by Amanda Foody
“Thank you.” Enne was horrified to realize she actually meant it.
Vianca smiled. “I always wanted a girl.”
Enne muttered a shaky goodbye and stood up. As she tried to shake off Vianca’s last words, she approached the spot where Worner Prescott was giving Lola and Grace the most exaggerated bow Enne had ever seen, his nose nearly scraping his knees. While Grace stifled laughter, Lola nervously attempted a curtsy of her own. She looked like a crow bar straining to bend.
“Oh!” Worner said, spotting Enne. Lola and Grace turned to her with relief. “Are you all here together?” He extended a hand, pastry crumbs stuck between his fingers.
“We are,” Enne said, and she introduced herself.
Worner squinted at her. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
Enne smiled wider, making her face look even more different from her wanted poster. “I don’t believe so. I’ve only recently arrived from Bellamy.”
“Bellamy!” he trilled. Worner spoke at a volume not quite appropriate for the indoors. “Why, I vacation there often in the summer. My house is right on Hawthorne Street. It’s by this bakery, the Gooseberry.” He beamed, as though quite pleased he’d remembered.
“I’ve been there a few times,” Enne told him politely.
“Well, what a delightful coincidence!” He looked around the room cheerily. “I’d be happy to introduce you to anyone here. I know them all.”
Before he could make any suggestions, a young woman appeared behind him. She had the sort of willowy figure that made Enne immediately identify her as a dancer.
“Oh, this is my daughter, Poppy,” Worner said. “Poppy, this young lady lived in Bellamy. Perhaps you went to school together?”
Enne tried not to gape at the girl. She looked far too elegant to be Worner’s daughter.
“The Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts,” Poppy said, twirling a blond ringlet around her finger. “I was only there a few months, though.”
“That’s where I attended, as well,” Enne answered. “I’m currently taking a gap year. For travel.” That was one of the prettiest lies she’d ever told.
“I still write to a few friends from there,” Poppy said, her voice suddenly filled with excitement. “Maybe you know Madeline Tanzer? Or Georgiana Glisset?”
Both girls had been far more popular than Enne ever was. She would’ve been shocked if they’d even known her name.
But Vianca had instructed Enne to insert herself into Worner’s inner circle, so she smiled tightly and lied. “Yes. I knew them well.”
Worner beamed brighter.
Within five minutes, Enne and Poppy were seated on a loveseat, Lola awkwardly hovering beside them while Grace scoped out the men in the room with an almost predatory stare. Poppy held a copy of The Guillory Street Gossip on her lap as she told them all a scandalous story surrounding the city’s favorite prima ballerina, who seemed to be Poppy’s rival and—in their not so distant past—former lover.
Poppy turned the page and pointed to a column called Most Eligible Persons of the South Side. Poppy had dated nearly all of them.
“Except her,” she said, pointing to an heiress who was listed at number six. “She set fire to my Regalliere purse in our ninth year.” Poppy turned the page. “Or him.” She pointed at a face Enne nearly didn’t recognize, since she’d only seen him through the hazy violet lights of the Catacombs. Narinder Basra. “I don’t think he likes women. Very disappointing.”
Enne suddenly had a bad taste in her mouth, which Narinder probably didn’t deserve—she didn’t even know him. Lola shot Enne a warning look, then asked, “Wouldn’t he be in The Kiss & Tell’s version? He’s from the North Side.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be in both,” Poppy said. “He knows everyone in New Reynes, and the Catacombs is full of South Siders, as well.” She lowered her voice. “Though I heard a few weeks ago there was some sort of gangster turnout there. Kind of frightening, isn’t it?” But she sounded more excited than scared.
“I positively have goose bumps,” Grace said flatly.
“I’m still trying to get my hands on the other version,” Poppy admitted. “My father forbids me from reading it, but of course I do anyway.” She shot him an annoyed look from across the room, but he was too immersed in a discussion with a group of campaigners to notice. “He’s one to talk—getting a quarter of his donations from Vianca Augustine. Everyone knows what they say about her.”
“She’s here,” Enne rasped. “Best to lower your voice.”
“Oh, I know,” Poppy replied airily. “The whole room reeks of her off-brand perfume.”
“Do you mind if I see that?” Grace asked, indicating The Gossip. Poppy nodded, so Grace took it and flipped through the pages. While the others discussed the model who’d been interviewed for the cover, Grace announced that she’d spotted one of the most eligible persons at the party. She pointed at a photograph of a young man with red hair wearing a glittering family brooch against a suit jacket.
“Wealthy, working for his father’s company on Hedge Street,” Grace read. “He’s number eight, but do you think he really measures in at eight?” Grace winked at the three of them, and Poppy let out a shocked howl of laughter.
“I wouldn’t know,” Poppy mused, “but I’d be curious should you happen to find out.”
Grace tossed Enne the magazine. “Oh, I’m sure I will.” Then she left to stalk her victim.
Poppy looked between Enne and Lola, a mischievous smile brightening up her features. She reached behind her and grabbed three cocktails off a rose-gold serving tray and handed them out. “This afternoon might be a lot more fun than I expected.”
Enne sipped the drink. It was sweet and bubbly—far more palatable than a Gambler’s Ruin or a Snake Eyes. “What is this called?” she asked Poppy.
“It’s a Hotsy-Totsy—you drink it for luck, or good times, or any occasion, if you want. It’s the real reason I couldn’t stay in Bellamy. The whole island is dry!” Poppy wrapped her arm around Enne’s shoulders. “You’re about to be thrilled that you took a gap year. And that you met me.”
Poppy clinked glasses with Enne and Lola and downed nearly all of her Hotsy-Totsy at once. “So are you from Bellamy, as well?” she asked Lola, and Lola nearly spit out her drink.
“No. I’m not. I’m, um, starting my first term at the university in September. I’ll be studying history.”
Poppy laughed. “Don’t tell that to my father. History is a passion of his. He’d talk your ears off.”
“I don’t know—I’d be rather interested in what he has to say. He studied history, too, didn’t he?” Lola eyed Poppy seriously. “And journalism?”
Poppy shifted and took another sip of her drink. “I’m surprised you know that. He did, before he switched to law. It’s not really something he likes to talk about.”
“Why not?” Lola pressed.
“Oh, he failed at it miserably, I think.” Poppy quickly reached for the magazine again and launched into a discussion about one of its writers. The whole time, Lola bit her lip and sipped little from her glass.
By the time Grace returned, Enne and Poppy had grown gradually more buzzed and giggly. Enne realized she very much liked Poppy. She was brazenly frank and easy to talk to, and no matter how out of place Lola seemed, Poppy went out of her way to try to include her in the conversation. Enne’s logic told her Poppy was an advantageous link to Worner—and her homesickness told her Poppy was a perfect distraction from the affairs of the North Side.
“Well?” Poppy asked, examining Grace’s sly smile. “How did it go?”
Grace wiped away her smudged lipstick with the back of her hand. “I’ve been very entertained. He was about as charming as old tuna salad, but I’ve had three of...whatever those are.” She pointed at Enne’s Hotsy-Totsy. “And I’ve complimented almost every single girl here
, like, twice. That’s three drinks. Twenty girls. Sixty compliments.”
Lola furrowed her eyebrows as Grace crashed onto the chaise between them. “Not sure that’s right.”
“I am a counter,” Grace said sternly. “I’m always right.” She looked at the magazine spread across their laps. “What did I miss?”
“Poppy’s trying to set Enne up.” Lola crossed her arms. “I’m sure we can all imagine how well that will turn out.”
“With who? Him?” Grace snorted, pointing at the photograph of a young man wearing a clover-green suit. “She’d eat him alive.”
Enne flushed. “What does that mean?” She, for one, liked the boy’s genuine smile. It was refreshing. If Vianca was going to be dragging her to several of these parties, she didn’t see why she couldn’t turn them into more distractions.
Poppy’s eyes lit up. “Do I get to hear secrets?”
“They just like to tell stories,” Enne said hurriedly.
“Well, I’m glad to hear those, too. The scarier the better.”
Grace grinned. “They’re very scary. I should warn you.”
“I’m a big girl. Scare me.”
“Well, I once heard a street legend. It’s from the North Side.” Grace paused dramatically, waiting for Poppy to widen her eyes and think better of her request. When Poppy only leaned in further, she continued. “About eighteen years ago, there was a street lord named Veil. Of all the legends, he is the legend. He built the North Side into what it is today.”
“Ooh, I haven’t heard this one,” Poppy purred. Enne recognized the story as one Grace had already told her—and one Levi and Jac often bickered about.
“During the Great Street War, Veil made the city a promise. He said that if you wrote the name of your enemy on any wall of the North Side, then he would personally see to your enemy’s death. So, as you can imagine, the walls were soon covered in names, and he drew them like a lottery. With Veil as lord, anyone could be a killer. Cross someone, and you could end up dead tomorrow.”
Enne shivered. What a horrifying idea. Poppy was grinning beside her, as though Grace’s story was a fairy tale.
“They say copycats still exist, even now,” Grace murmured. “That if you find yourself in the Deadman District, and you cross paths with your own name...you won’t live to see morning.”
“What did this Veil character look like?” Poppy asked. “I bet he was good-looking.”
Grace laughed. “They say he kept his whole face covered. To this day, no one knows what he looked like. He asked to be hanged and buried like that, and they have to honor last requests...even from criminals.” Grace grinned and nudged Lola’s side. “Tell her the one about the Bargainer.”
Lola scoffed. “But that isn’t history. The Bargainer isn’t real—”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“But that’s ridiculous—”
“Everyone! Everyone!” Worner Prescott’s high-pitched voice echoed shrilly through the room. He clinked a spoon against his glass, and the party fell silent. “We’ve just received some disturbing news on the radio. There’s been an anonymous tip about a threat on Revolution Bridge, and it’s been cordoned off for the foreseeable future. If you need to make new arrangements to return home, the attendants will be more than happy to assist you.”
“Ooh,” Poppy whispered to them. “This is exciting.”
Enne met Lola’s eyes warily, and she knew her second was thinking the same thing. This had to be connected to Levi somehow.
“I’m sorry,” Enne said, quickly getting up. “But we need to leave. That’s where we’ve been staying...” She cleared her throat and added, “Terrible hotel mix-up.”
“You won’t stay longer?” Poppy pleaded. “There are other ways to cross the Brint.”
“We’ll be here next time,” she assured her, and kissed both of Poppy’s cheeks in farewell. As they made their way toward the door, Enne stealthily stuffed a dozen crumpets in her purse, beside the pocket where she kept her gun.
Grace tried to wink at her, but she was so drunk that she actually just blinked both eyes. “I guess it’s showtime.”
JAC
Jac crept down the stairs of his apartment building, a carpet bag stuffed with his meager belongings slung over his shoulder.
He opened the door onto Tropps Street and came face-to-face with Sophia Torren.
She eyed the bag. “You’re in a hurry.”
He was, because he’d been hoping to avoid her. It didn’t matter who she was or what she wanted—as soon as Jac found a pay phone, he would call Harrison Augustine, and he would leave the Torren Empire behind.
Sophia flipped a coin into the air and closed it in her fist. She peeked at it between cupped fingers and smiled.
“You know where I live now?” Jac grunted.
“Now?” She gave him a pitying look. “I’ve known where you live for weeks.” She reached into her pocket and tossed him something black—a ski mask.
He scoffed. “I don’t have time for this.” He shoved the mask back into her hands and stormed off.
Sophia grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. “So that’s your decision? To leave?”
“What decision?” Jac demanded hotly. “You act as though I have any information. As though anything you told me or showed me last night makes sense. All I know is that you’re a Torren, and you want my help. And I say no.” He brushed past her, and she scrambled to block his path.
“Don’t make me—”
“What? Blackmail me?” he asked darkly.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Why are you doing this?” Any of the others at Liver Shot would be happy to help her. Where she went, they followed. “Why me?”
“Because...you’re Jac Mardlin. Your smile is plastered on wanted posters all over the North Side. You’re someone.”
Jac possessed his fair share of vices, but rarely did anyone try to appeal to his pride. He was only famous as an extension of someone else. Everything he’d done for this job, he’d done for Levi.
The ones who never wanted to be players. That was how Lola described the two of them. That was who he was; the periphery of someone else’s story. And never, not once in his life, had anyone ever thought of him otherwise.
He’d never realized until this moment how much he wanted someone to.
“Just let me explain,” Sophia pleaded. She was clearly not used to begging—her face could barely hold the expression.
Jac was intrigued, but not enough to change his mind. “You lied to me about who you were.”
She crossed her arms. “And you didn’t?” She took an intimidating step closer to him, and Jac pressed his back against the brick wall. “Playing it safe isn’t really playing at all. And that’s what you want to do, isn’t it? To play?”
It was, and it always had been—even before Jac had met Levi. But he’d never said those words out loud. It was far easier to bet on cards or fights, when losing only cost a few volts or a black eye. The game Sophia played was far deadlier than those.
That, too, was a reason Jac wanted it.
But he didn’t tell her that truth. Instead, he gave her a different one. “I nearly died thanks to your family, and what you do.”
Her expression sobered. “I’m sorry—I am. But even if Charles and Delia are my half siblings,” she admitted, “they’re not my family.”
“But the drugs are still your family’s business,” Jac snarled. “And I don’t want to get caught up in it. I can’t afford to.”
“Yes, you do. You do. You just won’t admit it. And I won’t leave until you say it. So say it.”
“Say what?” he countered.
“That you want to see the Torrens burn.”
Jac froze. A desire simmered inside him like a hunger. “You’re shatz,” he whispered.
&nb
sp; “What will it take, then?” Sophia asked. “Should I say please? Because I will. I’m saying please.” She glared at him, as if he’d forced her to suffer being polite. As if she’d much rather be threatening him.
Maybe it was her looking like that. Maybe it was because the words were true.
He did want it more than anything.
To be a player.
“Fine,” he growled, chest heaving. “I want to see the Torrens burn.”
Sophia grinned, as though she knew she’d already won, and thrust the mask at him again. “Good. Now throw that bag back inside and let’s go. I planned out the whole date.”
Jac knew by now that whenever Sophia alluded to romance, she was actually thinking about something destructive. Anyone who went on a date with Sophia Torren probably needed to sign a waiver first.
Sophia winked at him before she walked away. “You know you want to.”
Of course he wanted to. It was dangerous—terribly dangerous—but he still wanted to.
I already regret this, Jac thought as he opened the door to his apartment building and tossed his bag inside.
He caught up to her and asked, “What’s the mask for?”
“What I just said. For our date.”
He raised his eyebrows and held it up higher between two pinched fingers. “Kinky.”
“I took you as a moonlit stroll, picnic-in-the-park sort of fellow, so I thought I’d meet you halfway.” Sophia fluttered her eyelashes. “How do you feel about arson?”
* * *
Jac hesitated on the corner of Chain Street and Tropps Street. A yellow sign for a drug den flickered above them, dull and dirty in the daylight. Rusted chains dangled from it like party streamers. Even this early in the morning, glassy-eyed patrons—trapped in their cruel indentures to local Chainers—wandered up and down the street. Others sat in clusters on the pavement, hunched over and clutching bottles of absinthe. Some of them didn’t move at all.