by Amanda Foody
Enne clicked her tongue in disgust. “You don’t need to poach them, Harvey.”
“I don’t poach anyone.”
“You talk like you do.”
“Then come with me. It’ll be an easier sell with you there. We can all go.” He looked at Bryce and wiggled his eyebrows. “A few cold drinks could do us some good.”
“How many times will you make her say no?” Bryce asked, and Harvey scowled.
“He has a point,” Lola muttered.
Though Enne believed Harvey’s intentions were good, it didn’t matter how much time she spent at the Guild lately—they were associates, not friends. Enne wore her mask to every appointment. She’d still never given them a name other than Séance. And when Rebecca attended their meetings—though infrequently, as of late—she made it clear she still viewed Enne as a fraud.
Enne also suspected she wasn’t the one Harvey was trying to convince to join him for a night out.
“But if you just—” Harvey started.
“I said no,” Bryce snapped, making Harvey stiffen. Bryce stood up and sighed. “I’m not your villain,” he murmured, and then he walked out of the room, and Harvey buried his face in his hands.
Enne and Lola exchanged an uncomfortable look.
Lola cleared her throat. “Well, I think we should be going.”
“Yes, let us know about those recruits...” Enne gathered her belongings and followed Lola out the door.
The pair made their way through the prison’s hallways, keeping their voices low.
“Why do they have to be so strange?” Lola hissed.
“They’ve always been like—”
Lola elbowed her sharply in the side. “It just got stranger.”
Rebecca leaned against the wall by the exit with a gun in her hand.
“This isn’t typically my weapon of choice,” she told them, examining her revolver.
Both Lola and Enne froze.
“Is there something you’d like to say?” Enne demanded. When it came to Enne, Rebeca always had something to say—but not usually while brandishing a firearm.
Rebecca let out a hacking cough, splattering flecks of blood on her sleeve. “We don’t need your business. It would be better for everyone if you stayed away.”
Lola stiffened beside her, but Enne wasn’t so easily threatened. “How do Bryce and Harvey feel about that?” Enne asked, reaching for her own gun inside her purse.
Rebecca let out a laugh. “As if Harvey’s opinion matters.”
Enne didn’t want to get into an argument with someone who was clearly ill. Rebecca didn’t look well enough to stand, let alone challenge them to a shoot-out. And either way, Enne felt she would win.
“You can either step aside, or we can go through you,” Enne told her darkly. “It’s your choice.”
Rebecca narrowed her eyes and backed away. “Just don’t come back.”
Enne and Lola passed through the broken gates outside. Lola walked stiffly, like at any moment, she might be shot between the shoulder blades. Enne kept her hand on her own gun, trying to figure out when Rebecca had stopped treating her like dirt and started treating her like an enemy.
“I knew Rebecca was ill, but I’ve never seen her like that,” Lola told Enne as they turned onto the block where they’d parked her motorcar. “No wonder Bryce has been a mess.”
Bryce had unnerved Enne from the first time they’d met, but now Enne felt a pang of sympathy.
“What is the Balfour family talent?” Enne asked.
Lola eyed her uneasily. “Why do you ask?”
“I just realized how little I know him, is all.”
Lola lowered her voice to a whisper. “The Balfour family doesn’t have a talent.”
Enne frowned. “Is that possible?”
“I don’t think so, but that’s how they’re listed in all the archives.”
“Then he’s clearly hiding something.”
“They’re all hiding something,” Lola muttered as she unlocked her car and they each climbed inside. She turned around to back the motorcar out of the narrow alley, then startled. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Enne asked, whipping around. She only saw quiet rowhomes with their curtains drawn.
“I thought I spotted something,” Lola murmured, frowning. “Probably nothing.”
Enne shrugged and opened her Sadie Knightley novel. She’d developed a habit of rereading the same books over and over, because she craved the certainty of knowing how the stories ended.
She’d listened to enough of Grace’s lessons to know how legends ended, too.
And so each morning, before Vianca’s direct phone line could ring, before Lola could fill her schedule with appointments, Enne completed a ritual. She pictured the faces of the Phoenix Club, she practiced her shooting, and she told herself the same thing.
Not mine.
* * *
Every day, over six hundred thousand illegal volts flowed through an old finishing school classroom in the Ruins District. It was decorated in pastels, and a gaggle of girls sat on the floor, papers spread around them, pencils tapping against plush fur carpet. They each wore curlers in their hair or green, sludgy masks over their skin. Every now and then, one would shout out a new number and phrase, and several others would adjust the statistics on the chalkboard.
As Enne and Lola entered, Grace jumped to her feet, cucumbers falling off her eyes. Enne wasn’t sure the cucumbers could do her much good if she still wore thick circles of eyeliner beneath them.
Grace shoved Enne a clipboard. “We’re getting calls. Lots of investors backing out.”
“Define lots,” Enne said. She squinted at the numbers on the paper.
“Two hundred thousand volts.”
“What? Who’s pulling out? From where?” Enne scanned the list. It seemed most of the investors were from gambling dens. Was Levi up to something?
“It’s not the Irons,” Grace answered. “They’re all Torren-owned dens, which makes sense. Charles doesn’t trust you. You did kill his cousin.”
If too many investors pulled out, the gangs would each lose a fortune. And with tensions rising between the whiteboots in the South Side and the gangs patrolling the North, none of the lords could afford budget cuts right now. Wealth was their most effective weapon.
“If every single Torren den sold out, how much more would we lose?” Enne asked.
“Maybe sixty thousand more volts?” Grace told her. “I have the names of every person who backed out. Give me the word, and I’ll kill them all.”
“Terror,” Enne said drily. “Because that worked out so well for past lords.”
“Suit yourself, but I want you to know—I’m doing math, and I’m very bored.”
“You’re a counter. Isn’t this what you do?”
Grace raised her eyebrows. “When’s the last time you did a cartwheel?” She poked Enne in the side with her pencil. “I could think of other uses for your bendy talent that Poppy’s list of South Side boys might find pretty appealing.” She smiled wickedly.
The girl closest to them rolled her eyes. “You spent all morning telling me how satisfying it was to make the Irons’ statements balance.”
Grace clutched her knife necklace indignantly. “Yeah, well, Pup’s books were a mess, so I fixed them.”
“These aren’t businesses—they’re gangs. Who cares if the numbers don’t add up?”
Grace bent down and snatched a glossy piece of paper hidden under the girl’s notebook, pulling away the whole magazine with it. “Really, Charlotte?” She threw the copy of The Kiss & Tell across the room. “So when you find an error, what do you do?”
Charlotte shrugged and grabbed herself a piece of candy from the bowl beside her. “I give it to Marcy. She lives for it.”
Enne looked around at t
he girls and realized Marcy, the youngest girl among them, who wore glasses so large they made her face look bug-like, was the only one actually working. The others were reading from Enne’s stash of romance novels or braiding their hair.
“This place is a mess,” Lola said flatly. “It’s a good thing we’re not hiring a boy, otherwise none of you would get anything done.” She tipped Charlotte’s bottle of pink nail polish over on her magazine.
A number of voices chorused around the room.
“That was from Kipling’s,” Charlotte snapped first.
“We’re getting a boy?” Marcy asked, flushing and dropping her piece of chalk.
“As if you ever do anything here other than chauffeur Enne around and sneak out every night,” Grace muttered to Lola.
Lola whipped around, as though trying to decide who to strike first. Enne whacked her over the head with Grace’s notebook.
“Enough,” she hissed. “Charlotte, I want you to call the potential investors on the next sales list and see if you can make up these losses. Grace, if you’re going to spend time fixing Levi’s math, I expect you to charge him for it. And Lola—um, play nice.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “I hate all of you. And I especially hate this.” She kicked a pink fur pillow across the floor.
“I’m going to my office,” Enne groaned, and then she swept off down the hallway. It’d been several hours since she last manned her phone, and knowing Vianca, she’d probably tried to call a dozen times in Enne’s absence. Lately, the donna’s list of requests grew ever longer and more absurd, including demanding the Spirits run election polls and forcing Enne to recite all the reasons why Harrison was a failure as a son.
Lola followed Enne to the headmistress’s office, which the two of them shared. She slung her top hat on the desk and instinctively reached for the radio.
“The North Side isn’t a no-go zone,” Harrison Augustine told the reporter in a muffled voice, like he was pushing the microphone away. “The Mole lines are operating normally. In fact, violent crimes in the North Side have decreased by—”
“The Senate vote regarding the registration of the Talents of Mysteries is tomorrow,” the reporter interrupted. “You’ve expressed reluctance regarding this in the past. How do you feel now that the vote is this close?”
Enne sighed and reached for the half-full mug of tea on her desk, sweetened with six teaspoons of sugar. The election wasn’t for three months yet, and she already needed a vacation.
“Public fear is on the rise, and I think what everyone—North and South Side—wants is extra peace of mind. That’s my only comment.”
“What a mucking useless answer,” Lola spat. “It’s no wonder Prescott is beating him.”
Enne’s heart clenched. Even if she hated the First Party for its connections to the Phoenix Club, Enne had a vested interest in seeing Harrison win the election. If Harrison won, then she and Levi would be free of Vianca forever.
“Just because our polls say one thing, doesn’t mean—” Enne started.
“Our polls are right.” Lola fiddled with the radio dial, switching between talk shows, music, and static. “You know, Vianca would probably approve of a publication that shows the North Side’s support for Prescott, since no one else will print the truth.”
“Is that how you’re pitching things to me now? How they would please Vianca?”
“You use the name Séance, which was Lourdes’s pen name. It’s her legacy.”
Enne knew Lola felt more strongly about politics than she did, but she’d never imagined Lola would play such a card.
“It wasn’t her legacy,” Enne snapped. “It was her death sentence.”
The words might’ve been harsh, but they worked. Lola quietly returned to changing the radio stations, and Enne slipped out of the room to clear her head.
Enne climbed the stairs to the dormitories and spotted a cat perched on the bannister. In an effort to make the finishing school feel more like home, Marcy had adopted thirteen strays, which she’d named after famous legends from the North Side.
“You’re not supposed to wander,” Enne told him, picking him up. Marcy had named this one Veil for the black fur on his head, matching the tales of how Veil had kept his face hidden. As Enne carried him back to the dormitories, she noticed the calico, Inamorata, curled up asleep in the hallway, and that one of the doors had been left ajar.
Suddenly a hand clasped over Enne’s mouth. Another hand circled around her waist and held her firmly.
“Don’t move,” a male voice whispered in her ear. She ignored him and thrashed in his arms, dropping Veil. The cat paid no mind to her distress and ran down the hallway.
Then she felt a knife press into her back.
“I said, don’t move.”
Enne froze and swallowed down her scream. The man pushed her forward, walking her into the bedroom where the cats had escaped. The window was shattered, and a rope stretched down from it.
Keeping the knife pressed against her and his hand covering her mouth, he turned her around to face him. A mask concealed his features, except for a pair of dark eyes and a few tufts of dirty blond hair. Enne didn’t recognize him, but she felt she knew his voice from somewhere she couldn’t place.
“We’re going to climb down,” he told her, slapping a handcuff around her wrist and the other around his belt. “You aren’t going to make a sound. You aren’t going to fight.”
Enne tried her best not to panic, but her bounty was worth the same if she was dead or alive. He might let her live for now, but if she fought back, there was nothing stopping him from slicing that knife across her throat.
The Spirits were all downstairs. How long would it take them to realize Enne had gone missing?
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a gag. He stuffed it in Enne’s mouth, even with one hand still clutching his knife. Enne guessed he favored his left hand, and judging from his size, she wouldn’t overpower him in a battle of strength.
But she was not weak.
While he secured the knot around her gag, she grabbed the hand that held the knife and twisted it away. His balance veered, and she kicked his feet out from under him. It sent them both falling, but she landed on top.
She punched him as hard as she could in the face.
“Muck,” she cursed. It hurt. As she shook out the pain in her fist, he grabbed her by the shoulder and flipped them over.
He pressed his knife against her throat. “You’re more of a pain than I expected.”
“Yes,” Grace said at the door, making him jolt. She dropped Veil onto the floor. “I’m very proud.”
Then she lifted her boot and kicked him in the chest. He sprawled backward, his knife skidding across the floor, sending several cats dashing after it. Enne, too, was yanked by the handcuff, getting brush burn across her arms. Grace pinned him down with her knees and ripped off his mask.
He had a young, handsome face, with cheekbones so strong it was no wonder Enne had nearly broken her hand on them.
Grace reached over and pulled the gag from Enne’s mouth. Enne sputtered out a thank-you.
“I’m not alone,” the handsome man said sharply. “The captain knows my position.”
“I was there when the whiteboots shot up the Orphan Guild,” Grace said. “So either you’ve all lost your rifles, or you’re alone. I’m guessing the latter.” She dug through his pockets and removed a pouch of orbs, his badge, and the keys to Enne’s handcuffs. She handed the last item to Enne, who quickly freed herself. “How did you find this place?”
He said nothing, only turned his head to the side and glared at the wall.
Grace punched him on his other cheek, and she didn’t curse like Enne had. “You will tell us who you are and who else knows about this place, or I will kill you very, very slowly.”
He seethed, but remained silent.
“Enne, get the rope,” Grace ordered, and Enne pulled the whiteboot’s escape rope up from the window. She and Grace forced him into a chair in the room’s corner, then bound his arms and legs to it. “I say we kill him. I hate whiteboots.”
“Kill him? Here?” Enne echoed. The Spirits were accountants—not assailants. “In Marcy’s bedroom?”
“He knows our location now, and he’s seen you without your mask. We can’t let him live.”
Grace had a point, but Enne still stopped her as she reached for his gun. “No,” she commanded. Even if she’d needed Grace to save her, she was still the lord. She would decide if and when they killed him. “I’m going to get the others.”
“But... You can’t—”
Two minutes later, all nine of the Spirits huddled in Marcy’s bedroom. Several of them still carried the tabloids they’d been reading. Others clutched knives, as though a bruised man tied to a chair still posed a threat.
“Holy muck,” Marcy murmured, which was the first time Enne had ever heard her curse. She squeezed one of her cats for support, even as it squirmed in her grip. “Look at his face.”
“Let’s keep him,” Charlotte declared, and several of the Spirits nodded in agreement.
“Let’s kill him,” Grace growled, waving around his badge. “He’s a whiteboot.”
Enne didn’t like the idea of murdering someone in cold blood, but Charlotte’s alternative sounded no better. He would be a liability if he escaped, which meant someone would need to watch him around the clock. That was one less girl working, and they were already growing short-staffed.
“We can’t keep him here,” Lola said matter-of-factly, “or Marcy will have a stroke.”
“He could be a hostage,” Charlotte suggested.
“I am not a hostage,” the whiteboot spat. He turned his face away from them, exposing the blossoming purple mark on his cheek. “You might as well kill me. Captain Hector won’t negotiate with...” His eyes roamed over the girls, each dressed in little more than pajamas, with rollers in their hair or green charcoal masks still on their faces. “Gangsters.”