by Amanda Foody
Levi swallowed. Did he want to take this further? Flirting with Narinder was an easy distraction, but even so, he wasn’t sure. He tried to think of a reason to stop, but instead his mind kept playing the same reel of what Narinder had said, of all those he had spoken with. Narinder possessed an influence that Levi could use. And even if it was a means to an end, Levi had certainly rationalized doing worse for causes half as noble, and as far as he could tell, the only thing wrong with Narinder was that he wasn’t a particular someone else.
Levi pressed his forehead against Narinder’s. “Tell me what else they say about me.”
Narinder smirked. “That you’re full of yourself.” Levi felt his breath on his lips, sending shivers through him. He could want this. So easily.
“That’s true.”
“That you’re reckless.”
Levi traced his fingers over Narinder’s tattoo. “Yes. That’s also true.”
“That you’re a terrible lover.”
Levi faltered for a moment and pulled back, until he realized Narinder was joking. He smirked and grabbed a handful of Narinder’s collar. “Not sure about that one.”
Narinder laughed, and even that sounded like music. It wasn’t hard to see why the whole city was in love with him—Levi was equally mesmerized when watching him play his harp as he was when they were talking about business. He decided he liked just about everything about Narinder.
“That did admittedly sound phony to me,” Narinder murmured.
“Only one way to be certain.”
Levi closed the space between them and pressed his lips to Narinder’s. There was something angry about the way they kissed each other, yanking at shirts, squeezing shoulders, biting lips. Maybe Narinder was still annoyed about this morning, even if he wouldn’t admit it. But even when it hurt, none of it bothered Levi. No matter what he had to celebrate, he’d still be angry—a little bit at Jac, and a hell of a lot at Vianca, but mostly at himself.
He’d made his decision. He was kissing probably the most attractive boy he’d ever kissed. He was close to achieving the reputation he’d always wanted. So why couldn’t he be satisfied?
At some point, when Narinder’s thighs were wrapped around his and his lips were teasing at Levi’s ear, he whispered, “I’m still not convinced.” Levi understood this was more of a question than a statement.
“Where do you live?” he answered.
He felt Narinder pause to smile. “Upstairs.”
They wove through the crowds, their fingers hooked around each other’s. Levi tried to focus on Narinder in front of him, but he couldn’t resist the urge to look at the faces around him.
He didn’t find her.
They climbed up a narrow winding staircase that led to the bell tower, then stopped breathlessly at the top. The stained glass window offered a view of the entire Street of the Holy Tombs, and a good portion of Olde Town beyond it.
Views like this always took Levi’s breath away. This was his territory. His home. And there was something satisfying about looking at place you owned—that also owned you.
A door to their right led to Narinder’s bedroom.
Before he opened it, Narinder playfully tugged at the buttons of Levi’s shirt. Then he whispered something in Levi’s ear that made his face heat.
“I remember you saying something earlier about this being a church,” Levi murmured.
“No one comes here to confess their sins,” Narinder said. “They come to commit them.” With one hand clutching the belt loops of Levi’s trousers, he fumbled with his other to open the door.
Levi laughed as they nearly toppled inside. But lust hardly seemed the deadliest of sins he would commit tonight. Every time he kissed Narinder—even though he liked his honey scent, the slopes of him, the way his voice sounded when he was breathless—Levi started picturing something else. How Narinder had so easily spoken to the most famous patrons of his club. How he’d growled at Levi this morning that he owned this establishment, and no one else. How people talked about Levi, about Narinder—and maybe about Narinder and Levi.
Because no matter how much Levi liked him, he was doing this for a reason...and not one so frivolous as a distraction. Maybe this was his worst quality; one that had led Enne straight into Vianca’s hands, had handed him a one-way invitation to the House of Shadows.
But maybe it was also his best. The start of Levi’s life had been a sad story, and ever since he’d come to New Reynes, he’d set his sights on rewriting it into one worth telling. Every decision he made factored into that desire. Even letting Enne walk away. Even letting Narinder take her place.
Levi let himself be guided onto the bed.
Ambition was the deadliest sin of all.
ENNE
Enne, Lola, and Grace huddled together in the lone habitable room of Madame Fausting’s Finishing School for Girls, staring at the four orbs on the desk in front of them. It was beastly hot—each of them had stripped down to the barest clothing they possessed, save for their undergarments: Enne in a lacy camisole, Lola in an oversize men’s undershirt, Grace in a black slip. In the room’s corner, a radio played popular songs from the South Side’s music halls that sounded overly cheerful for their strained moods.
“There’s only seventy volts left,” Enne said, examining the orbs, as if willing them to multiply. “How long will that last us?”
“How long until Pup pulls whatever stunt he promised?” Grace asked.
“If he manages it,” Lola muttered.
Enne would rather avoid thinking about Levi. Thoughts of him brought up unpleasant memories from last night; of how he’d shut her out without so much as an apology. Of spotting him twenty minutes later with his lips pressed against someone else’s. She had far more important problems in her life than romance, but—as she’d learned these past few days—she could apparently carry multitudes of pains and worries all at once, even if they contradicted each other.
But it didn’t matter how she felt about him. Levi had wagered everything she’d worked for on a gamble, just to feed his own ego.
How dare he?
“We could find something temporary,” Enne suggested.
“You’re right,” Lola said sarcastically. “We could set up a lemonade stand on the beach.”
Enne rubbed her temples, trying not to feel hopeless.
“You know, I once read somewhere of a girl making friends with wealthy South Siders and convincing them she was some sort of heiress,” Grace said. “And she attended all sorts of parties, ate at all the most expensive restaurants, with everyone around her paying the tab.”
“Very funny,” Enne muttered.
“It’s a viable option. When exactly are these parties? We’re all sitting around here sweating and counting milivolts when we could be preparing to become wealthy widows.”
Lola pursed her lips. “If that’s what you want, why have you been working as an assassin?”
Grace winked at her. “Practice.”
The song on the radio changed, this one even peppier than the last. It was a duet about how love was easy, and it infuriated Enne so much that she huffed over to the radio and quickly changed the station.
“For someone who’s been gone from New Reynes for so long,” an interviewer spoke, “what thoughts crossed your mind when you were asked to return?”
“Well, I was very flattered, and interested. New Reynes is my home, and I’ve been wanting to return for some time,” the man answered. “Over the past several days, I’ve been traveling around the city—through both the North and South Sides. Since the terrible night of the Chancellor’s assassination, violence has already broken out in the lower income, higher crime neighborhoods. And that’s what is ugly about this business—”
“Turn that off,” Grace complained. “Just because you’re feeling all sour doesn’t mean we can’t listen to music.”
“I want to listen,” Lola argued, and so Enne turned the volume up higher. She wanted to listen, too.
“To claim no tolerance against the gangs makes the North Side a battleground,” the man continued, “but the North Side is also a home. It’s my home. And my plans are to see the North Side flourish—not destroyed.”
“Speaking of your background in the North Side, many have expressed concerned about your candidacy with the First Party when your mother, Vianca Augustine—”
“What?” Lola shrieked, loud enough that both Enne and Grace jolted. “Harrison Augustine is running for Senate? Against his mother?”
“Is Vianca running?” Grace asked, eyebrows furrowed.
“She might as well be,” Lola answered. “I’ve heard Worner Prescott is a buffoon.”
Enne switched the radio off. She wondered if, a few miles across the city, Vianca was listening to this same interview. Enne knew so little about the donna’s personal life, but this election meant everything to her, so what would she think about her son running against her party? It would be an ongoing public humiliation, and though Enne hardly had it in her to feel sympathy for Vianca Augustine, she did feel anxious. The donna would likely take her displeasure out on her.
“Why do you have that look on your face?” Lola asked her uneasily.
“Because she’s been in such a great mood all day,” Grace said sarcastically. “I’m not sure Pup is worth this.”
“This is not about Levi,” Enne snapped. “This is about how two weeks from now, I have to show up at these South Side parties and pretend like I know anything about politics, when I don’t. How we’re down to two meals a day until Levi comes through on his promises, which might never actually happen. How even if he does, it just means I’m in another meeting with the other lords, surrounded by people who are better criminals than me, talking a whole other sort of politics and history that I don’t understand. And no matter how everything turns out, I am helpless, and ignorant, and...and...”
“Pathetic,” Grace offered.
Lola shoved her. “Don’t be—”
“Yes,” Enne agreed, nostrils flaring. “Pathetic.” It wounded her pride just to say it, but that only meant it was true. “And I hate feeling this way.”
Enne remembered how it felt to sit beside the other lords and understand only fragments of their conversation. She hadn’t said anything until Levi introduced her, and without having a memorized spiel about Grace’s stock market, she wouldn’t have contributed at all. She might’ve warded off Scavenger—for now—but at some point, if the others didn’t see her as a peer, they would surely see her as prey.
She’d known this wouldn’t be easy—nothing in her life ever had been. But when the day came that she returned to the House of Shadows, when she sat in the place where her mother had died and where she almost had, too, she needed to be ready.
“Well, you don’t know much about New Reynes, but I do,” Grace told her. “I know all the history, every legend. I can’t fix your prissy accent, but I can make sure that the next time you sit at a table with the other lords, you’ll be able to throw words around like a North Sider.”
“You’d do that?” Enne asked.
“Of course, and in return, you have two weeks to teach me how to blend in at these sort of tables.” Grace waved the invitations in the air. “Lola, too. She knows all about the politics stuff. I can tell.”
Lola flushed. “I know a little about politics. But I’m not interested in lace and cream puffs.”
“Just be a good sport,” Grace snapped. “We’re in this together.”
We’re in this together, you and I, Levi had said to her once. She shouldn’t have been foolish enough to believe him.
“Fine,” Enne agreed. “I’ll turn both of you into ladies, and in return, the two of you will turn me into a Sinner.”
* * *
Several hours later, the classroom’s blackboard was covered in list after list of details—the names of the most respected artists and musicians of the modern age and the works they’d contributed to society; the most influential politicians in the Senate, which districts each of them represented, and what scandal they were known for; and every major street lord in New Reynes history, along with how and when they’d died.
Grace, it seemed, had an uncanny ability to rattle off facts down to exact dates and quotes. She quickly memorized all the information the others wrote, and then had the gall to act bored afterward. “You need to learn this quicker. With everyone calling this a street war, all anyone will talk about is the last one.”
Enne didn’t enjoy Grace’s teaching methods, which mainly involved insulting her students into submission. “Of the two warring lords, Veil and Havoc, Havoc died second, in December of Year 9,” Enne recited. Grace didn’t call her any names, which Enne took as a sign of approval. “Did her blood really run black?”
Grace shrugged. “I doubt it. But we like our street legends.”
“That’s not the full history, though,” Lola told her. Her lessons always sounded drier than a textbook. “After all the Mizer kingdoms fell and the Revolution ended twenty-five years ago, New Reynes was named the capital of the new Republic. Eventually, times began to improve. The manufactured volts made the economy more stable, and people believed there was a real future in New Reynes. The population swelled with opportunists and the disillusioned, and two street lords rose to power. But they became so powerful that the wigheads had to declare a war and finally execute them. It basically destroyed the North Side.”
“I like my version better,” Grace said. “You literally made blood and guts sound boring.”
“Sorry for caring more about facts than legends,” Lola grumbled.
Grace hopped off the desk and pouted her lips. “I want to learn something interesting. Teach me how to curtsy.”
“To curtsy?” Enne echoed, eyebrows furrowed. Curtsying was rather old-fashioned, even for Bellamy and the South Side.
“That’s what they do in all the Sadie Knightley novels.”
“But those aren’t real, Grace. Not anymore.” While Enne loved those books, she found it difficult to understand Grace’s fascination with them. But Grace seemed full of unexpected contradictions.
It made Enne like her even more, though. After all, she was full of contradictions, too.
Grace pouted her lips. “Neither of you are very romantic.”
“I can teach you both some dances,” Enne suggested.
“Please don’t,” Lola said.
Enne rolled her eyes. “You can play us music for now, but you’ll have to learn all of this later.”
Enne directed Grace to stand in front of her, then she positioned Grace’s hands on her shoulders. Enne was quite short to lead the dance, a role usually assigned to the man, but Grace hardly seemed to mind. While Lola played her harmonica, Enne showed Grace the steps to a few dances common in both Bellamy and the South Side. Grace laughed at the conservative twirls and kicks.
“This isn’t how I’ll be dancing next time we go to the Catacombs,” Grace said.
“This isn’t relevant. You should be teaching Enne something more important than just street legends,” Lola told her. “After all, I’m no criminal, but I know all of the history.”
Grace took a step closer to Enne, looming over her with a frightening gleam in her eye.
“What did you have in mind?” Grace asked her. “I could teach you all the ways to kill a man. My favorite technique, unfortunately, takes hours.” She purred the words, which made it difficult to decide if Grace was truly talking about killing a man...or lying with one.
Enne took a careful step back. “I’m just looking to impress.”
“You’re five feet tall and look like you’re thirteen years old. You’re not exactly going to instill fear in the hearts of many.”
Enne stood on her tiptoes, smirking. “I mean, you don’t know that.”
“You’re a good dancer—which means you’re good on your feet,” Grace admitted. “That’s helpful. What are your talents?”
Enne still hadn’t shared that informatio
n with Grace. After all, Grace had yet to swear to her, and until then, there were some secrets that simply couldn’t be told. But there were other truths that, alone, wouldn’t be a cause for alarm.
“I’m an acrobat,” she told her. Lola shot Enne a warning look.
“That’s useful,” Grace said. “If you spent some time training, you could be a strong fighter. Hand-to-hand combat is my specialty. Do you have a preferred weapon?”
Weeks ago, that question would’ve scandalized Enne. Now she considered it without hesitation.
She’d once fought Lola with a broken wine bottle. She’d used a poisoned dart to kill Sedric Torren. And she’d shot the whiteboot at the House of Shadows with a revolver. Of all of them, she preferred the last—it was quick, and the least personal.
“A gun,” she answered.
“As an acrobat, you’d be able to reach otherwise inaccessible places. You could be a proficient sharpshooter. But...” Grace frowned. “You obviously don’t see well enough for that.”
“What?” Enne asked. She had perfect eyesight.
“Your eyes are always so red and irritated. I just assumed. You always look like you’re about to cry.”
“Oh.” Enne rubbed her eyes, as if that would make the redness from her contacts disappear. She would have to resign herself to feeling uncomfortable and looking emotionally distraught for the rest of her life. “I can see fine.”
Grace’s lips slid into a smile. She reached into Enne’s purse and pulled out a tube of black lipstick. “This color suits you,” she told her, before drawing a circle on one of the invitations lying across the desk. She walked to the back of the classroom and pinned the card stock to the wall with a hair clip.
A target.
Once she moved away, Enne pulled her revolver out of her pocket. The feel of it in her hand made her breath hitch. Last time she’d held it, aimed it...
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Two hands,” Grace instructed. “Keep your legs and shoulders square.”
Enne did as instructed, but memories and nightmares were already rushing into her mind. Her heart sped up. For a moment, she was standing on the steps of the House of Shadows again. Shark was answering the door, his eyes widening with recognition. If he yelled out, she’d be exposed. She’d be dead.