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

by Amanda Foody

  “You’ve always been my favorite,” Vianca said, and it was strange to hear those words from her. For so long, those words had been used by others to cut him. Vianca’s favorite. Vianca’s bitch. “But I have faith in the both of you. I know that by offering it to you, I’m also offering it to her.” Vianca gave him a crooked smile and tapped her fingertips together. “You really are quite the pair. I hope you’re both grateful for all I’ve given you.”

  This time, the pain on his face must have been obvious, because Vianca leaned forward and licked her lips.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly.

  She pouted her lips. “This won’t do, Levi. I had really hoped for the set.”

  Levi recoiled in disgust. “Forcing us together seems like a new low, even for you.”

  A glimmer of something passed through Vianca’s eyes. He’d hardly imagined he’d insulted her—nothing he said ever seemed to wound her. But then she shivered, and Levi realized what that look was. A memory.

  She folded her hands neatly on her desk. “Very well. My offer stands, and it’s for you alone.”

  Alone.

  He swallowed down the painful lump in his chest.

  “I’m wanted for treason and murder,” Levi said. “How can you want my association?”

  Vianca shook her head. “Once Worner wins the election, you’ll be pardoned. All of the gangsters will be. The plans are already in motion.”

  Levi had been so focused on Harrison winning the election and giving him this freedom, he’d never considered that maybe, just maybe, this scenario could be a win-win. Harrison had supported Levi and Jac when they needed it, so Levi didn’t like the idea of betraying him. But now, Harrison’s promise was a sinking ship.

  Still, could Levi really abandon all his efforts these past few months for...Vianca?

  There was far more at play in this decision than just Levi’s destiny—there was politics, and blood. Every gangster, every Mistress-dazed vedette, every citizen of the North Side could be affected by his decision, and that was an incredible weight on his shoulders.

  It’d been far easier to hate Vianca when there had been no choice at all.

  He’d resented Enne for using Vianca against him, yet now, he’d consider Vianca’s offer? He knew it was hypocritical, and if he and Enne were still together, he would’ve immediately declined. But now Harrison was losing, the Irons were going broke, the North Side was falling. Both Enne and Jac were gone.

  It’d been far easier to want to be good when he’d had someone to be good for.

  “I need to sleep on it,” he told her.

  Vianca reached into her desk and handed him a key. “Sleep on it in your old suite. I hope you come to the right decision.”

  JAC

  The lights of Luckluster Casino strobed down Tropps Street, beckoning patrons with the offer of discounted rooms, for nights spent at card tables and on king-size beds to pass the time from curfew until dawn. Jac hadn’t seen the Casino District so bright in several weeks, hadn’t seen crowds this size in longer. Music blared with an erratic pulse, and those around him murmured in excitement.

  As Jac slipped past the doors into the casino, stepping on discarded flyers for all-night theatrics and drink specials, he felt with cool certainty that the grandiosity of the night was meant for him.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Sophia had asked when he told her he planned to oversee a drop-off.

  “I’ll be fine,” he’d told her.

  She didn’t know his words had been a promise.

  As Jac wove through the entrance hall, dancers beckoning to him from shadowy alcoves, servers passing him with trays of glittering Snake Eyes, he knew there was a very good chance he was walking toward his death. There were a lot of things he wanted to do before he died, that he’d never be able to do if he failed tonight. He wanted to tell Levi that he was sorry, that trying to protect him had seemed noble at first, but really the request had come from all the worst parts of Jac—the ones that obsessed and worried and itched—and all he’d done was make his friend miserable. He wanted to apologize to Enne, who hadn’t deserved any of the mess he’d made for them.

  Most of all, he wanted to kiss Sophia in front of a smoldering Luckluster Casino once they burned it down.

  But no matter what happened tonight, Jac had accomplished the one thing he’d always wanted—to be a story worth telling. And maybe he would still turn into a cautionary tale, but even if North Side kids whispered about this night with terror in their eyes, at least they would know that Jac Mardlin had finally faced his fears.

  He’d earned his story.

  Jac approached the concierge desk and told the man he had an appointment with Charles. The man nodded, as though he’d been expecting him, and motioned for Jac to follow.

  They climbed the casino’s wrought-iron spiral staircase, one Jac had always assumed was just for show. It looked like something out of Olde Town, black and sharp and gothic. Red ribbons circled around the rods like sticks of candy, and lipstick marks stained several of the widest spikes. The stairs curved up three floors and ended on the fourth, and the landing wrapped around the entire lobby, so you could lean over the railing and look down upon the entrance hall, merely a shadow among the ceiling’s scarlet lights.

  The man opened an impressive set of double doors, and Jac walked into a dark room. Though he couldn’t see, he felt the floor change from carpet to wood, and the room was large enough to make his footsteps echo. He reached to the wall, fumbling for a moment, and then switched on the light.

  It was a banquet hall, the chairs folded in one corner, the tables deconstructed and stacked to the side. Mirrors covered each of the walls, stretching Jac’s reflection infinitely in all directions.

  This was no fighting pit.

  “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” a nasaly voice said behind him. Jac whipped around to see Charles standing at the threshold. He wore a white blazer long enough to be a medical jacket, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “You sent a Dove after us,” Jac said. “Were you expecting me at all?”

  “It was all for fun. A good scare.” He licked his lips at that last word and took a few steps closer. Jac stood his ground, even if he preferred to keep several feet between him and Charles. He took the opportunity to examine Charles for any weak spots, ones he might’ve missed last time. But Charles was several pounds and inches greater than Jac, and though Jac was stronger, he knew that Charles’s split talent would work against him. With a touch, skin to skin, he could give pain. Jac had planned for this by wrapping most of his skin in gauze, but he didn’t know if that would be enough. He could only guess at Charles’s limits and hope he was right.

  “I don’t want to talk,” Jac said brazenly. “Let’s start this.”

  Charles drew a coin and flipped it. “Two hundred and six,” he murmured, a smile sliding across his features. Jac stiffened. He’d never heard Sophia reach anywhere close to that high.

  Then Charles removed his blazer, his button-up, and even his undershirt. Layers of white clothing piled on the floor, and each new piece was a little more stained. Jac’s eyes widened as he saw the painful red lashings covering Charles’s skin.

  Sophia had told Jac that her half siblings used physical penance to raise their luck, and now Jac understood the disgust in her voice. They paid for their misdeeds in blood. The skin across Charles’s chest and shoulders was rippled and uneven from years of whipping, and some of his wounds were so fresh, they still shone with a wet sheen. Charles was clearly practiced, because anyone else would’ve struggled to stand in such pain.

  “Not very pretty, I know,” Charles murmured. “But it’s well worth it, to see the fear in people’s eyes. Just like in yours.”

  Jac gritted his teeth. “I’m revolted, not afraid.”

  As Charles walked closer, Jac crinkled his nose at the smell of him—of blood and antiseptic. “Hasn’t Sophia told yo
u what I can do?” Charles asked.

  When Jac took on pain, it needed to come from somewhere. He imagined that was also true of when Charles gave it. If so, Charles had walked into this fight heavily armed.

  Jac stripped down to his undershirt, which was several sizes too large to conceal more of his skin. The tape and gauze he always wore around his knuckles extended up his forearms. Only a few inches were exposed below his sleeve, pale skin covered in various tattoos. His inner elbow itched slightly underneath his bandages, but he ignored it. He could push past his fear.

  Charles never bothered to close the doors, so the music from downstairs pulsed in here, and some of the red lights danced across the floor.

  “There’s no audience,” Charles said. “Before, during, and after your death, the party will continue in this casino. No one will know who you were or what happened to you, or that you existed at all.”

  “I said I didn’t want to talk,” Jac spat. Really, he didn’t want Charles to see how his words had disturbed him.

  Charles grinned. “Then hit me.”

  Jac approached, his fists raised. First he aimed for Charles’s chest, then his face, his sides. Charles blocked most of his blows, but he did nothing to counter them. It was difficult for Jac to lose himself in this fight, like he always did. There was no sound of an audience cheering or whistles blowing. The reflections in the mirrors played tricks on his vision and balance, but Jac still fought with everything he had, and before long, he’d backed Charles into the wall beside the door.

  Every time he hit Charles, the man smiled. His teeth were red with blood.

  “Keep hitting me, Jac,” he said, his voice edged and manic. “Keep hitting me. Keep hitting me.” And Jac did, even as Charles repeated himself over and over. He should be winning—no matter his talent, Charles should be collapsing from the pain of it all—but somehow, Charles remained standing. He watched Jac with reddened eyes, and then he spit at him, landing bloody saliva on Jac’s cheek. “Keep hitting me, why don’t you?”

  Jac shoved him against the mirror, and Charles’s head thumped hard against the glass, leaving a web of cracks. Still, Charles laughed. Jac held his forearm against Charles’s neck, pinning his wrists behind him. He pressed down hard, choking him.

  “You’re still afraid,” Charles rasped with the little breath he had.

  “You’re shatz,” Jac growled. When he’d imagined this fight, it wasn’t like this. It had felt more satisfying. Even if Charles died tonight, Jac would still hear his laugh in his nightmares. In that way, Charles would still have won.

  “You’re afraid of killing me,” Charles rasped. His eyes fixed on the Creed Jac wore around his neck. “You’ve never killed anyone before.”

  “I want to kill you.” It was both the truth and a lie. Taking an innocent life was an unforgivable sin in the Faith, but Charles was far from innocent.

  “You don’t. You don’t you don’t you don’t.” Charles gasped as Jac pushed on his throat harder. “Maybe...I...can help you...want.”

  Then he turned his head just enough to lick the exposed skin of Jac’s arm.

  It hurt.

  It hurt where Charles had touched him. It hurt afterward, when Jac wrenched his arm away, where his skin was still wet from Charles’s tongue. It hurt all over him, like a fire lit within his veins. Jac staggered back and clutched at his stomach as the pain washed over him.

  Charles straightened and cracked his neck. The smile fell from his face, his expression turning serious. “It’s finally time to play.”

  While Jac caught his breath and lurched forward, desperately aiming to strike, Charles’s hand found the light switch. The room turned dark, and the doors suddenly closed. Charles caught Jac’s punch by the wrist and wrenched his arm up. Jac kneed him hard—hard enough to hear one of his ribs crack—but Charles’s grip barely even loosened. His tongue found Jac’s skin again, tracing down his underarm where his sleeve had slipped. Jac screamed, and his knees buckled.

  Charles held him there as he rode out agony’s wave. Up close, he smelled vaguely acidic—an odor Jac recognized immediately as Rapture. The drug was probably the only thing keeping Charles from passing out.

  Charles’s finger traced up Jac’s stomach beneath his shirt. Jac grabbed his arm to push him away, but he was weak from the pain of it all. Even the fabric of his shirt burned him, as though his skin had been lashed. Charles found Jac’s bruises from old fights and played them as though they were piano keys.

  “Keep hitting me, Jac,” Charles said. He punched Jac hard in the stomach, skin hitting skin, knuckles hitting bone. “Keep hitting me, Jac. Keep hitting me, Jac.” Blow after blow, and Charles’s grip on his left arm was the only thing keeping Jac from collapsing on the floor. The contents of his stomach spun, and Jac barely had enough control left to keep them down. To keep himself breathing.

  Charles snapped his fingers in front of Jac’s face. “Stay with me. No fainting.”

  He let go of him, and Jac hit the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him. His mind urged his body to scramble up, to run, but everything ached. He was helpless as Charles grabbed his leg and dragged him toward the back of the room, like an alligator pulling its victim into the deep. Jac arched his neck only enough to see the crack of red light beneath the door. It was a glimpse of hope, and it was growing farther away.

  Jac had walked into Luckluster knowing this could be his fate, and no matter what Charles did to him, he didn’t want to break enough to regret his decision. He’d come here to save Sophia and Levi. He’d come here to destroy the empire that had nearly destroyed him.

  But it hurt. So much.

  His skin, his bruises, his bones, his stomach, his head. Everything hurt. And every time a wave of pain began to fade, Charles seemed to sense it. As he dragged Jac across the floor, his pointer finger found its way under Jac’s sock, twisting beneath the cotton, stroking the smooth parts of the skin below his ankle. Jac tried to stifle his screams, but it seemed like everything only hurt more, then. He could see nothing but the red light, feel and hear and smell nothing but Charles. He didn’t even have enough lucidity in him to form a useless sinner’s prayer.

  Charles dropped his leg. Jac managed to prop himself up on his elbows, but Charles’s shoe found his breastbone and pushed him down. He grabbed Charles’s calf to push him off, but he could only sputter, only gasp.

  “I’ve been thinking of our game for months now. I wanted one I’ve never played before.”

  Charles lifted his foot and knelt beside him. As Jac tried to push himself away, Charles grabbed him by the wrist and wrenched his arm closer. Slowly, he unraveled the gauze. Jac felt something cold and wet swab over the inside of his elbow. It smelled sterile.

  “No,” Jac moaned, panic making his voice crack. He tried to kick his legs at Charles, but he missed.

  Pop. Something opened. And even if it was too dark to see, Jac knew what it was. Though Charles was still preparing, Jac could already feel the needle against his skin, like an itch, like a nightmare. The liquid inside would be clear and familiar. It wouldn’t be enough for an overdose—on the contrary, it would be just enough to take all the pain away. Just enough so that Charles could continue to play with him. To draw out the game as long as he liked.

  “Don’t,” Jac whispered hoarsely. He’d prepared himself for everything...except that.

  “Have we already reached the part where you beg?”

  Charles traced his finger down Jac’s neck, and Jac choked as he burned. Every breath was fire.

  “It would feel better. You know it would. All of the pain will stop.”

  Then Jac did feel the needle against his arm, teasing circles over his skin.

  “Killing can grow boring after a while,” Charles said. “I forget the faces half the time. So I like to experiment. I like to make sure I learn something. And I always knew what I would ask you, once we reached this point.” The needle pressed into Jac’s skin. The pinch was almost unnoticeable compared t
o the rest of it, but that tiny prick made Jac’s chest heave. “Would you plead for me to keep hurting you? Or would you beg me for this?”

  Jac didn’t recall the last time he’d cried, though he could feel tears streaking down his face now. He didn’t remember anything outside of this room—nothing except a promise...a promise he’d made to Sophia that he’d be okay.

  Jac mustered all the breath he could. “Keep hitting me, Charlie.”

  The red light behind him grew brighter. The door swung open, and a long shadow stretched across the floor. Their game was no longer private.

  The lights switched on, and though Jac couldn’t see who’d entered, he could see Charles. He could see the Raptured redness of his eyes now, the oozing lashes on his chest, the syringe he pressed into Jac’s arm. But something about the brightness, the seeing, made him less afraid.

  Charles claimed he forgot the faces of those he killed, but with the darkness lifted, he wouldn’t forget Jac’s. He would remember this moment, the one he’d been waiting for. And he would remember that Jac had said no.

  “Sophia,” Charles purred, licking his lips. “I don’t remember inviting you.”

  Jac should’ve felt relieved, but he didn’t have any illusions about being saved. If anything, Sophia had only damned them both.

  “Back away from him,” she commanded. Jac made out the shape of a gun in her shadow.

  “My sister tried a gun, too,” Charles said. “Are you lucky enough to hit me? She wasn’t.”

  “I was lucky enough to find this room.” There was the click of a safety pulling off. “If you give him that, I’ll kill you.”

  Jac felt the needle sliding out of his arm, and he choked out a sob of relief.

  “Give him that? He asked me not to.” The syringe clattered on the wooden floor. “I admit, I hadn’t expected that.”

  “Stand up,” Sophia snapped.

  “You won’t hit me. All those lucky charms, all this bad luck I’ve been accruing on him... You still won’t have enough to kill me.” Charles stood up and walked closer to her. “But we could play. How many bullets do you have? How many chances? If you were sure, if you were lucky enough, I could turn out the lights, and you could try to shoot me through the heart.”