by Amanda Foody
Enne nearly ran up the steps, eager to escape their stares. But that left her and Levi alone in the empty hallway, and the quietness made her breath hitch. Every sound—his breathing, the rain’s drumming on the roof, the click of the door sliding open—made her stomach loop in uncomfortable, delirious knots. She’d faced far scarier predicaments tonight than a room alone with Levi Glaisyer, but her heart seemed to believe otherwise.
“Are you worried about the missing Irons?” she asked. Though subtle, she could see the angry force in his movements as he jammed his keys in the lock and threw open the door.
“Of course I’m worried,” he said, stalking into the room. Enne followed him, but could make out nothing in the dark.
Levi flipped the light switch, then muttered something under his breath about the storm and snapped his fingers, igniting several candles along his bureau. Like his old bedroom at St. Morse, everything here was impeccably clean, and his headboard looked like it had been made from Olde Town iron.
In the shifting darkness, she could just make out Levi’s furrowed eyebrows and pained expression. “But I can’t send anyone out, right?” he asked her. “Would you?”
“It’s the right decision,” she agreed. Then, because it seemed far easier than staring at him, she turned around and opened the drawers of his dresser. She pulled out a shirt several sizes too large for her, but blessedly dry.
“I think so, too... What are you doing?” Levi asked.
She peeked over her shoulder. “Finding myself dry clothes.”
He opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. “Probably a good idea.” Though his voice seemed to hint that he’d had other ideas.
They each turned around so the other could dress. “I nearly lost Tommy last night, and now this?” Levi said. “It doesn’t matter how rich we are now. If anyone gets caught, I can’t bail them out without getting arrested myself.”
Enne turned around, feeling swallowed by his shirt—it hung nearly to her knees. And though she was far warmer than she had been, she shivered from the way he looked at her in that moment. He’d changed into a sweater, old and clearly worn many nights before. He looked particularly boyish in it.
“You’re already making plans for every terrible scenario,” she told him. “I can see it in your face.”
“I can’t help it—I like to be prepared. I need to be prepared.” Even as he spoke, he made for the papers organized with tabs and clips all over his desk, like he could find his answers hidden in the numbers. “When I had problems before, I’d go to Reymond. And you know what Reymond would say if he were here?”
“That he was proud of you?” Enne guessed.
“That I’m in over my head.” He collapsed into the desk chair.
When Enne felt that way, she found an isolated corner of the finishing school and fired bullets into the wallpaper. But joking about that felt wrong after everything that had happened tonight.
“Do you ever feel like it’s all our fault?” Enne asked.
“The lockdown?”
“The street war. The Orphan Guild. All of it.” Enne swallowed down a painful lump in her throat. “Ever since the Shadow Game, since you killed—”
“Do you regret saving me?” Levi asked.
She gaped. “What? No, of course not—”
“Do you wish I hadn’t killed Semper?”
Enne remembered the thump his body had made when it hit the table, how the blood had seeped across the cards. Lourdes had died at that same table, at his hand.
“Never,” Enne whispered. “Do you?”
“I should, but I don’t.” Levi looked to the window as a crack of lightning flashed across the sky. “Even after the worst does happen, I can’t bring myself to stop, and I don’t want to. I want to be legendary. I want my mark on this world to stain.”
Enne looked out at the storm and thought of all the night remaining between now and morning. If a violent end awaited them at sunrise, then she wanted the hours until then to be infinite.
She walked until she stood in front of him. It was hard to think of their kiss earlier without also remembering the whiteboot she’d killed, but she hadn’t survived this night only to fill it with regrets.
Levi watched her, his breath hitched and silent, as Enne lowered herself onto his lap. No sooner had she slipped her arms behind his neck did his mouth find hers.
Even with the sirens fading miles away, kissing Levi still felt like waiting for the axe to fall. She couldn’t touch him without remembering the bruises that had once painted his skin. She couldn’t taste him without recalling the blood as it mixed with summer rain. They both understood what each kiss was worth in secrets and volts and sins, and so they did not spend them carelessly. They were slow and savored, like the last meal of those condemned.
Her wet hair had dampened both their shirts, and the coldness left chills across her neck. Levi’s hand slid beneath the fabric and up her spine, burning against her bare skin, pulling her closer to him until her chest and stomach felt crushed against his. His other hand crept up her thigh, teasing the hem of her skirt higher. She shuddered, and he smiled against her lips.
When his fingers reached her hips, when there was no more space to close between them, Levi stood up, her legs wrapped around his waist, and carried her to the bed.
After laying her down, he took a step back, as though simply to admire the image of her there. A flush crept up her face, and a memory stirred in her of the vision from the Lovers card during the Shadow Game, of her and Levi in a position much like this one. How many doors in that hallway led to this night? Or did all of them, eventually, even if they’d tried to avoid it?
As he climbed onto the bed, his lips trailed the slopes of her until they returned to hers. Enne’s hands roamed over him, finding the places and doors left unexplored, and she drew her name from him like a dying breath.
“We should stop,” he whispered, even as his arm snaked beneath her back and raised her toward him. She protested, lifting her head to resume their kiss. “This isn’t our last night.”
“You don’t know that,” she murmured.
He pulled away. “I’ve been thinking like that for too long. I don’t want that here, with us.” He lay back, and Enne rested her head against his shoulder.
She interlaced his fingers with hers. “But it will always feel that way,” she said softly. “Even if we pretend otherwise.”
Levi sighed. “I know.”
The sirens outside had faded out. Every few moments, thunder rumbled overhead, the only reminder that this night was not infinite. The storm would pass, and dawn would come.
And a different North Side would await them when it did.
JAC
Jac had worn his good suit for their lunch with Charles Torren, because it was his only piece of clothing that he’d be willing to die in. When Sophia answered her apartment door, dressed in her usual red clothes and thigh-high boots, she gasped, swung the door wider, and threw her arms around him.
“You didn’t come back last night. I thought after the lockdown, you might’ve—”
“I had to spend the night in a church.” Jac stretched out his shoulders. “But other than being a bit stiff, I’m fine.”
She took a step back and looked him over. Jac expected her to ask him how his meeting with the den manager had gone, but instead she asked, “Did you bring me a corsage or something?”
So they were back to this place. At least empty banter was preferable to fighting.
“I thought I’d dress to impress. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you meet the family?”
“Not my family,” she said.
They took the Mole the few stops to the casino. The passengers who shared their train car were unusually quiet for a commuter’s morning, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. When they emerged onto Tropps Street, Jac noticed the gambling taverns had already opened their doors in a pitiful attempt to attract business before the new curfew. Whiteboots and troopers directed
traffic with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
A concierge greeted Jac and Sophia at the front doors of Luckluster. Jac had never actually been inside the casino before, and its black-and-red decor made him feel like he was walking into a haunted fun house, everything striped and glossy as though candy coated.
Sophia’s eyes roamed over every detail of the place, from the flowers carved into the crown molding to the dark candlesticks arranged on a center table, like the pipes of an unholy organ. She ran her fingers over everything, as though deciding which piece to ignite first.
“I was never allowed down here,” Sophia murmured, making him startle. “I was so young. My family has a private entrance to the floor.”
Jac didn’t trust himself to answer her—otherwise he’d probably snap. This offering was a tiny fraction of her truth, a piece of the distorted puzzle that made up her past.
“It’s uglier than I imagined,” she said.
“You’ve never been? In all this time?”
“I didn’t want to come unless it was to burn it.” She curled her hand into a fist. “This comes close enough.”
They followed the concierge down a maze of curving hallways to a private elevator, much like the one in St. Morse that led to Vianca’s personal suite.
When the doors closed, Jac felt for the pistol in his pocket, to reassure himself it was still there.
“I don’t want to kill him today,” Sophia murmured. “I need to face him first. It’s time he learns I’m not the child I once was.”
“You act as though we could kill him,” Jac said.
“He’s only human.” She spoke those words like she was still trying to convince herself. “When he looks us in the eyes and knows that he’s lost, then we’ll kill him.”
“And if he tries to kill us?”
She took a deep breath and pulled a small handgun from her pocket to match his own. “It’s two against one.”
When the doors opened, Charles Torren stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his shirt stretched tight over his large frame. Unlike Sedric, who’d carried a ruby-encrusted knife and worn his hair slicker than his smile, Charles had a serious look to him. His shirt was buttoned up to the collar, almost like his late sister’s medical jacket. The pleats in his pants were perfectly straight, his expression as cool and sharp as a surgical knife. A silver stopwatch hung from his breast pocket, wedged beside a row of pens and a miniature black leather journal.
“Hello, Sophia,” he said. There was a nasal quality to his voice, awkward and uncomfortable. “Look at you.” He clapped his hands as though with glee. “That’s a nice trick, isn’t it? How did you afford a skin-stitcher? That’s what you did, right? I saw the pictures and thought there was some mistake, but I know that look. It’s still you, blonde and blue-eyed and all.”
Jac frowned. Was he shatz? Sophia had brown hair and green eyes. But he remembered the strange reflection in Delia’s glasses when she’d looked at Sophia. That reflection had been blonde, too. Was it possible they saw her as a different person?
She only gave him a nod. “Hello, Charlie.”
If the nickname bothered him, he didn’t show it. He turned his attention to Jac. “You must be Todd.” Charles held out his hand to shake, and Jac obliged. His skin was icy. “Or do you prefer your real name?”
“Call me Jac,” he answered, smiling with tight lips.
Charles didn’t smile back.
Jac tried to imagine how this man could’ve been Sedric Torren’s closest friend. Sedric had always been fond of parties, the more wicked the better. But Charles seemed to take his pleasures served cold—dead cold.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Charles said. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I won’t be scared away,” Sophia said firmly. “Not anymore.”
“Are you still scared of the dark?”
She stiffened. “No.”
But Jac knew that was a lie. In the tunnels beneath the Mistress parlor, she’d clutched at him in the dark. Another secret.
“Why did you invite us here?” Sophia asked.
“Because I wanted to see you. You’re the only family I have left.” He smiled, but it was false and sinuous. “Uncle Garth always used to talk about the importance of family.”
“If you’ve missed me at all, you’ve only missed torturing me. Terrifying me.” Sophia took a threatening step forward. “Every day since we left, I’ve dreamed of killing you.”
Charles licked his lips, like he could say the same. “Is that what you’ve come for?”
“No. Not until I take every last den in this empire. Until I convince everyone you’re even worse than the monster they say you are.”
“Monsters aren’t real, Sophia. You took our stories too much to heart.”
“Only because you carved them into mine.” She glared at him. “So that’s the only reason you invited us here? To reminisce?”
“Of course not. I wanted to make you an offer.”
Sophia narrowed her eyes.
“I’d give it to you,” Charles told her. “All of it.”
Sophia paused. “What do you mean?”
“The casino. The dens. They could be all yours to burn.” Charles reached into his jacket and removed two envelopes. He handed the first to Sophia. “As long as you’re willing to play a little game.”
Sophia grimaced and, with no hesitation, tore the envelope in two and let the pieces flutter to the floor. She pulled Jac closer toward the elevator, but Jac refused to turn his back to Charles, in case he later found a knife in it. “Clearly nothing has changed,” Sophia growled. “Go muck yourself, Char—”
“And one for your partner.” Charles held out the second one for Jac. “You have as much stake in this feud as she does.”
Jac halted, his heart pounding. “What game?” He couldn’t help but ask, even when Sophia shot him a furious look. He should turn away like she did, a united front. But it wasn’t like she’d ever kept them on the same page.
“The greatest one.” Charles took several steps forward, close enough that Jac could smell him. He reeked of disinfectant. “Life and death.”
Unlike the last envelope, Jac recognized his true name written across the front.
“I’m not taking that,” he growled, remembering the Lullaby in his last one.
“This is no trick,” Charles said. “It’s an invitation.”
Jac suspected he might know the game Charles meant—it was a legend. A game where the invited players always lost. And even if Levi and Enne had survived the Shadow Game, Jac knew better than to accept such an invitation willingly.
“It’s not the invitation you’re thinking of,” Charles urged. “Card games aren’t really your style, are they? This is more suited to your preferences.” Charles’s gaze fell on Jac’s lip, inspecting the scar there.
So, Jac guessed, Charles’s game was a fight. And if it was anything like the Shadow Game, then it would be a fight to the death.
If he won, then Charles would be gone, and Jac could watch this entire empire go up in smoke.
If Jac lost, then he would die.
Still, he grabbed the envelope. As he did, Charles’s cold hand slid around his wrist and gripped it tightly. He pulled his pocket watch out from his shirt as he held him. Jac tried to yank his arm away, but even with the help of his strength talent, Charles managed to hold fast.
“One hundred and twelve,” Charles murmured, his voice making goose bumps prickle across Jac’s skin. “Oh, you’re very scared.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’d hurry. You don’t want that invitation to expire. Or she’ll pay the price for it.” His gaze flickered to Sophia. “I bet I’ve made her scream louder than you.”
Jac shoved him with his other hand and tore himself away. “You’re twisted.”
This time, when Charles smiled, it was genuine. And much like his late cousin’s, it was wolflike.
; “Let’s go,” Sophia said sharply. Jac nodded and followed her. Charles smiled as the doors of the elevator closed.
And even though Jac knew he shouldn’t accept anything from such a man, he slipped the invitation into his pocket.
* * *
The pair didn’t speak for most of their journey down Tropps Street. Sweating in the August heat, Jac removed his suit jacket and draped it over his shoulder. His heart still pounded, and he craved a cigarette.
Sophia followed him down his street, though she lived several more blocks down.
“Walking me to my door?” Jac asked. Even though his words were joking, he sounded terse. He didn’t want another fight. “Looking for a kiss goodbye?”
Sophia managed a half-hearted smile. “I thought I’d invite myself inside.”
“That’s forward of you.” Jac climbed the stoop to the door and blocked it from her. He didn’t want her inside. All the meeting with Charles had proven to him was that Sophia’s secrets would always create distance between them. Jac had always known Charles to be a monster, but she could’ve prepared him. She could’ve—for once—actually treated him like a partner.
Sophia’s hand slipped around his waist, making him tense. Then he realized she was reaching for the invitation in his pocket.
Jac grabbed her by the wrist and yanked it out of her hand.
“You don’t know Charles like I do,” she growled at him, tearing herself away. “He gets into your head.”
“You’re right. I don’t know anything, but that’s on you. I’m done. I have an offer to finish this alone, and so I’m taking it.” He turned his back to her and twisted the handle.
Sophia pulled him by his shoulders, but he didn’t budge. “You can’t do this.”
“Of course I can.”
“I won’t let you.”
“And how will you do that?” He slid inside and turned around, prepared to shut the door in her face.
She slid her foot between the door and the frame, stopping him from closing it. “Whatever it takes.”
