by Amanda Foody
The doors opened, and they left the motel from down the same darkened alley they’d come. Night had fallen, and Tropps Street was loud with drunken activity. It was always especially rowdy in summer, when tourists traveled to sample the casinos and nightlife, when the entire city craved something cold and strong to drink.
Jac kept several feet of distance between him and Sophia. He replayed the scene from earlier in his mind—of the empty-gazed people on Delia’s medical tables, of Sophia offering her a piece of candy, of the horrifying smell of the place.
That was how evil smelled, he decided. That was how it looked, how it spoke. With total and utter indifference.
He’d been working for Liver Shot for two weeks, and so far, none of his worst fears about the job had been realized. But every sickening notion about the Torren Family had...and then some.
He would give Delia’s name to Harrison tonight, and then with Harrison’s sponsorship, Delia’s likely victory would become a certainty. And then she would relocate that awful laboratory to Luckluster. And that evil would keep on going, and it wouldn’t matter if Jac was long gone—he would still feel he played a part in that.
Helping Harrison meant destroying Vianca, who ruled an empire no different than the Torrens’, full of drugs and crime and misery. But while Jac hated Vianca for what she’d done to Levi, when it came to the Torrens, it was personal. It was his own demon, not someone else’s.
As they passed a yellow phone booth, Jac held back, fingering Harrison’s business card that Levi had given him in his pocket. “I’ll meet you back at Liver Shot,” he lied.
Sophia turned around, her expression downcast. “Don’t make me do it.”
“Do what?” he asked nervously.
“Blackmail you.”
Jac took a deep breath. For two weeks, he’d waited for this. But it didn’t matter now. Nothing would stop him from making this call.
“Isn’t that what you’ve always been doing?” he challenged her. “I’d rather you just say it and stop pretending like you have power over me.”
“Fine,” she snapped, stepping closer. “I know exactly who you are, Jac Mardlin. I know you have a thousand volts on your head. And even if I don’t know what game you’re playing, I know you’re a spy. And whatever phone call you think you’re about to make right now, you won’t.”
He’d suspected she’d known his name, but it still made his heart stutter to hear her say it. Sophia had always been a bad idea waiting to happen. Jac had once liked bad ideas—when their consequences used to entail hungover mornings or awkward, half-clothed stumbles out the door. But lately, bad ideas meant execution.
“Why is that? Will you pull a gun on me?” he asked, drawing his own out of his pocket. It was a crowded street, so he kept it close, tucked beneath the flap of his jacket. He had no intention of shooting her, but he had every intention of making it out of here.
“You won’t kill me,” she answered matter-of-factly.
Then Sophia reached into her pocket, and Jac clicked off the safety. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
She did so, but she’d already removed what she wanted—the coin. She flipped it again and murmured, “Heads.”
“Why do you keep doing that? What does it mean?” His voice came out harsh and biting, and he realized how fearful he sounded. He didn’t mess with superstitions.
“It means I won’t get hurt tonight,” she said. “Listen, I didn’t bring you along with me to threaten you. I wanted you to see what we’re up against.”
“Who’s ‘we?’” he asked.
“You came here for a job—I know that. I don’t know if it was for Pup or someone else, but it’s clear you’re not here by choice. If it were your choice, you wouldn’t be anywhere near the Torren empire. You hate it. Every time I’ve watched you light your cigarette outside Liver Shot, I’ve wondered if it would be the time you lit something else instead.”
She took a step closer to him, close enough that Jac felt nervous about hurting her accidentally. Putting his gun away meant relinquishing the last bit of control he had in this conversation, but he’d never really had any power to begin with. She’d seen right through him. About everything.
Still, he held it. Better safe than sorry.
“That’s why I wanted to bring you. Because I have a proposition.” Sophia took another step closer. “After I tell you what it is, I want you to take the night off and think about it. If you still want to make that phone call in the morning, then fine. But at least consider what I’m offering.”
“I’m not interested,” Jac told her flatly.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Sophia insisted.
“I know I won’t like it.”
She was close enough to reach out and touch him now. Jac swallowed hard.
“I know your secret,” she whispered. “So it’s only fair that you know mine. I’ll give you a hint, Todd.”
Jac waited for her to finish her statement, then it slowly dawned on him that she already had. And all at once, he knew what she was going to say. Her brown hair, her wicked smile, her matching coin. He should’ve realized it the moment he saw her and Delia Torren in the same room. He should’ve realized it the moment he looked at Sedric Torren’s obituary photograph on the desk in Liver Shot’s office.
“Your name,” he said hoarsely.
Sophia leaned forward and rested her hand on his—the same that held his gun. Then she moved her lips dangerously close to his ear. “My real name is Sophia Torren, and I want you to help me bring this empire down.”
LEVI
Levi lay on the hard marble floor of a hallway, the tiles and the doors alternating black and white. A familiar chill crawled up his spine, and he remembered that there was something unnatural about this place.
But he also remembered it was only a dream. And so Levi stood up and crept to the closest white door, filled with an instinct to explore.
When he pushed it open, he was home. At least, at the time, he’d still thought of this place as home. Their house was modestly small, not unlike the many others that trailed up the winding roads overlooking the beach. Inside, however, his family kept their many treasures. Old portraits of dead kings were tucked, secretly, into the pages of books. Amid typical trinkets—bouquets bought from the local market, wooden coasters, a cheap cigar box—hid more expensive collectibles, concealed within the clutter of plain sight. There was an heirloom family brooch swathed within the bundle of roses on a side table. The key to their grandfather’s home was glued beneath the third coaster. A map of a distant city was rolled up beneath a cigar.
In this memory, Levi was ten years old and resting a broken leg after colliding his bike into a motorcar—one of the first he’d ever seen. He’d chased after it to get a closer look...and he’d gotten one. As punishment, he had to spend the whole summer indoors, waiting for himself to heal. And his favorite place to do so was here, in his mother’s studio, watching her paint.
A long time ago, his maternal grandfather had worked for a railroad company as an engineer, and he’d traveled the world with his family, designing new lines of public transport in all the major cities and kingdoms. His mother had collected stories from all the places where she grew up and the people she’d met, and it was her sentimentals that Levi knew to look for, knew to ask about.
She bent over her easel, a brush perched in her fingers. She painted stories as well as she told them—flourishes of color and texture that Levi knew to be auras, even though he’d only ever seen one. Because he took after his father, his split talent for glimpsing auras was weaker. What his mother could sense about the world—the essences of every person she encountered, every emotion they felt—was so far beyond his own abilities, he could only look on her art in awe. Levi had spent most of his childhood trapped within that house, but it seemed to him that his mother had experienced everything, and he thirsted to see more of the world through her eyes.
“Which story do you want to
hear again?” she asked, tucking a coarse curl behind her ear. Her brown skin was freckled from always sitting by the window, occasionally staring out of it for hours on end. Levi sometimes suspected she felt as trapped as he did.
“This one.” Levi pointed to a city on the map hanging above her desk, one not so far from where they lived. It still felt a world away.
“Why that place?” She gave him a sly smile. “Should I be worried?”
“You said it was your favorite.”
His mother laughed. “Did I admit that? Don’t ever tell your father.” Then she leaned back in her stool and her gaze drifted toward the window—toward elsewhere.
“When I was fifteen, your grandfather was offered a contract to help construct an addition to the subway across the city’s South Side...”
* * *
Levi woke tangled in familiar sheets. The morning sunlight shone red and gold through the stained glass windows, casting Narinder in holy light as he sat up and stretched his back. “It’s been over twenty-four hours,” Narinder muttered. His voice was still heavy with sleep.
“Since what?” Levi asked groggily.
“Since I’ve had coffee.” He cast him an annoyed look. “It doesn’t help that you steal the covers.”
Levi frowned at the pile of blankets on his side of the bed. In the past two weeks, he’d spent so much time at the Catacombs that he’d apparently begun to claim things as his own. “Here.” He shoved them at the musician. “We don’t need to get up yet.”
Levi intended to put off the day as long as possible, even if he had plenty of reasons to be in a good mood. He hadn’t heard from Vianca in ages. Most of his injuries had healed, except for his ribs. And his relationship with Narinder was in a better place than he’d ever hoped it could be.
But all of those facts were overshadowed by the promise Levi made to the most powerful criminals of the North Side. One he’d staked his entire reputation on.
And in two weeks, he’d come through with nothing.
Narinder sighed and lay back down. “You’re making that face like you want to be pitied.”
Levi frowned deeper. “I don’t have a pity face.”
“You know, you could always come up with another idea.”
But Levi already had the perfect idea—it was grand, brilliant, and would spell catastrophe for Captain Hector and the South Side.
But it was also dangerous, and Levi didn’t want to spill blood, even if the whiteboots had already spilled theirs. And for that, he needed Harrison’s help. Unfortunately, Harrison had gone silent since he announced his Senate candidacy, leaving Levi to wait while his reputation withered to nothing.
“There is no other plan,” he answered grimly.
Narinder turned on his side, head propped on his hand. “Should I be nervous?”
“That depends on what you’re nervous about.”
“That you’ll get yourself killed.”
Levi laughed bitterly. The world wasn’t giving him the opportunity to try. “Save your worries.” Narinder’s face darkened, and Levi realized his tone had been too bleak. He quickly threw on a card dealer smile. “I grew up listening to stories about New Reynes, and so I came here to make a story of my own. I think about it constantly—what sort of story am I writing? Where does all this lead?”
“I never thought criminals could be so self-reflective,” Narinder teased.
Levi scowled. He was being serious. “Maybe I’m different—I want to be different. I’m only holding off because I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“You can’t ensure that.”
“No, but at least, if something goes wrong, I’ll know I tried.”
“You’re a terrible gangster,” Narinder told him, with a playful shove. Levi would’ve pushed him, if turning himself over wasn’t still so dreadfully painful. “But you’re a good person.”
No one had told Levi those words in a long time, and he hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear them. Lately, all he could think about was the Irons losing their faith in him all over again, Enne’s expression at the Catacombs dissolving from hope into hurt, Jac finding his way into a Torren drug den he wouldn’t be able to fight out of.
Maybe he didn’t deserve Narinder’s words. But at least he still cared.
“Can’t I be both?” Levi murmured.
Narinder pursed his lips, like he wanted to say no. But instead he told him, “I guess we’ll find out.”
* * *
Over the past two weeks of refurbishment, the Irons had decorated their museum as lavishly as the dumpsters of Olde Town could provide. Discarded Faith charms and trinkets hung along the staircase, clacking and chiming as people brushed past. Every piece of wooden furniture wore a new silver coat of paint.
As Levi entered, the Irons straightened in their rocking chairs and splintered barstools, pausing their card games and whispered conversations to stare at him. The air felt uneasy and still.
Confused, Levi sauntered over to Tommy. “Don’t stop your games on my account.” When Tommy looked away instead of responding, Levi grabbed the magazine out of his hands. “The Kiss & Tell? Bit of a trash tabloid, isn’t it?” He glanced at the title on the opened page: “Most Eligible Persons of the North Side.”
“Oh,” Tommy said, clearing his throat. “It’s, um...”
Levi furrowed his eyebrows. “Why are you all acting like someone died? Did Scavenger make it in here or something?” He scanned the sketched faces and recognized Narinder as number one. “Bet he’s pleased,” Levi muttered, though secretly, he was, as well.
Then, past a few famous cabaret vedettes and businessmen, down at number nine, Levi found his own face, straight from his wanted poster. He tried very hard to suppress his grin. Tabloids were ridiculous, of course, but—Levi straightened out his shirt—he did look pretty good.
Levi slapped Tommy on the back, making him wince. “Muck, Tommy, I’m the one with the broken ribs here.” He scanned the other faces around the foyer. It seemed the tabloid wasn’t why they looked anxious. “Anyone going to fill me in on what I’ve missed?”
Mansi stood abruptly, making her stool skid across the stone floor. “Chez is dead.”
Whatever Levi had been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.
“Dead?” Levi rasped. “From what?”
“From burns.” The look in her eyes made it clear her words were an accusation—no, a conviction. Chez had tried to challenge Levi, and so Levi had murdered his third.
Mansi stalked past him, bumping painfully into his side, and stormed out of the building. Levi watched the door close behind her with nausea churning in his stomach. He squeezed Tommy’s shoulder and bent over, certain he was about to be sick.
No, he wasn’t like the other lords.
“You’re hurting me,” Tommy told him, and Levi wrenched his hand away.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“So it’s true?” Tommy asked nervously.
Levi remembered it all with disturbing clarity. The starved look in Chez’s eyes when he’d found Levi in that alley. The feeling of Chez’s gun pressed against his temple. The burning mouthful of Gambler’s Ruin that Levi had spit on him. The bloody flesh and exposed bone circling Chez’s wrists where Levi had grabbed him.
They’d been friends, once.
Now Levi actually did taste vomit. “I...”
“Levi!” Tock called from the top of the stairwell. All the charms and chimes clattered as she descended a few steps. “You have a phone call.”
Levi barely even registered her words before he rushed up the stairs, fleeing from the other Irons. Tock grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him up the last step. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she hissed. “They’ve been sitting there all day like this.” She grabbed the copy of The Kiss & Tell he was still holding and threw it on the ground.
“Is it true?” Levi whispered.
“It’s true.” She led him to his room, and he numbly followed. “But you need to pul
l yourself together. Harrison Augustine is on the phone.”
Levi’s stomach lurched again. Finally. He ran to the telephone resting on a repurposed absinthe crate in the room’s corner. “’Lo?” he breathed into the receiver.
“You called?” The purr in the voice was unmistakable.
“Yes,” Levi growled. “Two weeks ago. Where have you been?”
“It’s been busy since the announcement. Interviews, visits, speeches—”
“I need your help.” Levi didn’t have time to listen to Harrison’s rehearsed excuses. He’d already been waiting too long.
“Yes, I got that from your message. It’s an incredible request to make, yet you’ve provided me with almost nothing I originally asked for. There’s still no word from your associate at the Torren den, and I’m not even sure all the information you gave me from your meeting with the other lords is reliable.”
“What do you mean?” Levi asked sharply.
“I’m not accusing you. I just have a few questions about what happened at the Orphan Guild. I don’t believe the whiteboots were responsible.”
Levi frowned and swatted at Tock, who kept trying to press her ear against the other side of the receiver. Levi’s entire promise to the other lords was built on vengeance for what the whiteboots did to the Orphan Guild. Was someone else responsible? And if so, did he care enough to change his plan?
“Why do you say that?” Levi asked.
“Because I was with Jameson Hector that night. He was of the same mind as me—he didn’t want to see the conflict between the North and South Sides escalate.”
“If Hector didn’t do it, why would he claim credit?” Levi asked.
“I haven’t spoken to him since the attack, but I believe he feels it’s best that the people believe the authorities have the situation under control.”
“So someone else is pulling the strings.” Levi furrowed his eyebrows. “It might be Scavenger.” Tock rolled her eyes beside him. “He has access to those sort of weapons. He admitted as much during our meeting.”
“It’s not him. He has no motive. He does business with the Guild.”