by Amanda Foody
By the time they got there, it was nearly empty. One of the objects that remained was the king’s Token, larger and purely a coin. Although the metal always hummed with an inexplicable warmth, last night, the king’s eye had turned purple. But only Enne could see that.
Likely because she’d awakened her dormant Mizer blood talent during the Shadow Game. Even now, she could feel the volts, warm and buzzing within her skin—faint, but there. Maybe the color of the king’s eyes was something only a Mizer could see.
Or maybe she was simply going shatz. The City of Sin had changed Enne in many ways, but she was far too practical to start thinking like a superstitious Faithful.
She closed her eyes and squeezed the coins again, tuning out the sirens searching for her and Levi. The more she listened to them, the more she could hear something else in their sounds—a phantom tick, tick, tick, like the timer from the Shadow Game. She could still picture the gray, unfeeling faces of the other players from the Phoenix Club. It haunted her that somewhere in New Reynes, they went about their own lives, despite how they had tried to end hers.
Lourdes was dead at their hands, and Enne’s birth mother had suffered the same fate.
Yet still the perpetrators lived.
Before Enne’s thoughts could continue down this unsettling path, Jac choked out, “They won’t stop looking for Levi.” He looked up through the space between the curtains, as if searching for gathering storm clouds in a clear sky.
His words did nothing to calm her nerves. The tick, tick, tick grew louder. She shot an anxious glance at her night table to assure herself the clockwork timer wasn’t actually beside her. Her free hand instinctively felt for the gun underneath her pillow.
She’d destroyed the timer once. She’d escaped.
She could do it again.
Lola stirred and pulled the blankets over her head. “Sounds like doom.”
“You could see doom in the burn markings on your toast,” Enne snapped. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Lola’s constant pessimism.
Lola clicked her tongue and rolled over, her back to both of them.
Enne carefully set both the Tokens and her revolver on the nightstand before standing up. Once she did, she realized how tired she was—tired all the way down to her bones. The stains on her bedsheets betrayed how terribly she’d slept the past few nights; they were gray from sweat and grief-stricken tears.
Three days ago, Enne had learned that her mother was dead. And despite all that had happened, and all the mystery still clouding Lourdes’ double life, three days was hardly enough time to mourn.
Especially when there were other emotions layered within her grief, complicating it, twisting it. There was the frustration at never truly knowing Lourdes. Guilt that Enne had unwittingly foiled her mother’s efforts to protect her. Hurt that Lourdes had used her talents to keep Enne isolated her entire life.
Even worse than realizing she’d been wrong about Lourdes was realizing she’d been wrong about herself. Talents were more than simply abilities—they were a part of a person’s identity. Every person possessed two. The stronger one was called the blood talent, and the weaker one, the split talent. All of Enne’s life, she’d believed she was a Salta, that she came from a common, mundane dancing family. In Bellamy, she’d struggled and wept trying to keep up with the illustrious dancing talents of her classmates. That was who she had been—the person always reaching for next to last. The person never truly belonging. The person who couldn’t help but fail.
Because Lourdes had let her believe it.
It would take a long time to untangle those emotions. For now, all she understood was how deeply she missed her mother.
“Vianca will want to see you,” Jac said warily, once again interrupting Enne’s thoughts. He was right—last night, Vianca had instructed Enne to find her as soon as she woke up.
I have excellent plans for you, my dear, Vianca had purred.
An acidic mixture of fear and hatred rose in her throat when she thought about Vianca. Whatever Vianca had planned for her, it had little to do with Enne’s well-being and all to do with the donna’s games with her enemies across the city. Enne’s only value was her usefulness. Even though Vianca couldn’t remove her omerta even if she wanted to, there were other ways to dispose of Enne...if Enne no longer impressed.
Enne refused to let that happen. She’d lost too much to the City of Sin to lose her life, as well. No matter what it took, she would survive this city.
She rose, pushing her concerns away. “I’ll go see Vianca now. Both of you, wait here until I come back.”
“I didn’t realize I was taking orders from you now, missy,” Jac said, smirking.
Enne didn’t rise to his provocation. “It’s past noon. Vianca will have news about what’s happened while we slept. You shouldn’t go outside unaware.”
“And what will we do while we wait?” Lola asked, yanking the blankets from her face. “Play cards?”
“You look like a sore loser, Dove,” Jac teased.
“I don’t gamble away my voltage.”
He shot her a sly smile. “Oh, there’s more you can bet than volts.”
Lola sat up, her expression unamused. “I’ve killed men twice as big as you.”
Enne knew better than to believe her. Lola was all talk, like when she’d claimed she could drive and then nearly flipped their hot-wired motorcar, or when she’d threatened Enne’s life but could barely hold her own ground under attack. Jac would best her within seconds in a fight.
But still, her glare cut sharper than any of her knives. Jac averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.
Enne grabbed a dress out of her closet and walked to the bathroom. She stared at her strange violet eyes in the mirror, eyes that had been brown until last night. Her hand trembled as she reached for the trick contact lenses Levi had given her. It would be easier if he were here. If she didn’t have to face the donna—and the consequences of what they had done—alone.
She wondered if he’d woken thinking the same.
On her way out the door, Enne called back to Lola, “Don’t scare Jac too much while I’m gone.”
* * *
One thing Enne missed desperately about Bellamy was the decor. There, upholstery was floral, curtains were frilled, and everything was the color of macarons—cantaloupe orange, pistachio green, and rose pink. Enne’s bedroom had resembled a patisserie, and for her, serenity was curling up on her bed amid cream-colored blankets, with a plate of cucumber sandwiches, a scandalous romance novel by her favorite author, and a beeswax candle scenting her room with lavender.
If Enne’s aesthetic was a bakery, then Vianca’s was a very expensive grotto. All of St. Morse Casino was decorated in emerald and sapphire, with dark wood and velvet fabric and whatever else devoured the light. There was something sinister in its details. The way the legs of tables curled like coiled snakes. The way it smelled of vinegar, like something pickled and preserved. The way the portraits of executed Mizer families lined each of the hallways, staring at unsettled patrons as they passed.
And Vianca, her long fingernails clacking against her desk, her reptilian green eyes narrowed and fixed on Enne’s throat, was exactly the sort of monster that slithered out of grottos.
“Come here,” Vianca cooed as Enne shut the office door. The pale skin around her forehead and lips sagged in the dim fluorescent light. “Let me look at you.”
Enne gulped and walked to Vianca’s desk. The old woman wrapped her bony, ring-covered fingers around Enne’s chin and pulled her down to examine her face. Her breath smelled of tea and vermouth.
Startled at the close inspection, Enne swallowed as her stomach leaped into her throat, and she prayed the purple of her eyes didn’t show through the contacts. Keeping secrets from Vianca Augustine was dangerous. She kept enough portraits of Mizers in her casino to r
ecognize when one was trembling right in front of her, even if the world believed every Mizer to be dead.
Don’t let them see your fear. She mentally recited one of Lourdes’s rules, which her mother had always told her were for proper behavior. She’d learned last week that they were actually the street rules of New Reynes. Apparently behaving like a lady or like a criminal wasn’t so different.
“You’d never know, looking at you,” Vianca mused. “You must have fangs hidden beneath your cupid’s bow. Or shadows lurking in those doe eyes.”
Those words didn’t sit well with Enne. Vianca was the only monster in this room.
Vianca let her go. “I gained more than I’d imagined with you, my dear. And I reward those who please me.”
She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a leather pouch. She opened it and removed a glass orb, sparking with volts. It glowed bright enough to light the room, and Enne guessed there were at least a hundred inside. A small fortune on its own, and there looked to be several orbs in the pouch.
“I’ve put up with interviews about Mr. Glaisyer all morning for this voltage, and here I am, giving it to you.” Vianca patted Enne’s hand. “Remember this. Remember how well I treat you.”
“Thank you, Madame,” Enne managed. Volts were hardly enough to forgive how Vianca had quite literally delivered Enne to Sedric Torren, wrapped in a bow and all, but Enne wasn’t so proud that she wouldn’t take them—nor so unintelligent as not to thank the donna of the Augustine Family for such a generous gift.
“Buy yourself whatever you need. And Mr. Glaisyer and Mr. Mardlin, as well. Now take a seat.”
Enne did so, laying the pouch on her lap. Of course she hadn’t come here only to be doted on. Vianca always wanted something. She might give occasionally, but she would always take twice as much.
Vianca slid Enne that morning’s edition of The Crimes & The Times. Enne stared in horror at the wanted sketch of herself below the headline. Séance’s black mask covered most of her features, and although Enne knew it was supposed to be her, it wasn’t an exact match. Her jawline wasn’t wide enough, and her forehead was much too high. No one would pass her on the street and look twice.
Unlike hers, Levi’s adjacent sketch was entirely recognizable. He wore his signature smirk, like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself on the front page.
SENATE CALLS FOR WAR ON THE GANGS
Enne’s stomach dropped as she scanned the article. There were portraits of the lord and second of every gang, as well as the Orphan Guild. She held her breath as she examined Jac’s easy smile and the warrant for his arrest and execution below it. She really hoped he’d listened to her and stayed in her room.
“Have you heard of Worner Prescott?” Vianca asked.
Enne skimmed the page, in case she’d missed his name. He wasn’t mentioned. “No, Madame.”
“And that is precisely the problem.” Vianca sighed and poured herself a refill of her tea, though the drink looked long cold. “There’s an election this November for the seat of the New Reynes representative—one of the most influential positions in the Senate. Worner Prescott is the monarchist party’s candidate.”
Enne knew little of politics. Because Bellamy was only a territory, not a state of the Republic, they didn’t have voting or representation rights. The rivalry of the First and monarchist parties was no concern to them. Most found politics a beastly discussion at salons and parties.
Still, she knew the reputation of the monarchists: violent radicals. Lourdes had devoted her life to their cause, but Enne didn’t know why. She wasn’t sure if this meant Lourdes, too, had been a violent radical, or if the monarchist party was less despicable than she’d always believed. It unnerved her that Lourdes and Vianca had something so fundamental in common.
Malcolm Semper, the late Chancellor of the Republic, had been the father of the First Party. Josephine Fenice, his successor, was another First Party politician, another soulless member of the Phoenix Club. Enne might hesitate to call herself a monarchist, but she did know if the Phoenix Club was on one side, then she was on the other.
“Sedric Torren was running against Prescott,” Vianca continued. “Now that he’s dead—much thanks to you, my dear—the First Party will need to scramble for a new candidate and campaign. For once, we have the advantage.”
The Augustine and Torren Families had rival casino and drug empires, and so Enne had always assumed Vianca had wanted Sedric gone because he was a business competitor. But clearly Vianca had also had political motives since the beginning.
“On top of this, we have this supposed war,” Vianca continued. “Do you know anything about the Great Street War?”
Enne shook her head. She only vaguely remembered it from Levi’s stories and from her guidebook.
“For the South Side, it wasn’t noteworthy. It barely touched them,” Vianca explained. “But for the North, it was bloodbaths and chaos.” Her tongue lingered on those last few words, as if savoring their taste. “We can only hope for history to repeat itself. The monarchist party thrives on troubled times.”
Bloodbaths and chaos. Would that happen again? What must that have meant, by New Reynes’s standards?
“You’ve thoroughly impressed me, Miss Salta. But this new assignment is long-term, and you’ll need more than luck and charm to manage it,” Vianca told her, as if Enne had escaped the Shadow Game solely on her superficial qualities. “Because of it, I’m terminating your role with the acrobatics troupe.”
Enne gaped. “But...but—”
“It’s decided. The troupe takes up too much of your time. And I would prefer our working relationship to remain outside of public knowledge...unlike my relationship with Mr. Glaisyer.”
Acrobatics was the only thing in New Reynes Enne had actually enjoyed. She might not have had her cucumber sandwiches, but at least she had her work as a release. Enne had spent her entire life fighting to achieve mediocrity, and for the first time, she’d discovered that she was naturally talented at something. For once, she could compete. She could excel. And just like that, after only a week and a half, Vianca was taking it from her.
“What is this new assignment?” Enne gritted out between her teeth.
“You’re going to embrace Séance’s newfound infamy and fashion yourself into a proper street lord.” The donna let out an unnatural giggle and sipped her tea.
“You can’t be serious,” Enne whispered. The streets of the North Side had always been dangerous, and now they were even more so, according to the article right in front of her. And Enne might’ve been friends with Levi, but she didn’t know the first thing about being a successful street lord—as if Levi really served as any example.
“Am I ever not serious?” Vianca poured a second cup of stale tea and slid it to her. Enne took it only to have something to fiddle with to soothe her nerves. “I need someone influencing the North Side from the streets, and who better than the famous Séance?”
“The Iron Lord?” Enne suggested.
Vianca scoffed. “Levi’s ridiculous dreams of becoming a street lord are over. Will he be managing a gambling enterprise from Zula’s basement? He doesn’t have the volts or the connections, and with the Scar Lord dead and Mr. Mardlin now an equally wanted man, who will be Levi’s face?” She shook her head, the corners of her lips tilting into a smile. Enne didn’t understand how Vianca could pretend to care about Levi, yet take such pleasure in the mutilation of his desires. “That boy has always had delusions of grandeur. Besides, I intend for Levi to help you. As a consultant, if you will. You’re a more promising criminal than he ever was.”
It was a compliment Enne neither wanted nor appreciated. Lola might’ve called Enne a lord, but Enne wasn’t someone who could command a real gang. She’d hoped that, in a few months’ time, Séance’s name would slowly fade from notoriety to memory. If she had to embrace Séance’s persona
and live the life of Enne Scordata, a born criminal, then how much of Enne Salta—the dancer, the lady, the romantic—would remain? She had so little left to surrender to New Reynes.
“This is what you will do. Now listen closely.” Vianca leaned forward and lowered her voice. “First, you must pay a visit to dear Bryce.”
Enne frowned in confusion. “Bryce?”
“The Guildmaster,” Vianca said impatiently. “He’ll help you recruit others. Use the remaining volts I gave you to purchase members.”
The Guildmaster referred to the Orphan Guild. Enne didn’t know much about them. She knew Lola worked for them as a blood gazer—she could read the talents of those who didn’t know their ancestry. Enne remembered Harvey Gabbiano, their salesman, who had used his Chaining blood talent to try to ensnare Enne at a cabaret. She also knew from Reymond that Levi opposed the practices of the Orphan Guild on some sort of moral high ground.
“I have a busy schedule these next few months supporting the campaign,” Vianca continued. “I cannot be everywhere at once. I need someone to insert themselves into Worner Prescott’s inner circle. I’m investing a fortune into this candidate, so I want to know what he’s doing at all times—who he speaks with, where he goes. That information is invaluable. The First Party has already succumbed to corruption, and we can’t afford to do the same.”
Enne gaped. Anyone operating in Prescott’s inner circle would need to be wealthy, refined... Goodness knew how Enne could locate such a person in the North Side. She imagined herself attempting to teach etiquette to Jac or Lola, who would probably question the purpose of a butter knife if you couldn’t stab anything with it.
“I’m not sure the Orphan Guild will be able to supply such a person,” Enne said slowly.
Vianca raised her eyebrows. “I was referring to you. We’ll see if that finishing school of yours paid off, won’t we?”
Enne caught her breath. The South Side might’ve been the closest place to Bellamy in New Reynes, but it was also the place the Phoenix Club called home.
