by Amanda Foody
“They’re the most powerful and dangerous people in the Republic. Businessmen, wigheads, scholars...all with a talent for immortality. They’re the ones who orchestrated the Mizer executions. The whole Revolution, even.”
She searched his expression for one of his telltale smirks, but found none.
“There’s no talent for immortality,” she said. “That’s impossible.”
He sighed, cracked his neck and checked his watch. Enne’s nostrils flared. If anyone had a right to feel impatient, it was she. “Chancellor Semper himself is part of the Phoenix Club. He’s their leader.”
She barked out a laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”
Levi stood. “Fine, missy. I was trying to prepare you. But if you’re so sure of yourself, you’re obviously ready for Vianca.”
He walked to his front door and motioned for her to follow. Enne hesitated, wanting to challenge him. But if she kept arguing, she might start crying again. The urge to do so throbbed in her chest, and if she even used enough breath to say fine, it would explode. She’d already cried twice this morning. She didn’t know how she had enough tears left for a third.
They were silent until the elevator reached the bottom floor, where she followed Levi through another hallway lined with portraits of Mizer monarchs with amethyst eyes.
“You should address Vianca as Madame,” he said, more like a warning than a suggestion. “She likes that.”
“I’m more than comfortable addressing superiors.” Her voice sounded steady and precise. The streets might’ve been Levi’s arena, but etiquette was hers. After everything she’d faced so far this day, an interview with Vianca Augustine hardly intimidated her.
Enne held her head up high, smoothed down her hair and focused. She repeated Lourdes’s rules in the back of her mind.
His eyes trailed over her—almost enough to ruin that focus. “I take it you didn’t like my choice of dress for you.”
“It was inappropriate. Particularly for an interview.”
“Maybe that’s why I liked it.”
He smiled, and no, no, she wouldn’t let that smile break her resolve to be aggravated with him. She stared in the direction of her pointed-toe heels, hidden underneath the hem of the dress, and hoped with every fiber of her being she wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of blushing like a Bellamy schoolgirl.
“Though I will admit, this dress is a bit long,” she commented, trying to remain aloof.
“Yeah, you should grow some.”
She couldn’t think of a snappy enough retort, so, left with no other options, she let out a hmph.
He snorted, but then his smirk receded. “I’m sorry, Enne. I haven’t been trying to upset you. But this city...it’s rotten, down to its very core. And you need to be prepared for what you might face. Or learn.” He looked away and stared at his oxfords. “I’m trying to help you.”
He was attempting to soothe her, but his honesty made Enne only feel worse. Maybe she was no match for this city. Maybe the North Side would take everything she had and spit her out into the harbor. Maybe the streets where Lourdes walked freely would spell ruin for her daughter.
They walked into a waiting room with several marble busts lining the walls. A pale, fragile-looking woman hunched over a desk in the corner. She startled at the sight of them.
“Levi,” she exclaimed, standing as he approached and even giving a slight bow of her head. She had a pinched nose and a collar so tiny it was a wonder she could breathe. She drank in the sight of him, never once glancing at Enne. “I wasn’t aware you had an appointment.”
“I don’t. Is Vianca available right now?”
“Yes.” She hesitated before adding, “I can announce you if you wish—”
“We’ll announce ourselves.” He grabbed Enne’s wrist and tugged her to the door on the far side of the room. “Here we go.”
He knocked.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice invited.
Before opening the door, Levi bent down, his lips inches from her ear. “Whatever you do, don’t let her see you squirm.”
ENNE
Enne and Levi stepped inside a dark office with emerald velvet curtains and matching chairs. Behind Vianca’s desk hung a mural of another Mizer family: two parents, two daughters and an infant on the mother’s lap—the last royal family of Reynes, executed twenty-five years ago during the Revolution. Mahogany bookcases lined the side walls, filled with more vases, marble busts and antiques than books.
Amid the darkness of the room, Vianca Augustine was fair. Her white hair and ivory, sallow skin made her appear ghostlike, and there was certainly something haunting about the emptiness of her gaze. Soulless. She looked to be in her sixties, and her age was exaggerated by the powdery makeup caked within the creases of her face. Despite her ornate dress and overwhelming amount of jewelry, nothing about her was elegant. She had clearly never been beautiful, and—judging from the severe frown lines and pruned wrinkles around her pursed lips—she had never been kind, either.
“Levi,” Vianca said. She spoke his name slowly, as if savoring its taste. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I owe this girl a favor. She needs work, and with all I need to juggle at the moment—” He smiled, a bit too widely. “It would put my mind at ease knowing she gets settled.”
Vianca raised her pencil-drawn eyebrows and shifted her gaze to Enne. “What’s your name, girl?”
Grace, Enne told herself. I am grace and ease.
“Erienne Abacus Salta, Madame.”
“A dancer? I already have more dancers than I need. And usually my dancers come with a vocal or instrumental split talent. What use do I have for a dancer who can count?”
Enne wasn’t sure how to respond, especially as, truth be told, she wasn’t much of a counter at all.
“She’s a gymnast, as well,” Levi added quickly. “I heard there’s a spot open for a new acrobat.”
Enne struggled to contain her alarm. She hadn’t bargained for that. She didn’t know the first thing about gymnastics.
“Is she, now?” Vianca asked, not looking at Enne so much as through her. “You may go, Levi. I’ll speak to Miss Salta in private.”
He blinked in surprise, then nodded. After giving Enne a final weary look, he slipped out the door. Enne tried not to let his apparent nervousness bother her. She had faced worse interviews for admission to her finishing school.
Vianca beckoned her forward, and Enne moved to stand in front of one of the chairs before the donna’s desk.
“Do you plan on taking a seat, Miss Salta?” she asked.
“Not unless you ask me, Madame.”
Vianca’s green, lizard-like eyes inspected every foot, inch and hair of Enne’s body. Her lips curled, and Enne couldn’t help but notice her uneven red lipstick. “Sit.” Once Enne had taken a seat, Vianca asked, “Where are you from?”
“Bellamy, Madame.”
“That’s quite a journey. How long have you lived here?”
“About half a day, Madame.”
That made Vianca smile. For a moment. Enne hadn’t been trying to be humorous.
“Is Levi trying to court you? He serves a number of roles for me, and I require him to have a clear head. If his belle is living within St. Morse, it will distract him.”
Enne would never walk out with a card dealer, not if she planned on keeping the last shreds of her reputation intact. And if the card dealer in question was Levi, she’d also need to salvage what remained of her dignity. Even if he was attractive, she had no patience for his jokes and smirking. “No, Madame. Nothing like that.”
“Then why is he so interested in your well-being?”
Enne uttered the first lie she could think of: “He owes a favor to my father.”
“I should’ve guessed Levi would be in debt to a counter. How good are your c
ounting abilities?”
Enne could barely add or subtract without the use of her fingers. “Quite good, Madame.”
“Are you literate?” With each new question, Vianca leaned closer to Enne over her desk, almost close enough to grab her.
“Yes, Madame.”
“How well you can read?”
“I read very well, Madame,” she answered, barely able to hide the bite in her voice.
“Who taught you?”
“I went to finishing school. The Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts.”
“Did you really? They don’t accept just anyone. You must be the only Salta in your class.”
Enne kept her hands folded calmly in her lap, despite the fury shooting through her like an electric current. The Saltas might’ve been the lowest and most common dancing family, but she wasn’t ashamed of her name. It didn’t matter that her talents didn’t compare to her classmates. She’d worked for her place at that school, for her future.
“I was, Madame.”
Vianca was now bent so close to Enne that Enne could smell her musky perfume. “And you must be quite intelligent to have passed the entrance exams.”
It wasn’t a question, so Enne stayed quiet.
“Is there anything else I should know about you, Miss Salta? Anything else that could be useful to me?”
“No, Madame.”
“Pity.” At last, Vianca leaned back in her seat and drummed her fingers against a stack of papers. Each of her rings—there were almost a dozen—shimmered. Unlike Reymond’s, these appeared to contain real jewels. “How old are you, Miss Salta? You must be at least fourteen to work here, and I don’t make exceptions.”
Enne cringed inwardly. This interview had already been the best test of her etiquette skills she’d ever experienced, and it had been only a few minutes.
“I turned seventeen in February, Madame,” she said.
“You look quite young. Oh, he would like you,” she murmured, more to herself than to Enne. Enne didn’t ask what or whom she meant. “I’m glad to hear you have a background in gymnastics. Levi was quite right; we are looking for some acrobats.”
If Levi’s smile looked like a smirk, then Vianca’s looked like a sneer.
“But I think I’ve found an additional use for you,” Vianca purred.
Enne nodded and pretended like she was following along, though the unsettling satisfaction on Vianca’s face sent an uneasy feeling through her stomach. This interview was highly unlike any that she had experience before.
“This casino has been in my family for generations,” Vianca told her. “But New Reynes isn’t the city it was when St. Morse was first built. Have you ever heard of my family, Miss Salta?”
“No, Madame.”
“So you don’t know what kind of business we run?”
“A...casino, Madame?”
Vianca stood and turned her back to Enne, facing the Mizer family portrait. “There are people in these halls who can unhinge your mind with a kiss. Who can distill poisons and narcotics from a single flower fallen from a bouquet. Who deal in tricks, deceit and even death. And they are all under my employ.”
Sweat broke out along Enne’s neck. Donna of the Augustine crime Family, Levi had told her. This must’ve been what he’d meant.
But what would that have to do with Enne? She was a simple performer. If Vianca truly had those kind of people within St. Morse, then what use could she have for her?
Vianca turned to face her. Her green eyes looked nearly black. “Among my friends, I keep a few favorites who perform a little extra for me. There are enemies everywhere in this city—even within this casino—who seek to destroy me. I need to know their plans. I need listeners. And I can no longer afford to be short on ears.”
Before Enne could process Vianca’s words, the donna ushered Enne out of her seat and to the center of the room. She made a twirling gesture, and Enne, confused, obliged. Enne kept her shoulders back to make them appear larger, stronger—the right build for an acrobat. Whatever this was, it felt like a test.
“You’re young. No one ever notices the young,” Vianca commented wistfully. She grabbed Enne’s cheeks and brought her face closer, then absentmindedly ran a bony finger down Enne’s Cupid’s bow to her chin. Her fingers tasted foul, like rancid perfume.
Enne resisted the urge to free herself from Vianca’s grasp and ignored the sickening feeling in her stomach. She needed a job. She needed to survive in this city long enough to find Lourdes.
“But you’re a performer,” Vianca continued, unaware of or unbothered by Enne’s unease. “You can be noticed if you want. You’re smart and can move in higher society, but you also know Levi—and I’m sure, if you ask nicely, he’d be willing to show you a thing or two about the streets. You’ve only just arrived—this city hasn’t corrupted you. Yet.” She relaxed her grip on Enne’s face, and Enne backed away, her cheeks sore. “And I could use a girl.”
Whatever Levi had told her about Vianca Augustine, she hadn’t been prepared for this. The way Vianca looked at her, touched her...like she was a possession. This meeting felt more like an appraisal than an interview. Under different circumstances, Enne would have fled the room and the donna’s frightful presence.
“I’m going to do you a favor, Miss Salta. I’m going to give you this job.”
“Thank you, Ma—”
“But I need a favor in return. I need you to do another job for me.”
I will find Lourdes, Enne recited, winding herself back up. I will find her and bring her home. No matter what it takes.
“Of course, Madame,” she responded swifly, despite her nervousness.
“I need you to deliver messages to my enemies. Can I trust you to do this for me?”
Enne swallowed, staring into the woman’s predatory gaze and vicious smile, and wondered who would be reckless—or dangerous—enough to make an enemy of someone like her.
No matter what it takes.
“Yes, Madame.”
“Hold out your hand,” Vianca instructed. When Enne obeyed, she clasped both of her wrinkled hands around Enne’s. She whispered something that Enne couldn’t hear, and a cold tingling shot up Enne’s arm. Enne gasped, but when she tried to yank her arm back, Vianca held it in place. The tingling accumulated in Enne’s chest, and her lungs shook and hardened as if surrounded by a shell. No air would release. She couldn’t breathe. Her balance swayed, but Vianca just gripped her hand tighter, her face unconcerned.
Her nails dug deep into Enne’s skin, and Enne choked for breath. Nothing. Nothing. There was no panic like the panic of suffocating, and she stared wildly at Vianca’s apathetic green eyes, pleading for aid.
Help, she mouthed, but no air came out.
Just as her vision began to darken, the feeling released. Air rushed down her throat, and Enne coughed as her lungs stretched like cramped muscles. She collapsed on the floor, tears welled in her eyes.
“That was my omerta,” Vianca said, looming above her. “It’s not an oath I bestow often. But now you are mine.”
Enne grasped for Lourdes’s rules, for something to tell her how she should react, how she should behave, when confronted with the worst. Words to recite. Words to wind herself back up.
Don’t let her see you squirm, Levi had said.
Never show them your fear, Lourdes had warned.
But the loudest word, the only word, was Vianca’s.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Enne stared at Vianca in horror. The woman had strangled her without touching her. Though Enne’s lungs had returned to normal, a phantom soreness lingered, and panic still clawed up her throat. For several moments, she’d thought she would really die, that Vianca would kill her in this dreadful office, while her secretary and Levi waited outside. She could’ve died. And no one had heard
a thing.
Enne felt small. She felt ill. What had Vianca done?
“You may sit now,” Vianca told her, a smile playing on her lips.
Enne sat down slowly, carefully, and she watched the old woman with growing alarm. She needed to run. To be alone. To bathe. She needed comfort, and there was none to be found in Vianca’s domineering expression, in the stiffness of the desk chair or the uncomfortable heat of the office.
Vianca called it an omerta, but Enne had never heard of such a thing. What had she done to her? And Levi...had he known she could do this? Why hadn’t he warned her?
“Sedric Torren will be paying St. Morse a visit tonight,” Vianca said, already returning to business. “Your first assignment will be to bring a message to him in the Tropps Room at ten o’clock.”
The name sounded familiar for some reason, but Enne was too traumatized to place it, picking at a scab along her thumb to focus on anything other than the woman before her. By the way Vianca spoke the name, it sounded as if everyone should know him.
Her scab popped off, and blood trickled down her palm.
“Look at me while I’m talking to you,” Vianca snapped, and Enne’s head jolted toward Vianca of its own accord. Enne’s heart thundered. This woman could control her like a puppet, force her own body to betray her. She was trapped within her own skin.
“What is the message, Madame?” She wasn’t sure if she had spoken those words on her own, or if Vianca had made her.
Vianca pulled a vial of clear liquid out of her drawer and handed it to her. “This is your message. See that he receives it. I’m tired of young Mr. Torren playing with my things.” Once again, Vianca leaned closer, and this time, Enne winced and put as much distance between the two of them as possible. She knew her terror must have been plain on her face. “This won’t kill him, but it will incapacitate him for several days. That should send him a message, don’t you agree?”
“Y-yes, Madame.”
Enne’s conscience twisted when she realized what she’d agreed to do, even if Sedric Torren was a stranger. Surely, he didn’t deserve to be poisoned, and she couldn’t possibly be the one to do it. She was a schoolgirl, for goodness’ sake, not some kind of assassin.