by Amanda Foody
“People like me?”
“The players. They say the city is a game, one only the reckless play.”
Levi preferred to think of himself as ambitious rather than reckless. “Hmm, who are these ‘they’?” Levi asked, thinking of Enne’s ridiculous guidebook.
“The spectators.” Dice scooted closer to Levi—awfully close—and kept his voice low. “So why are you really here, then, if not to gamble or to watch?”
The alcohol warmed him from inside out. It made everything louder and quieter at the same time. The music, the taste of the bourbon and coffee liqueur, the smell of cigarettes, the touch of Dice’s hand against his—louder. The lights, the burn of the liquor, Sedric’s voice in his mind as he delivered the Shadow Card, Levi’s own caution—quieter.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. Up close, Dice smelled like honey and designer cologne.
“A woman?” Dice asked.
“Sometimes, but not always,” he answered. “She goes by ‘she.’ Here, they’d probably call her Séance.”
Dice nodded, tracing his thumb against Levi’s wrist in a way that made everything else fade into the background.
“Another player,” Dice mused. “Why are you looking for her?”
Nine days, whispered Sedric’s voice.
“Do you know her?” Levi asked, his voice high and hopeful. He twisted the cherry stem between his teeth.
Dice moved his hand away so he could take a sip of his drink. “What do you think about, when you’re trying to bluff?” he murmured, deftly changing the subject.
“What do you mean?” Levi asked, playing along.
“When you have the winning hand, and you know it. How do you keep your face so still?” He tapped Levi’s forehead, just above his brow bone. His finger lingered a moment too long. “And don’t say ‘nothing.’”
Levi hadn’t been going to. “I think about the beach.”
“Not many nice beaches in New Reynes, but I hear that boardwalk they’re building will be something else.”
Levi took another sip as his memories washed over him. They were too loud, enhanced by the whiskey. “There was a beach near where I grew up. I think of the sound of the gulls, the feeling of the wind on my neck, the smell of the salt.” It was a trick he’d learned, living in that house. How to be somewhere else. How to be anywhere else.
“I just kept thinking, looking at you, that you had a winning hand. You play like you’ve already won.”
“That’s the only real way to play.”
“Until you need to show your cards.”
The ragtime grew louder behind them. Dice’s honey smell: louder. Levi’s heartbeat: louder. “Do you know the person I was talking about?”
Dice inched closer, though there wasn’t much space left between them. “Don’t fold so soon.” Levi could feel the words against his skin as easily as he heard them.
“You know, spectators wouldn’t get tattoos of dice,” Levi murmured. He brushed his fingers against it on Dice’s jawline, tracing the ink. Dice leaned his head back and exposed his neck to Levi’s touch. After several moments, Levi pulled away so he could reach for a napkin and a pen. “Write it down for me.”
“You’re not that drunk. You’ll remember.”
“It’s important.”
Dice conceded and took the napkin. While he wrote, Levi tugged the boy closer by his tie and pressed his lips against the tattoo. Dice let out a low groan that made Levi smile. He was winning a lot tonight. He trailed higher, brushing Dice’s hair aside, and kissed below his ear. Dice’s skin grew hotter, and he took his time finishing the note.
Levi spared a glance at the napkin before slipping it into his pocket. It was an address.
“I can’t make any promises,” Dice breathed against Levi’s neck. “It’s just what I’ve heard.”
“You hear a lot of things.”
He smiled. “It’s how I play the game.”
And then he kissed Levi, and everything felt very loud, all at once. It was the kind of kiss Levi had come to expect at places like these, with charming girls or mysterious boys in the hours after midnight. The kind of kiss that was meant for that place, that time, and never again. The kind of kiss you wanted the other person to remember, even if you would forget.
He’d remember this one, he decided, as Dice slid the cherry stem out from Levi’s lips and knotted it between his teeth.
Several acts in the variety show later, Levi staggered back to the table where Jac waited, his face flushed, the gold tie wrapped around his neck. They always let him keep something.
ENNE
Although she’d never admit it to the boys, Enne was rather enjoying the cabaret.
Everything about New Reynes felt unfamiliar, and the Sauterelle did, too. The burlesque fashions bore little resemblance to the chiffon and white lace in Bellamy. The dancing wasn’t the sort she’d learned in school. The liquors weren’t even allowed in her town.
But it was also intriguing. Exciting. For the first time since she’d left home, she was content to be out of her comfort zone, eager to explore the unknown.
“What will you have?” the Scar Lord asked over the music as he led her to the bar.
“I’m not sure I need a drink,” she said, remembering how little she’d cared for the wine last night.
“You’ll look more approachable with something in your hand,” Reymond assured her. She still couldn’t understand why Reymond had so quickly volunteered to guide her, but she found herself grateful for his presence and the power he wielded. She saw the way the people here looked at him. Like seeing him was a story they would tell their friends later that night. Like they would do whatever he asked.
If they were going to find information on Lourdes, that power was something she needed.
“Water will work,” she countered.
“Has no one told you not to drink the water in New Reynes?”
Enne thought back to the water she’d guzzled at rehearsal. It hadn’t tasted bad. “Is it contaminated?”
“Not polluted, just corrupted.” He winked at her and laughed. Enne suspected he was the sort who always laughed at his own jokes. “Better be careful, missy. Souls can go black in this city.”
The bartender, who also didn’t seem to be amused by Reymond’s humor, looked toward Enne impatiently.
“She’ll have a Snake Eyes,” Reymond said for her. “It’s a signature cocktail around here. Can’t say you’ve been here ’til you’ve tried it.” Enne doubted she’d enjoy anything popular in New Reynes. “What’s the drink of choice in Bellamy?”
“Lemonade,” she said drily.
Reymond shook his head. “I’ll have a Gambler’s Ruin,” he said. When the bartender left to prepare their drinks, Reymond lowered himself so he spoke directly in her ear. “We’ll ask the staff questions first. Then the performers.”
“Are you sure they’d remember her?” Enne asked, surveying the crowd. Lourdes’s simple style and quiet manner wouldn’t have stood out here among the outrageous clothes and layers of harsh makeup.
“It’s not remembering her that we have to worry about,” he said darkly. “It’s them lying.”
Enne didn’t have time to ponder that, as their drinks had arrived. Hers was fizzy and pale gold.
Before the bartender could turn to the next customer, she asked, “Have you ever met someone here named Lourdes Alfero? She also goes by Séance.” When the bartender shook his head, Enne persisted. “She’s tall. Blonde. Thirties. She usually wears trousers and—”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he grunted, then walked away.
“Well, that was rude,” Enne muttered. She angrily took a sip of her cocktail. It wasn’t sweet enough, but it was certainly more palatable than the wine.
“He was telling the truth,” Reymond said mat
ter-of-factly.
“You seem awfully sure.”
“I can see when someone is lying,” he explained. “Not from a tell or whatever Levi calls it. It’s my blood talent.” He inspected his walking stick, as though avoiding her gaze, but Enne strangely felt as though she could still feel his eyes on her. “Not that anyone is thick enough to try to hide anything from me.” His tone sounded accusatory, but she couldn’t imagine why.
She took another generous sip of her drink and cleared her throat. He couldn’t know anything about the volts she’d promised Levi. “You’re the local, as you said. Who should we talk to next?”
The two of them gradually made their way around the cabaret, speaking to members of the waitstaff and to the bouncers. Enne did most of the talking. Each time, Reymond presented Enne as “Miss Salta,” but provided no introduction for himself—he simply stood beside her and looked threatening.
They didn’t find many answers—the closest they came was someone who remembered Lourdes, but had never spoken to her, nor seen her with anyone else. It was terribly disheartening. Each time someone nodded with recognition, Enne felt a thread of hope tighten in her chest, but each time, that thread snapped with disappointment. She was likely closer to finding her mother than she’d ever been, but there were no real leads. The trail could, very easily, end here.
Soon her drink was finished, and a replacement quickly found its way into her hand. The liquor eased the pain of her disappointment, as well as the aches of her horrendously sore muscles from rehearsal.
“I’m not giving up,” Enne announced, her face oddly feverish.
“We’ll have to find a way to talk to the performers—” Reymond started to say, but stopped, as Enne was already marching toward the backstage area. She entered a room full of costumes, makeup and smoke, the Scar Lord following close behind.
“It smells like...” Enne sniffed the air. “Like raspberry cordial.” She carelessly ran her hands along the beaded and sequin dresses in the costume rack, watching them shimmer.
“It’s called Mistress,” Reymond explained, crinkling his nose and swatting away the smoke. “It’s popular right now. An aphrodisiac. Torren-owned, I think.” He pointed to the blunt stubs in the ash tray. The ash left behind a golden residue.
“Are you supposed to be back here?” a feminine voice asked. Enne whirled around, nearly losing her balance. The speaker was a woman with a wary expression, wearing a feathered hat, a scarlet slip and very little else.
“I’m a dancer,” Enne offered brightly, as a means of explanation. Reymond shook his head, and the woman’s eyes narrowed uneasily as she took him in.
“You look familiar,” she said.
Reymond smiled. “I have one of those faces.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured uncertainly.
Behind her, two other performers carrying a collection of knives emerged from the dressing room. Reymond patted Enne on the shoulder, making her wince again, and said, “I’ll go talk to them. Don’t leave this room.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sure, missy. Just don’t leave.” Then he skulked off to the other performers, leaving Enne alone with the woman.
The performer sat on the chair by the vanity. “What are you drinking?”
Enne looked down at her glass and was surprised to find it empty once more. “It was gold.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t start too young, sweetie. That’s how they trap you. And you’re tiny as a teaspoon.” She motioned for Enne to sit beside her, and Enne collapsed in a very unladylike fashion. When she leaned back, the room spun around her like a carousel, so Enne shook her head and kept herself upright.
The woman plucked the empty glass out of her hand. “I’m the vedette here—the lead performer. My name’s Demi Salta.”
Enne giggled. She couldn’t imagine herself wearing an outfit like Demi’s when she danced. “Enne Salta.”
“Ah, well, a cousin wouldn’t tell on me for a little preshow ritual.” Demi winked, pulled a joint out of her pocket and lit it. The smoke was the color of marigolds. Demi coughed for a moment, then relaxed into her chair. “I like your jacket,” she said.
“Thank you,” Enne answered. She liked it, too, though she felt guilty imagining some girl in the city who was without her fur coat. But it was also very pretty.
“I’m looking for my mother,” Enne said—or rather, blurted. She liked Demi, and she’d always enjoyed the atmosphere of backstage, but she was here with a purpose.
“Well, she’s not back here.” Demi smirked.
“I don’t know where she is,” Enne admitted. “She’s been missing. Her name is Lourdes. And Séance. And she—”
“Maybe you’re not looking in the right places,” Demi said, letting out a drag. “Where else do you think she could be?”
Dead, a voice whispered in Enne’s head, and she whimpered. The voice wasn’t usually so loud. She could use a glass of water, or better yet, a bed.
“Don’t do that, don’t do that,” Demi ordered wildly. “It’s bad luck to cry backstage.”
Enne shook her head. “I’m not going to cry.” It was as much a command to herself as it was a reassurance for Demi. Just as she’d felt so often since yesterday morning, she was right on the edge of tears, a touch away from shattering. But she was growing accustomed to the feeling. Even after two drinks, she wouldn’t cry.
Outside, in the cabaret, the music changed to something faster. Demi swore. “I only have a few more minutes. I have a routine, you know. It’s not easy going out there if I have all my wits about me.”
“I’m sorry,” Enne murmured with a small sniffle.
“Oh, you’re so depressing. People come here to have fun, sweetie.” Enne frowned—she could be fun if she wanted to. Demi stood up, set down her joint and coiffed herself in the mirror. She handed Enne a tube of red lipstick. “This will look good on you. Anyone ever told you that you look like a doll?”
Enne grimaced. “A few times.” With a tremendous amount of pleasure, she pictured Sedric Torren overturning his breakfast, lunch and dinner across the city. Enne applied a layer of the lipstick and eyed herself in the mirror, wondering, once again, if the City of Sin was turning her into a bad person.
She dismissed the thought and helped herself to the other makeup Demi had on the vanity. Makeup was always soothing, and besides, she knew Sedric deserved everything he was getting.
“What do you usually do to prep for a show?” Demi asked, patting down her false eyelashes.
“I repeat my mother’s rules to myself, over and over.” She had never admitted that to anyone. Not that it was shameful. It just made her sound...vulnerable. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d done it. Demi was a stranger, but maybe that was precisely why.
“Her rules?”
“She has these rules about how to behave, about things like getting lost, or showing emotion, or—”
“You mean street rules,” Demi said. She handed Enne her powder compact, apparently happy to share her products. “Like what the gangs say.”
Enne stared at Demi for a moment, almost uncertain she’d heard correctly. Lourdes’s rules were precious to her, and she didn’t like to imagine they belonged to anyone else—let alone that they had begun somewhere else. And the more she remembered Lourdes repeating those phrases to her, claiming they were about etiquette, the more cheated she began to feel.
Instead of getting upset, Enne pressed some powder on her forehead and mentally filed that thought away as a question she would ask Levi later.
She should find Levi now. She was wasting time, playing with Demi’s makeup. But Reymond had told her to stay here, and somehow she knew, deep down, that there were no answers waiting for her out there in the Sauterelle. Only more strangers and more disappointment.
“Every time I perform, I smoke a little of this,” Demi
explained. “But that’s a terrible idea. Don’t start it. It’s already stained my teeth yellow.” She tapped its excess ash into the tray, and Enne tried not to crinkle her nose. It didn’t smell as good up close. “Before they got me into this, I was a little more self-sufficient. I could get that natural flush all on my own.” She held up two fingers and winked at Enne, who blushed. “Pleasure isn’t just for the boys, you know. You don’t even need lovers at all if you get good enough at it.”
Enne, in fact, had not known, and turned over Demi’s words curiously.
Outside, the audience clapped, and Demi straightened, took a last hit of Mistress and headed toward the stage. Enne stared around the empty dressing room. She supposed she would need to find Reymond, rather than wait for him to find her. But she was tired of searching, and the room wouldn’t stop tilting.
“Well, come on,” Demi urged. “You won’t find your mother while moping drunk in here.”
“I’m not moping,” Enne grumbled, following Demi without thinking.
They walked onto the darkened stage. The audience whispered and whistled, waiting for the next act to begin. Demi placed one hand on Enne’s shoulder and peered through the crowd.
“There,” she said, pointing at a young man near the front. “Go talk to him. He’ll know your ‘rules.’”
As the lights turned on and the music began to play, Enne scampered off the stage. She considered ignoring Demi’s suggestion—Enne was exhausted and doubted it would lead anywhere—but she hadn’t traveled all this way to quit just because she was tired and admittedly a little drunk.
The young man sat by himself, twirling his finger over a glass of red wine. His hair was corkscrew curly, peeking out from underneath his top hat. He put on a salesperson’s smile as Enne approached.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for someone,” she answered, her words slightly slurred. “Her name is Séance.”