearing her mask. Now, she looked like a rival lord.

  Enne cleared her throat. “Are the phone lines working?”

  “The storm took them all down.”

  She wouldn’t be able to contact the Spirits until morning. She’d told Grace to take Roy to Jonas’s contact, but she hoped that Grace had the good sense to stay inside.

  The three of them retreated into the museum. The Irons slouched over card tables, playing Tropps in the dim candlelight. Enne recognized a few faces from the Catacombs and the party, but even with some missing, the Irons’ numbers had grown—maybe even doubled—since she’d last seen them. The building itself had
changed, as well. A black carpet draped down its magnificent grand staircase, and flowing curtains now concealed the boarded windows.

  Tock appeared around the corner. Her eyes widened, and she threw her arms around Levi. “I thought the sirens meant you’d been caught.”

  “You think I’m worth all this commotion?”

  He smirked, and she punched him in the arm. “Hwan and Liddy are still missing. They were both at shifts at the Sauterelle.” Her expression turned serious. “We need to send searches out.”

  As Levi launched into a heated discussion with his third, the other Irons peered at Enne curiously, taking in the sight of her soaked South Side dress and the gun by her side. Her hands trembled. They’d nearly died tonight. She’d killed tonight. But instead of feeling scared or horrified, she only felt numb.

  She wanted to convince herself that the worst was over, but she had no idea what this “lockdown” would mean. They should’ve expected this level of retaliation. For the past month, the North Side had been theirs, and Enne wondered how many people had died tonight for the wigheads to take it back.

  “We can’t leave them out there,” Tock growled.

  “We have to. We all have death warrants on our heads. The streets are crawling with whiteboots. No one else is leaving here tonight,” Levi commanded. “They’re smart. We need to believe they found some place to wait out the night.”

  “Do you believe that?” she challenged.

  “No one knows Olde Town better than us,” he answered. “Keep the watches out, but don’t leave the grounds.”

  Tock gritted her teeth. “Fine. We’ll wait until morning.”

  “Good. Now, unless there’s an emergency, please don’t disturb us. We’ve been shot at for the last hour.” Levi’s voice remained impressively nonchalant as he started up the steps and motioned for Enne to follow.

  Her heart was still racing from earlier, and she almost didn’t have it in her to be embarrassed. Almost. And though no one snickered, Levi’s steady voice didn’t fool Tock, who shot Enne a lewd smirk before she turned away.