by Amanda Foody
She held back a sob and instead took the glass of water on her nightstand and smashed it on the floor. It shattered like the Shadow Game’s timer. The water seeped across the carpet like Semper’s blood.
Before the lockdown, the Spirits had made Enne one of the richest people in the North Side. For months, she’d claimed she wanted power, and she’d had it.
But now it was gone, and she’d spent so many weeks kissing Levi and dreaming of destiny that she hadn’t noticed. Not until she woke with her rage rekindled and burning inside her, a reminder that—like before—everything in her life could be taken away.
Fallen or not, she was done waiting.
Enne stormed out of her bedroom and down the hallway, then threw open Grace’s door. Both Grace and Roy jolted awake—Grace in her bed, a knife jutting out from beneath her pillow, and Roy on the floor handcuffed to the radiator.
Enne pressed her gun to his head and clicked off the safety.
“In less than a month, Aldrich Owain will attend the election’s first debate,” she told Roy. “You’re going to tell me how to kill him.”
Grace flung off her covers. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
Enne barely recognized the growl in her voice when she answered, “I’m finally doing something.”
“By threatening to kill him?” Roy shot Grace an appreciative glance, which Grace didn’t return. “Don’t look so grateful, whiteboot. If I had my way, you would’ve been dead weeks ago. You think I like hearing you snore all night?”
“You talk in your sleep,” he muttered.
Grace’s eyes widened. “You haven’t said a word since the night you got here, and now you decide to talk?” Grace kicked the radiator he was handcuffed to. “You don’t smile. You don’t frown. You knock on the floor when you need to piss, like I’m not even worth your words, and now you speak?”
Roy turned his head to the side and didn’t say anything.
Grace scowled, grabbed Enne by the arm, and dragged her to the other side of the room. “Who is Aldrich Owain?”
Enne hadn’t told anyone about her plan, because she wasn’t going to be talked out of it. She knew revenge would do nothing to heal the painful hole in her heart, but she didn’t care. It would still feel good to put a hole in his.
And so she answered, “He’s one of the people who killed my mother.”
Grace eyed Enne carefully. “There are times for blood, but this isn’t one of them.”
“He deserves to die,” Enne snapped.
“I’m not talking about Owain—I’m talking about him, and whatever it is you stormed in here to do.” Grace gestured to the whiteboot, who glared at them. “Tell me why you need him.”
Enne’s eyes widened in surprise. She hadn’t expected Grace’s support—she hadn’t expected anyone’s.
“There will be whiteboots guarding the debate,” Enne answered, “and Roy was a whiteboot. He’ll know what sort of weapons they’d carry, how many they’d station.”
“But why there? You’ll be more at risk for getting caught.”
Because Enne wasn’t Ivory. She wouldn’t kill Aldrich Owain in the quiet seclusion of his home, leaving his body and a murderer’s calling card for a neighbor to find. She didn’t want to send the Phoenix Club that blatant a message—not yet.
She wanted to make them look over their shoulders. She wanted them to fear the creak of floorboards in the middle of the night, to mistake the shadows in their bedroom for doom. She wanted them to know, deep in their cruel, eternal hearts, that death was coming for them. She wanted them paranoid. She wanted them weak.
And so she’d decided that her first murder would look like an accident.
Owain, a newspaper mogul, would undoubtedly attend the upcoming debate. And if he was shot amid the chaos of a crowd turned violent, no one would suspect foul play.
But rather than explaining all that, Enne only answered, “Because it feels right. It has to be there.”
Grace narrowed her eyes and paused. “Fine. Then I’ll talk to him.”
“But—”
“Put your gun away. I can do this.”
Roy hadn’t cooperated with them since he’d arrived, so Enne had no idea why Grace thought she could convince him. In her nightdress and without her eyeliner, she was far less fearsome than usual. But still, Enne trusted her third, so she did as she was told.
Grace sat down in front of Roy. “I just want to talk,” she said. “Do you know why I used to work as an assassin?”
Roy said nothing.
“I did it for the volts. I bet you hate that, right? A lot of whiteboots just want to wave their guns around, but not you. You’re the noble type. I can tell.” Grace lay down and propped her head on her elbow. “I probably could’ve been a Dove, but creepy cults aren’t really my style. So I let Séance make an honest woman out of me.”
Roy snorted, but still said nothing.
“What’s so funny?” she asked. “Go on. You’ve been watching me so closely these past few days—I see you looking. I bet you have a lot to say.”
He pursed his lips. “Nothing about what you all do here is honest.”
Grace grinned. “You like it? It was my idea.”
Enne crossed her arms. She realized she couldn’t paint Owain’s murder as noble if she tortured Roy to make it happen. But at least torture would’ve been quicker.
“You know what else isn’t honest?” Grace reached up and grabbed his badge off her bureau. “Don’t they take your badge after you’re fired? But you were fired, otherwise people would’ve come looking for you a long time ago. Did you steal this?”
“I didn’t steal it,” he gritted through his teeth.
“You didn’t steal this, but you’re also not a whiteboot.” Grace leaned against the wall beside him, pondering this. He inched away from her, as though disturbed at the thought of them touching. “I know you are who you say you are. I’ve seen your picture in the papers. You led the attack on the Orphan Guild. You killed a nine-year-old, you know. He wasn’t a Guildworker. He was just somebody’s brother.”
Roy stiffened, but remained silent.
“So why is the golden boy of Humphrey Yard no longer a sergeant? Why didn’t you go back to give them your badge? That’s procedure, and you’re all about procedure.” She tossed his badge across the floor. “Because you couldn’t. You’re running from them. Captain Hector wants you dead.”
Roy still said nothing.
“Because it wasn’t the whiteboots who attacked the Orphan Guild. They’ve been telling a lie on every radio station for weeks, and you just can’t live with it.”
Roy’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
Grace gave him a wicked grin. “I didn’t. But now I do.”
Enne’s mind reeled. The whiteboots had claimed credit for the attack. If they didn’t do it, who did?
Roy glared at the floor as he spoke. “The captain thought it would be better for the city if everyone believed we’d done it. And when I wanted to find out who was really responsible, the captain forbade me from following the case. I did anyway. I left after my partner tried to kill me, probably on Hector’s orders, but if I find out the truth...I can expose them. I can go back.”
“So you think I did it?” Enne blurted, horrified.
Roy startled, as though he’d forgotten Enne was there. “No. I think the Guildmaster or one of his associates planned it, but when I saw you leave that day, I knew it was an opportunity. So I followed you.”
“Bryce would never hurt the Guild. And Rebecca and Harvey are too loyal to him to do so, either,” Enne said. “Why do you even suspect them?”
“Because of how quickly they moved, how few people were hurt. It was like they knew it was coming. Like they tried to limit casualties.”
“That’s not evidence,” Grace pointed out. “Tha
t’s coincidence.”
“At the time, only the Families had those sort of weapons,” he admitted. “But I still trust my instincts.”
“I trust logic,” she countered.
“You asked, and I’m telling the truth. But I’m not helping you kill a man.”
“He’s not an innocent man. He killed her mother. Think of it this way—you would be helping bring him to justice. You love justice.”
“Stop doing that. Stop talking about me like I’m some comic strip character.”
“I can’t help it when you look like one. I bet you’d look great in tights.”
He flushed and inched as far away from her as his handcuffs would allow. “If my precinct knew that the headquarters of the Spirits was like this... The whole damn building smells of nail polish. There are cats everywhere named after murderers. And all you eat are sweets.”
“Roy,” Grace cooed, and Roy scowled at the raspy, provocative way she said his name. Enne suspected she knew why Roy insisted on staying with Grace, and it was far from a death wish. “Who does have a motive for starting a street war? Who does want to see the North Side fall?”
When Roy didn’t speak, Enne took it upon herself to answer. “The Phoenix Club.”
“The Phoenix Club hasn’t been active since the Revolution,” he said.
“Troops in the North Side. Talent registrations. Curfews. It’s starting to feel an awful lot like the Revolution repeating itself.” Enne got up and walked closer to Roy. This was the first time he’d actually looked at her—not at Grace or at the floor—since she’d entered the room, and his eyes widened as she approached.
“Yes, it is,” he croaked. “You’re a Mizer.”
Enne realized that she wasn’t wearing her contacts.
“Oh, good,” Grace said cheerily. “Now we have to kill him.”
Enne wouldn’t panic. Not yet. After all, Roy had already been a captive who knew too much information. “I guess now we’re all being honest.” She knelt in front of him. “If my mother hadn’t protected me, the Phoenix Club would’ve killed me when I was born, eight years after the Revolution, and called it justice. My mother wasn’t a Mizer, yet they called it justice when they killed her. You were going to tell the truth, and so Hector tried to kill you. If you want justice in this city, you have to take it.” She held out her hand to shake Roy’s free one. “I think we could help each other.”
Roy’s glare slowly faded into reluctance. “You could’ve tortured me.”
Grace shrugged. “That would’ve been easier, since you already hate me. But I realized, for you, the alternative would be worse.”
Roy grimaced as he reached for Enne’s hand to shake. “I have one condition.”
Grace frowned and opened her mouth to argue, but Enne quickly answered, “Sure.”
“I want to sleep in a different room.” He shot Grace a nervous glance. She bared her teeth.
“We’ll get you your own room,” Enne told him. After they added bars to the windows and padlocks to the doors.
Grace scowled, as though still disappointed they hadn’t killed him, but Enne was about to get exactly what she came for.
She reached into Grace’s nightstand drawer and grabbed the key to Roy’s handcuffs. She dangled them in front of his eyes. “Now tell me what I need to know.”
* * *
Vianca Augustine entered the tea shop wearing a dress black enough for a funeral. It was a pleasant spot, with outdoor seating and pots of flowers lining the patio. Enne gave the donna a small wave to indicate where she was sitting, and Vianca made her way over, servers darting anxiously out of her path.
“Where did you find a place like this?” she asked with pursed lips. The decor was very trendy, the wallpaper filled with geometric patterns rather than art nouveau swirls.
“We’re only two blocks from St. Morse,” Enne pointed out.
“Yes, but why are we here?”
Because Enne was about to do something very dangerous—she was going to manipulate Vianca Augustine. And what else would sweeten Vianca’s mood better than a tea shop?
“I wanted to talk to you about something important,” Enne told her. “And it’s a beautiful day.”
“Yes, if you can ignore the sight of armed soldiers parading the streets,” Vianca responded coolly. “My husband was a soldier, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Enne said. Vianca never discussed her husband. The only men she liked to discuss were those who had betrayed her. “How did you meet?”
“At an execution.”
Enne was saved from having to respond by the waiter, who placed a complimentary basket of tea cookies on the table. Enne politely ordered a pot of their rose hip brew.
Vianca squinted at the menu of over three hundred choices. “I’ll try the gunpowder green. Something different.” As the server hurried off, the donna helped herself to a cookie. “I’ve never seen such a long list.” She examined the decor with a new admiration. “What is it you wished to ask me about?”
Enne had hoped to devise her plans for the debate on her own. But the Spirits, though clever, were few in number and narrow in skill set. In order to sway the crowds, she needed more gangsters at her disposal.
“I’m worried about the debate later this month,” Enne said, her words careful and practiced. “Prescott has been pushing ahead in the polls you asked us to run, even though the wigheads are keeping that quiet. What sort of personal protection does Prescott have?”
Vianca rolled her eyes. “Whatever I provide. He pays no attention.” She ate ungraciously, chewing loudly and licking her fingers afterward. “Why the concern? Did my son—”
“It was something Poppy mentioned to me,” Enne told her. “I think it would be wise to increase his guards.” She hoped saying so wasn’t too presumptuous of her, but she was saved, once again, by the waiter, who came bearing two kettles of tea.
“Prescott will make a fool of himself at this debate, no doubt. Harrison is a clever little snake. It will be a disaster.” Vianca downed her steaming cup in one furious gulp. “My father and grandfather would be turning over in their graves if they knew Harrison was running for the First Party. That the Augustine legacy was just fodder for gossip columns in tabloids.” She refilled her cup. “Not that anything I did prompted him to such extremes.”
“It’s not about you,” Enne said consolingly, her lies leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “It’s about greed. You could’ve given him everything, but he still wanted more.”
Vianca lowered her tea cup and narrowed her eyes. “I see what you’re doing. You’re not usually so...in agreement with me.”
Enne nervously poured most of the sugar bowl into her mug. “What do you mean?”
“You’re hiding something you don’t want me to know.” Vianca smiled wickedly. “Neither of you really could keep it from me. It was painfully obvious from the start. I don’t normally work with girls, but Levi had never brought me a girl before, either.”
Enne took a deep breath. If she was going to sway Vianca, then she needed to rise to a status that she had never before reached.
She needed to become Vianca’s favorite.
Levi might’ve attained the title by resisting her, but Enne understood Vianca. All her life, she’d been trying to measure up to men who’d already deemed her unworthy, and so Enne could give her something she’d never had: solidarity.
“I told him you’d find out eventually,” Enne told her, praying her honesty would pay off.
Vianca let out a horrifying cackle and took another sip of her tea. “I always do. Levi will try to convince you otherwise, but he knows more old world history and manners than half the South Side.”
The thought of sitting here and gossiping about Levi made even Enne’s sweetened rose hip tea taste sour.
“With the curfew, the Irons are losing all their bu
siness. Levi says the North Side won’t last. It’s affecting people’s lives. It won’t be long before they riot.”
Vianca’s green eyes lit up. “A riot? Is that what Levi wants?”
Enne swallowed down her conscience. She knew she was crossing a line, but she needed the Irons, and Levi would never agree to her plans otherwise. They were together in a lot of things, but not in this. “Perhaps. How much longer can these conditions last?”
“The monarchists would typically be blamed for a riot, but not if it occurs at the debate. After all, both sides are present. The whole South Side will be there. And if the Irons are running out of business, then surely they’re looking for something to do.” Vianca reached over the table and patted Enne’s hand. “He hates it when I try to help him, but it’ll sound much sweeter coming from you.”
Enne couldn’t believe she’d done it. All it had taken was pretty words to convince the donna it was all her idea. And Vianca would never know that the riot would end with a murder.
“I’ll tell him,” Enne said, biting down a smile to conceal her victory.
Vianca patted Enne on the hand. “We should have appointments like this more often.” Then she gave the tea shop a strangely girlish smile.
LEVI
Levi popped the collar of his black trench coat and snuck down the museum’s stairs, hoping to avoid the Irons so he didn’t have to admit what he was doing. Because it was silly, and because he couldn’t afford it, and because even if he could, he didn’t deserve it. But he’d been so on edge since his argument with Jac three weeks ago that he’d needed a distraction. So in a moment of weakness, he’d made the phone call.
Levi opened the front door, and to his horror, Tock sat on the stoop outside.
“You’re not subtle,” she told him.
He scowled. “I have an appointment.”
“I know your schedule, and that’s a bold-faced lie, but sure, you have an appointment.” She waved her hand dismissively. “There are only whiteboots on every other street corner. What could go wrong?”