by Amanda Foody
“North Side drinks aren’t supposed to taste good. They’re supposed to burn, and you’re supposed to like it.” The server set both their drinks down, and Levi shook his head at Enne’s, all fizzy and pink. “And I don’t know... Vianca didn’t make those South Side parties seem that bad.” He scowled as he took a sip of his Gambler’s Ruin, another gesture Enne tried not to dwell on.
“Maybe not.” She forced herself to shrug. “But it does get tiresome, pretending to be something I’m not.”
“I would’ve thought you’d fit right in below the river.”
“Would you?”
Levi swirled around the contents of his drink. “Well, maybe when we first met, but no, not anymore.” He almost sounded remorseful, like it was his fault she’d lost herself.
“I’m done mourning my old life,” she told him seriously. “If you have something worth fighting for in New Reynes, then you need to be prepared to fight dirty. Maybe that makes me a Sinner, but at least I care about something. And at least I’m not alone.”
Something in Levi’s expression changed when she said those words. He leaned forward and took her hand.
“I know I made mistakes,” he murmured. “I hurt you trying to protect someone else, and I’ll never stop being sorry. But I want to make it right.”
Her heart pounded. This was dangerous, familiar ground, taking them right back to the place where they’d fallen apart, to the same place Enne thought about every night when she wished she wouldn’t—to the same place she desperately wanted to go.
“You are the only thing that feels right,” he told her.
All her life, Enne had used words to wind herself back together. After the Shadow Game, and when the weight of losing her mother crashed upon her, Enne might’ve used these words to mend her wounds. But in the months they’d spent apart, she’d learned to cherish the broken parts of herself. So as she clung to his words now, she did so to treasure them, not to use them as a crutch.
“I know you don’t believe in destiny,” he continued. His skin was hot beneath hers; he was embarrassed. But Enne made no effort to stop him. “I know you think I’ve gotten everything I’ve always wanted, but none of it has felt right. And I think that’s because, somewhere before, I made a wrong turn. I should never have made that promise to Jac. I should never have let you walk away that night at the Catacombs. And I should never have let you walk away every single night after.”
She squeezed his hand tightly, on the off chance her heart might rupture. “Do you really believe in destiny like that?”
“I want to,” he answered. “And I think that’s what matters.”
Enne liked those words, and so she leaned closer and pressed her forehead against his. Neither of them spoke for several moments, and when Enne closed her eyes, she swore she could feel a force pulling her toward him. A force far greater than desire.
She wanted to believe in their story, too.
“Are you going to say anything?” he breathed.
“Is that what you want to do right now?” she asked, opening her eyes and smiling. “Talk?”
He licked his lips. “No. No, that’s not what I want.”
Then the doors to the den blasted open, and a gunshot cut through the music.
Enne and Levi sprang apart, their hands still locked together. At the opposite end of the hall, several whiteboots stormed inside. Enne immediately pulled Levi down into a crouch behind their table.
“You have got,” Levi growled, “to be mucking kidding me.”
No one else in the hall moved—breathed, even—as one of the whiteboots jumped onto the stage. He pushed the singer aside and spat into the microphone. “The North Side is now under curfew, starting at seven o’clock. After you all show us your identification, you have twenty minutes to crawl back to your gutters. This whole city is going on lockdown.”
Enne’s breath caught. This situation was dangerous for her, but deadly for Levi. The door to Tropps Street filed the hall with the wails of sirens. Even if they escaped, what awaited them outside?
Enne pulled her revolver out from her pocket, and though the whiteboot didn’t see her, she pointed it at him, prepared to play dirty once more.
Levi squeezed her shoulder. “You could hit one of the musicians.”
“I won’t miss,” she said firmly. They needed a distraction so they could run.
“Then aim for the lights.”
Enne directed the revolver to the lights above the stage. No one would get hurt, but even so, she wasn’t sure it would be enough.
“Everyone up!” the whiteboot barked. “Your time is already running out.”
Chairs scraped across floorboards. The owner of the establishment ran out of his office, complaining about the new closing time and lost business.
The whiteboot laughed, jumped off the stage, and grabbed a bottle of ale from the first table. The customers seated there let him take it. “Breaking curfew is now worth a week in prison. I don’t think anyone here wants to be an example.” His eyes scanned the room, and to Enne’s horror, landed on them. He squinted. “’Lo! What is—”
Enne fired. Half the lights in the room flickered, then blackened, and everyone screamed at the sounds of bullets and shattering glass.
Levi yanked Enne forward, and the two sprinted toward the kitchen. Gunfire followed them, and a glass bottle along the bar’s shelves exploded. But they were already pushing open the doors, stumbling away.
Whiteboots charged after them, but they didn’t make it outside until Enne and Levi were already halfway down the alley. The Casino District looked darker than usual—it was typically bright no matter the hour, even during a storm, but its many neon lights had been switched off. The sirens blared so loudly, Enne needed to resist covering her ears. The wind whipped the rain sideways.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Enne asked as Levi turned them down the first alley they came across.
“We’re not far from Olde Town.”
“Harrison’s bribe can’t stop this, Levi. It won’t be any better there.”
“The museum is a fortress. It’s the safest place to go.”
But getting there wasn’t so straightforward. White motorcars blocked several streets, and both of their shadows constantly danced amid blue and red lights. Soon Enne realized that Levi didn’t know where he was going as well as he’d claimed. They found themselves standing side by side in an alley, their backs pressed against the white stone wall, their clothes soaked, their guns raised.
“Are we lost?” she hissed. Lightning tore through the clouds overhead, followed by a tremendous crack of thunder. If they died tonight, at least their end would make a good story.
“What’s important,” he said, “is that we’re not dead.”
Enne grimaced and dug into her pocket. Then she tied Séance’s black mask across her face.
“Is that smart?” Levi asked.
“If they recognize you, then my face will be compromised just for being with you,” she told him. “This is protection.”
The rain fell more fiercely, making it difficult to see or hear very far in front of them. They inched toward the edge of the alley, but as soon as they peeked around the corner, they heard a shout.
“’Lo! Who is that?” called a voice. The sound of footsteps approached.
“Muck,” Levi breathed, grabbing Enne’s hand and yanking her away. But before they could turn, the whiteboot caught up behind them. He was young, and his eyes widened when he saw them. He shakily raised a gun.
But Enne fired first.
The whiteboot crumpled with a thud and a splash. The water on the pavement ran red.
Levi shuddered and lowered his gun. “You needed to do that.” He said it like he was convincing himself.
“I know,” Enne replied. Still, she didn’t look at the whiteboot. “It was him or us.”
A mile still stretched between them and the Irons’ hideout. There was no question that they would keep running, that Enne would still shoot when it meant “us or them,” but that didn’t mean they would make it.
So, before she could talk herself out of it, Enne grabbed a fistful of Levi’s collar, pulled him down toward her, and pressed her lips against his. He tasted like New Reynes’s polluted rain, and though his clothes were soaked through and freezing, his skin burned at her touch. She felt his mouth open to hers—either in surprise or want, she wasn’t sure. His free hand reached around her waist, but before he could close the space between them, Enne lurched away.
“That’s in case we die,” she said.
Levi’s chest heaved in shaky gasps as he wiped the rainwater out of his eyes. “We aren’t dying,” he breathed, “until we can do that again.”
Enne’s face heated with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “Then let’s make it home.”
And so they ran.
JAC
That evening, Jac paid a visit to the next Rapture den alone. It’d been Sophia’s idea, an important solo assignment to prove that she trusted him. But rather than reassure him, it only made Jac feel lousy, like he was so insecure that everyone around him had to cater to his moods.
If you disagreed with him, you didn’t trust him. If you tried to please him, he was a burden. Jac didn’t know why he couldn’t just be happy.
“I thought Sophia would be here tonight,” the den manager told him. She kept a clean office tucked on the second story of the warehouse, with sheets on the walls meant to suppress the noise of music from below. This was the largest Rapture location on the North Side, a club big enough for three thousand delirious, sweaty bodies, crammed inside a metal building like New Reynes cod.
“I’m Todd Walsh, her partner,” Jac told her. Sophia might’ve claimed that being partners made them equal, but Sophia’s name still carried more influence than his.
“Should we reschedule?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he answered, trying not to sound bitter. Jac opened his briefcase and slid out a packet of papers. “Now, we know that Charles is giving you thirty percent. We can offer you—”
“There’s nothing you can offer me.” She slid the papers back toward him. “How old are you? Sixteen?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“You don’t realize what you’re up against. Delia had the upper hand, didn’t she? Then Charles put eight holes in her head.” The woman leaned forward. “You’re trying to play a game of strategy, but that’s not what this is about. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even care. He probably loves this, waiting you out. You think you’re winning, but you’re just giving him his fun.”
Jac resisted the urge to reach for his Creed. Their meeting with Charles was tomorrow afternoon, and Jac was growing more and more convinced that, when they entered Luckluster Casino, they’d never walk out of it.
“You’re giving him what he wants,” Jac countered. “There are more weapons than fear.”
“Charles is past fear. Do you know what he did to me for betraying him and siding with Delia?” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal a gruesome series of scars, as though fishhooks had been embedded in her skin and ripped free. What remained was gnarled and uneven, rippled colors of still-red wounds.
“I—I’m sorry,” Jac said.
“I’d leave the business entirely, but he’d kill me for that.” The matter-of-fact tone in her voice made his skin crawl. “I’m not sure he’d take kindly to this meeting, either.”
“You agreed to it,” Jac reminded her. “And your support would mean—”
“No, I think it’s best you leave.” She hastily tugged down her sleeve, as if she’d shown him too much.
“Should we reschedule?” he tried. “I’ll bring Sophia next time.”
“I’m sorry. I wish you the best of luck, I really do.”
Within moments, she’d shooed him out of his seat and out the door.
Jac paused at the top of the metal staircase, sighing in disappointment. The warehouse pulsed with fast-paced music, and the air reeked of the acidic smell of Rapture. Neon streamers dangled from the ceiling and writhed from the winds blowing in across the rafters. With the band’s music so loud, it was easy to forget a storm raged outside, the pounding of rain swallowed by the bass.
He ran his hands through his hair and cursed. Sophia had given him one assignment—an important one—and he’d managed to muck it up in only a few minutes.
Jac climbed down the steps and dodged the dancers on his walk to the door. Outside, the rain splatters danced on the pavement, and the wind was too strong for an umbrella. He flipped his hood and trudged down the street.
Sirens called faintly in the distance.
Probably South Side, Jac told himself. After all, the whiteboots hadn’t made it past the Brint in over a month. But the river was over a mile away, and the storm would overpower all but the closest sounds. These sirens were close.
Jac quickened his pace. He’d planned to take the Mole back to Liver Shot, but escaping would be difficult if the whiteboots somehow shut it down. Still, it was a thirty-minute walk home.
The sirens grew closer.
He ran.
The rain pelted him, and the wind whipped his hood back. He could only go so fast without tripping, with water dripping down in his eyes.
Soon he realized the sirens weren’t only in front of him, but also behind him, to the east, to the west.
It only could’ve meant one thing: the North Side had fallen.
And he wasn’t the only one running. Doors to pubs and cabarets burst open, patrons spilling out and scattering like rats. Jac collided with one of them, so hard he slammed to the ground and dislocated his shoulder with an agonizing pop.
“Muck!” he cursed, clutching his arm. He tried to run forward, but each of his steps sent a quake of pain through him. He was in trouble.
Figures appeared at the edge of the street, murky from the rain. They ran toward the crowds, and Jac realized they were whiteboots. Each clutched a baton in one hand and a wooden shield in the other, as if they intended to ram and beat passersby.
If the whiteboots caught him, then Jac would hang.
“Muck,” he shouted again, and he sped off in the opposite direction, adrenaline dulling his pain. He ducked down an offshooting alley and mentally mapped out the route back to Liver Shot. In his condition, he doubted he would make it, and Olde Town was even farther away.
He was trapped in the heart of the Factory District...and he was alone.
Other panicked North Siders pushed and sprinted past him. Some knocked frantically on doors or threw things at windows. Jac turned around, to see if there was another cause for the chaos, but then he heard gunshots, and he no longer dared to see what chased him.
The devil themself, it felt like.
He ran with everything he had. The metal traffic poles swung from the force of the wind, and after several minutes of fleeing, Jac grabbed one desperately to steady himself. With his good arm, he reached for his Creed. He knew a sinner’s prayers were worthless, but he still prayed for mercy. If he could survive the night, he would never cheat anyone ever again. He would never hurt or steal or lie. He would throw the stash of cigarettes Sophia didn’t know about down a sewer. If he could just survive the night.
Then, as if in answer to his prayer, he saw it.
He crossed the street toward the church with one arm raised to protect his eyes. Even through the rain, he faintly smelled smoke. Lights in the surrounding buildings flickered from the storm, and he could almost swear that this was the night the world would end.
Jac threw open the wooden church doors and collapsed onto the damp floorboards. Immediately, strong arms hoisted him up, causing him to scream out from the pain in his shoulder.
“Asylum!” he screamed. “I seek asylum!”
But the young man, he discovered, was not a priest. Though a Creed dangled from his neck, he wore regular street clothes, soaked through from the rain.
And he held a gun to Jac’s head.
Jac raised his hands, wincing as he did so. “Don’t shoot!”
“Are you a whiteboot?” he demanded.
“Do I look like a whiteboot?”
The man inspected his face with narrowed eyes. “You look familiar.”
That probably had to do with his wanted poster. “You don’t.”
“You’re Jac Mardlin,” he breathed, and Jac braced himself for a bullet. After all, Jac was wanted dead or alive. But the man lowered his gun and laughed. “I’m Harvey Gabbiano.”
Jac recognized the name. Despite their mutual friends, he didn’t relax. Harvey was a Chainer—a bit like Vianca, only he could bind you to a place rather than a person. Jac knew better than to trust him.
Harvey gestured to the main church area, where a number of others huddled in pews as a priest distributed blankets. “Looks like we have a crowd for the night.”
Jac didn’t intend to stay more than a few hours, until the madness passed. “Do you know what’s going on out there?”
“The whiteboots brought in the Republic’s guard to institute a curfew. The North Side is now officially on lockdown until morning.” Harvey shook his head. “They came storming into the variety show where I was, asking for paperwork and everything. The Senate had that vote this morning—the one about the talent registrations. Guess it was about more than they let the public know.”
Jac had been trying to keep up with the news, but his work with Sophia took nearly all his focus. He hadn’t realized the world had turned so bleak.
“Do you think the whiteboots will break into a church?” Jac asked. After all, if they were acting like it was the Revolution all over again, then their next step would be closing down all the churches of the Faithful—for good.
“They might come here,” Harvey said darkly. “But I think they’d go for the gangs first, wouldn’t you?”