King of Fools

by Amanda Foody

  “I don’t want trouble, Jonas,” she said, since they were apparently on a first-name basis now.

  “Trouble?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Do you have other secrets I should know about?”

  “My associate called you yesterday about hiring someone who can alter memories. Do you have someone who could help us?” The sooner they disposed of Roy Pritchard, the better. She didn’t want a second handsome whiteboot to come looking for him. Or worse, for the Spirits to grow any more distracted. When he wouldn’t stop sneezing and they realized he was allergic to Marcy’s cats, every one of the girls had offered their rooms as a replacement.

  “Of course I do,” Jonas answered. “Maybe you’re unaware of what we offer here, but there’s nothing we can’t provide. Skin-stitchers, trackers, protectors. There’s no information in New Reynes that I don’t already know, or that I can’t find out.”

  Enne’s skin prickled at his last words. “Are you trying to sell me something, or are you trying to threaten me?”

  “What would I gain by threatening you? The Scarhands have never been richer, thanks to you.” He flashed her a too-wide smile. “My only ulterior motive is curiosity. I mean, why would a hopeless finishing school student want to become a street lord?”

  “Vianca doesn’t usually take one’s desires into consideration.”

  He stood up and perched at the edge of his desk, much like Reymond had when she’d first met them both. Even so, Jonas didn’t remind her of Reymond at all. Reymond had collected information by sniffing out lies and breaking bones, but Jonas’s office was cluttered and full in the way Reymond’s had been bare. File cabinets lined the walls, their drawers pulled out and stuffed with folders. Jonas might’ve had a report on every citizen of New Reynes tucked away in this room.

  “I have no doubt you’re doing this for Vianca,” Jonas murmured, “but that didn’t mean you had to excel at it. You want this.”

  Enne did excel at this, which was why she knew better than to be flattered. She gestured around the room. “I’ve made you rich, yes, but I don’t believe you when you say it’s about volts. You inherited this position from Eight Fingers, and it’s like you said—you didn’t have to excel at it.” She stood up and inspected the closest filing cabinet. The folders were meticulously organized in alphabetical order. “So is it knowledge just for the sake of it? Or something else?” Enne brushed her fingers across the folders, as though strumming an instrument. “Maybe you’re desperately trying to conceal your own secrets. Or trying to find a particular someone else’s.”

  He hopped off the desk and slid the drawer she perused closed. He had a playful gleam in his eyes. “I’ll tell you my truth if you tell me yours.”

  “Tempting,” she said, “but I’m more curious about other things.”

  Jonas laughed, as though even he acknowledged that he wasn’t the most interesting thing in this room. He had a strangely relaxed laugh.

  “What do you know about Harrison Augustine?” she asked.

  He stiffened. “Are you just trying to test my knowledge?”

  “My only ulterior motive is curiosity,” she told him simply, repeating his own words back at him.

  “You probably want to know why Harrison hates Vianca,” Jonas guessed. “I can’t tell you the answer to that, but I do know something. During the Great Street War, Veil kidnapped the children of several influential people and held them for ransom. Harrison was one of those children. Before that, he was every bit an Augustine prince. After, well...”

  Enne wondered what Levi would make of this connection between his favorite New Reynes legend and his secret ally.

  “That was a simple question,” Jonas told her. “I think you could ask a better one.”

  Enne had come here for business, but now her curiosity really was getting the better of her. Maybe Jonas wasn’t as slimy as she’d once thought.

  “Do you know who Vianca’s third...” Her voice died in her throat. She couldn’t say the word omerta, not without the omerta fighting back.

  Jonas pursed his lips. “That is a better one. I have no idea. But I would pay you for the information, should you happen to find out.”

  She could’ve stopped there, but already a third question—a far more dangerous question—came to mind. “Do you know the names of any members of the Phoenix Club?”

  She held her breath all through the Scar Lord’s silence, wondering if her curiosity had revealed too much.

  “Besides our newest chancellor? Only one.” Jonas brushed past her and opened one of the cabinets. He removed a file marked “Owain, Aldrich” and handed it to Enne.

  Her heart thundered as she flipped through the documents. A photograph was paper-clipped to the top, and Enne instantly recognized his face. She’d replayed the memory of that night so often in her mind that she would have recognized any of them. He looked old and frail, but his appearance was no indication of his true age, thanks to his immortality talent. According to the papers, he owned the media conglomerate that ran The Crimes & The Times and several famous radio networks.

  Enne finally had a name. This man had helped murder her mother—he had almost murdered her—and now Enne had his name.

  “That’s a dangerous look you have right now,” Jonas commented.

  Enne handed him back the papers before she squeezed them so hard they tore. “I should get going.” She fished an orb out of her purse and placed it on his desk. “For the memory fixer. Should I bring the client here tonight?”

  “Bring him whenever you’d like. My door is always open.” Jonas collapsed back into his chair and opened her own file, his eyes drifting between the documents and her. “You can tell me more about your plans for the Phoenix Club.”

  “And you can tell me more about that person you’re looking for.”

  At first, he frowned, and then he chuckled to himself. “You were wasted in finishing school.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Enne danced the Skipstep with a young man named Whitacker Blake. Whitacker wore a linen suit with white polka dots and a matching vanilla cravat. His blond hair was slicked to both sides, leaving a harsh part that accentuated his large forehead. Despite this, he wasn’t unattractive—if anything, he was far more interesting to look at than most of the other young men in the room, even those Poppy Prescott had so enthusiastically introduced her to.

  “So how long will you be staying on Guillory Street?” Whitacker asked Enne.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she answered.

  “It’s a terrible time to be here. The election is a dreadful business,” he said. “Especially, I’m sure, for a lady such as yourself.”

  She furrowed her eyebrows. “How so?”

  “Politics is entirely improper for women—they shouldn’t have to get their hands so dirty. I’m sure the campaigns are spoiling your summer vacation.” Enne squeezed his shoulder a bit harder—not enough to hurt him, but enough to prevent her from biting back.

  “Plus the campaigns have been all twisted by the North Side,” Whitacker continued, shaking his head. “The Chancellor’s death, Sedric Torren’s, this street war... Be very glad you’re south of the river.”

  “How could I not be glad?” she asked, tight-lipped. “When the South Side men are so charming?”

  His smile made it obvious he hadn’t understood her dig.

  “But this is Worner Prescott’s party—are you not here for political reasons?” she asked.

  “My father is,” he answered. “We’d normally never dream of voting against the First Party, but one North Side candidate replaced by another? It doesn’t matter that Harrison Augustine has been gone for so long—that North Side smell never really goes away.”

  “I know what you mean,” Enne said, nodding solemnly. “It smells acidic...like old wine.”

  He gave her an odd, unsteady look. “That’s very specific.�
�

  “And hardly to be masked by Regalliere cologne.” She slid her fingers beneath his collar, manicured nails grazing across skin. He stiffened as she exposed his collarbone, and on it, a telltale stain of red lipstick. “It’s terribly difficult to get a Sweetie Street mark out, isn’t it?” Enne said, pouting her lips. Then she quickly drew away. “I’d finish the dance, but I wouldn’t want to get my hands dirty.”

  Whitacker gaped at her, but just as his expression began to warp into anger, she turned on her heels and sped away. Poppy, who’d been watching while sipping a Hotsy-Totsy, laughed. “What did you say to him? He’s gone scarlet!”

  “I don’t mean to be picky,” Enne breathed, “but these men aren’t nearly as charming as you’d led me to believe.”

  Poppy leaned forward with a serious look. “Never, ever apologize for being picky. As if I’d want a friend so easy to please.” She scanned the remaining suitors at the party. “I wish I knew what you did like, though. You’ve exhausted the three men with the best cheekbones, the two disgustingly rich ones, the one with the cute butt, and you don’t seem interested in the girls.”

  “I didn’t hate the one with the cute butt,” Enne pointed out. Grace would’ve probably liked him even more, but until the business with Roy was resolved tonight, Grace needed to stay with the Spirits. Enne almost envied her. If not for Poppy, Enne wouldn’t even like going to these salons anymore. They were exactly the sort of gatherings she’d longed to attend in Bellamy, but she hadn’t belonged at them then, and she certainly didn’t belong here now.

  “‘Not hating’ wasn’t exactly the romantic spark I was looking for,” Poppy said drily. Her eyes widened, and she squeezed Enne’s hand. “There’s someone else then, I bet. Back in Bellamy.”

  Enne snorted. “Why would you think that?”

  “You hardly talk about yourself.” Poppy smiled mischievously. “I bet you have secrets.”

  Enne had little intention of revealing anything about herself to Poppy, but she didn’t like lying, so she steered the conversation away. “Could we go to the powder room? I’d like to reapply my lipstick.”

  Several moments later, Poppy bent over the sink, straightening her false eyelashes, and Enne rifled through her purse.

  “So what did Whitacker say that had you storming off?” Poppy asked.

  “He mentioned something about how women shouldn’t dirty their hands with politics.”

  Poppy barked out a laugh. “Our chancellor is a woman. And as of late, all our male politicians keep getting killed by one.”

  Enne jolted, smearing pink lipstick across her chin. She quickly closed her purse to hide the white gloves of the Spirits tucked inside.

  “I know,” Poppy said with a sigh, seeing Enne’s reaction. “That’s a horribly distasteful thing to say, coming from the daughter of a politician.” For a brief moment, the look on her face changed from cheerfulness to worry. “I never thought he’d win, you know. But his campaign advisors are saying he might.”

  Enne put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think you need to worry about your father.” Not with Vianca watching over him, anyway.

  “He announced his candidacy over six months ago, but lately...” Poppy shivered. “It’s felt different at these parties. I no longer recognize all the faces. I don’t trust anyone here.”

  “Why not?” Enne asked.

  “I just have a terrible feeling. Superstition is outdated, I know, but still.” Poppy smoothed out her hair. “I’m dreading the debate more than anything. I’ve heard it’s a huge event, and all the South Side shows up for it. He gets terrible stage fright, and—”

  “The debate?” Enne echoed. “It draws that many attendees?”

  “Absolutely. It’s like showing up to a music hall or a tennis tournament. Everyone pretends to be interested in the show, but they’re really just there to get their pictures taken. It’s not until the end of September, which is still over a month away, but he’s mentioned it multiple times already. He’s excited. Like he actually stands a chance of outtalking Harrison Augustine.”

  If the event truly garnered that level of attention, then Aldrich Owain would likely attend. And Vianca might have Enne attend, as well. She clutched at the edge of her skirts, tracing the outline of her gun.

  It was a perfect opportunity.

  “I need to go,” Enne said quickly.

  “You’re already running off?” Poppy asked. “Where do you always disappear to?” Before Enne could answer, Poppy’s face split into a knowing grin. “Maybe I was wrong about the Bellamy boy. Maybe it’s a North Side boy, and you’re worried about scandalizing me.”

  Enne let out a strained laugh. “You’re imagining my life to be far more interesting than it is.”

  Nevertheless, Poppy blew her a kiss. “Tell the North Side boy he hogs too much of your time.”

  As Enne tried to slip out of the party, a hand grabbed her wrist, and Enne let out a gasp of surprise. “You don’t even say hello to me anymore?” Vianca yanked Enne around to face her.

  “I...I thought you weren’t coming today,” Enne stammered. In fact, as Vianca’s only confidante, Enne had advised her not to. Vianca insisted these appearances made her look in control, but really, she seemed obsessive. Especially with all the rumors the tabloids reported about what might’ve happened between her and her son.

  Vianca ignored her question. “Did Poppy tell you anything interesting? You have a job to do at these parties, don’t forget.”

  Enne ripped her hand away. “We both know that’s not why you want me here, or why you call me ten times a day.”

  “You think this election is breaking me. Everyone seems to think that.” Vianca peered over her shoulder, making several eavesdroppers blanch and turn away. “If I were a man, all the talk would be about my financial interests in this election. Instead, it’s personal.”

  Enne didn’t believe that to be entirely true, but she also agreed it wasn’t false, either.

  The donna tucked a loose hair back into her fraying bun. “You’d think the women at least would understand, but look around—who are the ones craning their necks to get a glimpse of the heartless casino owner?” Enne did so, and sure enough, it was mostly women staring. “Well?” she snapped. “What’s your opinion on this?”

  Enne sighed. Vianca never listened to her advice, anyway. “I think it takes more strength to be vulnerable than it does to appear invincible.”

  Vianca squeezed Enne’s shoulder. She’d already spent so long leaning on it for emotional support that Enne was surprised it wasn’t bruised.

  “That’s it, then?” Vianca snarled. “I should cry motherly tears on a radio station? I should give them what they all want?”

  This was what she always did, twisting Enne’s honest words into something wrong. For someone convinced she had something to prove to all the men in her life, Vianca would prefer to be regarded as just another man than as a woman successful in her own right, and that made her as narrow-minded as the rest of them.

  “Do you hate Harrison?” Enne asked, deeply tired.

  “Of course I do. My grandfather, my father, my brother, my son. I hate them all.” Her voice grew weaker as her words grew more vicious. “But this was never about the men. This has always been about me.”

  Enne would never admit to identifying with Vianca Augustine, but she understood the frustration of other people’s assumptions. She was either “wasted at finishing school” or “corrupted by the North Side.” In reality, she wasn’t any particular type of girl. She was simply practical, dedicated, and clever.

  Maybe Enne had cried over a boy who didn’t deserve it. Maybe she could be called silly or naïve. But if she truly believed tears and vulnerability meant weakness, then she wouldn’t merely understand Vianca Augustine—she would respect her.

  “Then beat them,” Enne told the donna, and Vianca’s
lips curled into a satisfied smile.

  The words might’ve suited Vianca’s ruthless vision for herself, but they were too pretty, too simple. But since the donna disdained women for the same reasons, Vianca wouldn’t know the difference.

  8

  “The most romantic legend of the North Side is Innocence and Iris. They were rival street lords, and so they hid their relationship for years.

  “Until they were both apprehended.

  “Legend says Iris stayed alive for two days until Innocence was hanged next to her. That she lingered that whole time on the gallows, waiting for her lover to join her.”

  —A legend of the North Side

  LEVI

  His six weeks were over.

  Levi shivered as he walked down the gaudy opulence of the hallway that led to Vianca’s office. He’d worn his best for this meeting, appropriate for one of the richest men in the North Side. The Irons operated in eighty percent of all the casinos in the city. He’d even been offered the chance to buy a casino.

  It was enough, he assured himself.

  It was enough.

  It was enough.

  He prayed Vianca saw reason, that this wasn’t just another one of her games to torment him. She ran an empire herself; she recognized when business sense forced you to set aside personal whims.

  Nevertheless, Levi braced himself as he entered the elevator to Vianca’s private residence, preparing for everything he cared about to be stripped away.

  The elevator doors creaked closed, and he sensed Vianca’s aura seeping in through the cracks, grazing the skin against his cheek. It positively filled the casino—every expensive cologne and designer hand soap was laced with her odor of vinegar, the purest of white walls or marble stained faintly green.

  Levi walked into Vianca’s sitting room to find it empty and eerily still. It was identical to when he’d last seen it, except for one striking detail—the portrait of the Augustine Family now had a tear across it, forcibly removing Harrison from the picture.