by Amanda Foody
Jac had braced himself for something sweet and nauseating, so he wound up laughing so hard he wheezed. “With pleasure.”
Then, without warning, Enne wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. “Be careful,” she told him.
“Always am,” he managed. But Enne still looked skeptical.
“No, you’re not.”
He shot Lola a smile. “Now’s your chance, Dove.”
“I don’t do hugs,” she said flatly. “Just don’t die.”
“Words I’ll cherish forever.”
After Enne let him go, he grabbed the bags, exchanged goodbyes, and left. He found his driver waiting for him in the alley out back. Before climbing in the car, Jac took a deep gulp of air—his first full breath since he’d entered St. Morse Casino the night before. It didn’t matter how many gifts he received or how much protection he was given; he could never bring himself to think of Vianca Augustine as anything less than despicable.
“I’d like to make a detour,” Jac told the driver, and he gave him the address to his apartment.
Olde Town, much like the Casino District, was quiet and still. Jac peeked from behind his window screen at the streets they passed, at the barred windows and chipped paint. The sunlight came and went as they drove, disappearing behind spires and church towers and reappearing for fleeting moments in the too-narrow alleys.
Jac lived on a large residential street. His building was too old to have central heating or electricity, and on a day like this, he would shove his bed close to the window, drenched in sweat, and listen to his neighbors fighting down the hall while he waited for his shift to start. It wasn’t a great place, but it was far better than his last. There were no bad memories there.
Now, his entire block was cut off with bright yellow signs, informing Olde Town residents that Genever Street was a crime scene. The car came to a slow halt, and Jac stared at the whiteboots standing outside his front steps, speaking to a neighbor of his whom he only dimly recognized. They held wanted posters in their hands.
Have you seen this man before? they probably asked.
Jac fiddled with his necklace. It was a Creed, a symbol of the old Faith. Jac was more superstitious than he was reverent, but it was nice, now and again, to pray for something.
When a priest had first taught Jac to pray, he told him the prayers of a sinful conscience would go unanswered. Jac thought of the volts he’d helped Levi scam—both from the rich and from the Irons. He thought of the wounds he’d left on Chez Phillips to save Levi’s life. He thought of his own anger and resentment and desires, and the ashes left in the bottom of Enne’s teacup.
He tried very hard to feel sorry.
But as he stared at those yellow signs, at what all of this had led up to, he knew he wouldn’t pray for forgiveness. They could all pray for forgiveness when they escaped to a place far, far away from here, where there were no bounties on their heads, where no one knew their faces at all. A place he doubted Levi would ever willingly go.
Or they could pray for forgiveness when they all hanged. That seemed a more likely scenario.
But because Jac Mardlin was an unrepentant sinner who didn’t want to die, all he had left to pray for was mercy.
LEVI
Levi hadn’t forgiven Zula Slyk. Three days ago, he and Enne had arrived at Her Forgotten Histories, Zula’s monarchist newspaper, grasping at their last threads of hope and searching for answers about Lourdes Alfero. Bad news hurt no matter how gently you dealt it, but Zula had crafted knives out of her words, designed to bleed and infect and scar.
And all for what? For Enne to flee to the safety of her old life in Bellamy? She bore Vianca’s omerta. She was a prisoner of the City of Sin, just like him.
As he stepped into Her Forgotten Histories and found Zula sitting at her desk, he glared at the journalist’s serious, unfriendly face and decided he hated her.
“Your shades are darker since you were last here,” Zula said as a form of greeting—though Levi still had no idea what that meant. She had short, curly hair, fair skin, and wore far too much jewelry—most notably a large wooden Creed that hung down past her navel. The black tattoos of eyes over her eyelids sent a shiver down Levi’s spine. “You’ve killed.”
He felt no guilt over killing Chancellor Semper, just as Semper had undoubtedly felt no guilt over almost killing him.
“I’ve survived,” Levi said darkly.
She glanced over him. “Barely, by the looks of you.”
Her Forgotten Histories resembled a typical office, filled with unoccupied desks, an old printing press, and a gnarled gray carpet. It looked like it belonged on the South Side, where middle-aged men carrying briefcases and toiling over paperwork could earn the wages they’d later gamble away on Tropps Street. But unlike those places, bits of Faith merchandise were tucked discreetly around the room—ancient etchings in wind chimes, paintings with Creeds hidden in their background, prayer tokens scattered on countertops. Those would never be spotted below the Brint River; the Faith reminded the wigheads too much of the Mizer kings, who had used the Faith’s lore to gain more political power for themselves. It was technically banned after the Revolution.
“Vianca didn’t give me much of a choice in letting you stay here,” Zula huffed. “I don’t want any trouble. Not from the whiteboots. Not from that gang of yours.”
“There won’t be trouble. I’m an excellent houseguest.”
Zula hmphed like she didn’t believe him, then stood up and slid aside the carpet to reveal a trapdoor. “You’ll be down there.”
As she pulled it open and ushered Levi down the wooden steps, excitement stirred in his stomach. He was a person of interest now. Living a life of whispers and mystery, raising empires out of shadows. Now that he wasn’t bemoaning his future, he could see the glamor in his situation.
Until he smelled the sewage.
Zula pulled the string on a dangling light bulb, illuminating an unfinished cellar filled with dusty, forbidden books; a cot; and, in the corner, a sink and a toilet. The stench wafted from behind a door that Levi guessed led to the sewers—probably to serve as a less conspicuous exit.
It took all Levi had not to retch. Even hooch kept down here would sour.
“Not exactly your penthouse in St. Morse, is it?” Zula asked smugly.
He clicked his tongue. “It was never mine. It was always Vianca’s.”
“It was comfort all the same.”
Levi ignored that comment. “I’m expecting company,” he told her. Jac would meet him here this evening, assuming his friend found a means of safely venturing outside of St. Morse.
“I don’t host playdates.”
“We won’t be trouble. Just let him inside when he comes.”
Zula clicked her tongue and walked up the stairs. Before she closed the trapdoor behind her, she added, “And the girl? Is she this Séance character in all the newspapers?”
“It’s none of your business.” Zula had made it clear she’d rather criticize Enne than help her, and Levi didn’t care that Zula had been Lourdes’s friend. She didn’t deserve to know anything about Enne.
“This will end badly,” Zula snapped, echoing her words from their last meeting, and slammed the trapdoor.
* * *
Two hours later, footsteps creaked upstairs. Levi lay on the rigid cot, attempting to sleep, but he suspected Zula was slamming her drawers and clacking her pens against her desk just to irritate him.
“How long are you staying? This isn’t a hostel,” he heard Zula snap. “And look at you. All those burdens on your soul. They’ll devour you, if you let them.”
“Um... Yeah, well, the bags are actually for Levi.” That sounded like Jac. He was early.
The trapdoor opened, and Jac’s calming aura mingled with the unpleasant odors of the cellar. It wafted in wisps and ribbons and smelled like linen and the color gray. Everything about Jac was gray. His blond hair was more colorless than golden. His irises, his skin...even the ever-present dark ci
rcles drooping beneath his eyes. During a bright afternoon, with the sun reflecting off his fair features, you’d almost mistake him for a trick of the light.
Jac thumped down the steps, shopping bags from several ritzy Tropps Street boutiques hoisted over his shoulders. He dropped them on the bed and crossed his heart, as gangsters did for their lord.
“That woman’s spooky,” Jac said, coughing. “And it smells like muck down here.” His face twisted in disgust as he lit a match and waved it around the room.
“You might as well light the whole building on fire,” Levi grumbled.
Jac sighed and resigned himself to breathing through his shirt. “You look terrible.”
“I’ll heal,” Levi responded blandly, even though it seemed like the more time that passed, the more he ached.
“I know you’ll say no, but I’m offering anyway.” Jac gave him a pointed look.
Jac’s split name was Dorner, from a family capable of manipulating pain. Because it was his split talent, his abilities were weaker—he could take pain away, but when he did, he held onto the pain himself. Jac claimed his strength blood talent made him more resistant, that he could heal faster, hurt less, and take more, but Levi didn’t believe that.
Besides, this pain should be his and his alone.
“I’ve never been better,” Levi lied.
Jac pursed his lips. “Well, I brought meds. And clothes.”
“I don’t want any more of Vianca’s clothes.”
“They’re from Enne.”
Levi sat up and eyed the bags with curiosity. He couldn’t believe she’d had time to go shopping, especially on his behalf, but he was surprised to find a full new wardrobe inside. The clothes weren’t exactly his style—all pinstripes and subtle and black—but that was probably the point. Levi needed to be less recognizable.
As if he’d heard his thoughts, Jac handed Levi a tube of something. “Hair dye,” he explained. “It’s for both of us.”
Levi snorted as he popped open the bottle of pain medication. “Do we have matching outfits, as well?”
“Don’t be thick. You look terrible in plaid.” Indeed, Jac pulled out a blazer identical to Levi’s in every way except for the print. The color was burgundy, the stitches silky and light-catching—something flashy that Reymond would’ve worn. The thought hit Levi with a wave of grief. If Reymond were alive, Levi would’ve been hiding with him, not with a woman he detested and barely knew.
The raven black hair dye would suit Levi’s dark complexion, but he was hesitant to lose his natural hair. The coloring—copper at the roots and black at the ends—was the mark of an orb-maker, and it was as much a part of his identity as his brown skin, as the Iron ace and spade tattoos on his arms, as the memories of every boy and every girl he’d kissed. Even though Levi didn’t make orbs, his talent, his family, and his past still defined him. The dye felt like an erasure.
But that was exactly why he needed it. His hair was too recognizable, especially when orb-makers were so scarce. A bounty hunter wouldn’t even need to know his face to guess his identity.
As they washed their hair out in the sink, Jac quietly asked, “Have you seen the papers?”
“I have,” he answered, not meeting his friend’s eyes. He’d hoped for a little more time before telling Jac about Harrison. Maybe it was unfair to stall, under the circumstances, but Levi had just dyed over centuries of Glaisyer history and pride in his hair, and he could use some extra time to pretend at least one part of his life was still normal.
“Do you think it really will be like last time? The war?” Jac asked.
A thrill danced in Levi’s chest—a dangerous, irrational thrill. Because Levi might have raised himself on the legends of the Great Street War and made heroes out of masterminds like Veil and Havoc, but all of those stories had ended in ruin.
The only thing he should’ve felt was fear.
“I doubt it will be like last time,” Levi answered, even if a small part of him hoped that wasn’t true. Despite his many recent and frightening brushes with death, the thought of failure scared him more. He would rather die a legend than end his life in anonymity. Jac would probably punch him if he heard him say that, though.
Once Levi finished rinsing out the dye, he nervously checked his reflection in the mirror. It was silly to claim he looked drastically different, but he felt like he did. He wondered what his father would say to see him like this. He’d probably grunt that, because Levi’s two talents clashed with one another, Levi had never been much of an orb-maker, anyway.
Without the mark of his blood talent, Levi’s head of tight, short curls resembled those of most people from Caroko, the city where his parents had been born. Levi was actually pleased with his new look. He’d never noticed how closely he resembled his mother.
Jac, meanwhile, appeared nearly unrecognizable. The black hair contrasted harshly against the pallor of his skin, as did the new pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Apparently Enne had provided them with a full dress-up set. The plaid burgundy suit, the bow-tie, the hint of his tattoos beneath his collar—Jac was remade. Something slicker and more wicked.
“How do I look?” he asked, grinning wide enough to show his dimples.
“You look sharp. What about me?”
Jac examined his all-black ensemble. “Like a menace.”
Levi smugly rubbed some hair grease through his curls, then straightened his jacket. He didn’t normally wear this much black, and the platforms on his shoes made him unusually tall, but he did feel good. Fresh. A new look for a new beginning.
Zula’s voice echoed above them. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You’re asking quite a lot of my hospitality.”
“I thought we were in agreement about Mr. Glaisyer,” the intruder responded.
Levi and Jac warily met each other’s eyes. Levi would recognize that voice anywhere, and sure enough, he sensed the faint wisps of the donna’s green, acidic aura from upstairs. Jac turned a similar shade of green himself.
“He’s downstairs,” Zula told her.
Levi’s skin prickled as the trapdoor swung open and Vianca Augustine descended into the grimy cellar. She scanned the room, narrowing her green eyes—an exact match of her son’s, he realized. She passed over Jac with disinterest, as if he might as well have been wallpaper. Her gaze, instead, fell on Levi, and his stomach clenched.
“You’ve changed your hair.” Vianca pouted. “You used to be so striking.”
Levi rolled his eyes. Dyeing his hair had been a hard decision, but it had nothing to do with his vanity.
“How have you found your accommodations here?” Vianca asked. She ran a finger along one of the liquor shelves and inspected the dust.
“Who wouldn’t want to live in a cellar that smells like muck?” he said flatly.
“Missing St. Morse already?”
Levi would gladly inhale the odors of sewage every night if it meant avoiding her casino. Even if he could barely breathe, he was still breathing somewhat free. And if he had his way, he’d find a more suitable place in Olde Town as soon as possible. Maybe even tonight. As long as Vianca had a means of contacting him, what did she care where he lived? She and Zula didn’t exactly seem like friends.
“Why are you here?” he asked. He didn’t like the idea of Vianca paying him visits whenever she wished, or Jac witnessing exactly how helpless Levi was in the donna’s presence.
“Because I’m in need of you, of course.”
She twisted the emerald ring around her fourth finger, identical to the one Harrison also wore. Levi resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty hands on his jacket; his betrayal was probably written plain on his face.
“I spoke with Miss Salta this morning. Since you’re already so close...” Vianca looked at him pointedly, as though accusing the two of them of something. Perhaps she assumed their relationship was more than a casual acquaintance. The thought didn’t sit well with Levi. All of his weaknesses and desires were Vianca’s to expl
oit, and he didn’t want Enne to face Vianca’s torment more than she already did. “I thought a joint assignment would be appropriate.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t drag her with you, then,” he responded, even though he wasn’t truly surprised. In Vianca’s opinion, fear was best felt while alone. Having Enne here would have been too much of a comfort.
“I need your undivided attention,” she said slyly.
And then she launched into one of Levi’s most loathed subjects—politics. He was accustomed to her radical monologues, and he was typically well-skilled at zoning out while appearing to listen. Whoever wore the wigs in the South Side had no effect on him.
But since his deal with Harrison, he could no longer ignore news from below the Brint. So he listened. And very quickly, Vianca’s words made his blood run cold.
“Whoever is running against Worner Prescott won’t matter,” she said dismissively. “Séance is going to win him the election, and you’re going to help her do it.”
Harrison Augustine had not yet announced his candidacy, so Vianca didn’t know that the person running against her party was her own son. Levi needed Harrison to win the election, otherwise the hopes he harbored for his freedom were futile.
He was powerless to defy Vianca’s direct orders, but he had no idea how he could follow them and help Harrison at the same time. He swallowed down an urge to throw up. The expression of glee on Vianca’s face and the look of horror on Jac’s hardly helped.
On top of this dilemma, if Vianca forced Enne to become a lord, then Enne would spend more time in the city’s spotlight. She couldn’t afford to risk exposure.