by Amanda Foody
“I don’t like this,” Jac said. “This is some serious muck.”
Once again, Levi was eleven years old, and he was at his mother’s bedside. Just another person he couldn’t save. “He was like my brother,” he murmured. “And he’s dead because of me.”
“Sedric killed Reymond, not you.”
“But it’s still my fault.”
Reymond’s murder was a reminder. A reminder. They weren’t kidding around with the Shadow Cards. If Levi didn’t make the deadline, he was dead. He’d get the invitation card, and no one survived the Shadow Game. No one.
Worse, this might not have been Sedric’s only reminder—anyone could be next. Any of the Irons, including Jac.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Levi said. He lay on his side, his cheek in the dirt, and took deep, slow breaths. The wooden beams cracked in between the roars of the fire. In the distance, sirens wailed, far too late.
“I thought you said the cards didn’t give you visions,” Jac said. “But an orb-maker wouldn’t pass out from the smoke.”
“I lied.”
“What did you see?” He spoke so quietly that Levi barely heard him over the snaps of breaking wood. The hallway was a whole other level of shatz that Levi couldn’t handle right now. In the vision, he’d thought that the black doors belonged to someone else—but the visions were just dreams. If Levi thought about them too much, he’d lose it, and he was running out of things to lose.
“What did you see?” Jac repeated.
Several yards away, Levi caught an Iron watching the scene. He didn’t know her name—she was probably a low-ranking runner—nor did he think she recognized him. She smiled. An enemy lord was dead.
What she didn’t know was that Reymond had saved Levi from starvation when he was twelve years old. That Reymond had taught Levi everything about being a lord. That, without Reymond, the Irons would’ve fallen apart years ago.
The second floor of the building collapsed, tearing the rest of the structure down with it. A wave of dirt and pebbles crashed over the street, and Levi covered his eyes. Dust coated his lips. He spit, then he grabbed his hat off the ground, shook it clean and whispered a goodbye.
* * *
Vianca’s secretary looked up from her files. “Mr. Glaisyer! Madame Augustine—”
Levi threw open the door before she could finish.
He’d been working for Vianca for four years, and still her office made him nervous. Decorated in velvet and swathed in darkness, a luxurious cave with a dragon lurking within. Her menacing eyes peered at him in the dim lamplight.
“Levi,” she purred. “It is always a pleasure.”
Her aura smelled like emerald green, pines and vinegar. It wafted about the room, curling into corners, kissing the skin on Levi’s neck. He shook off his revulsion and leaned against the bookcases, his arms crossed.
“Reymond Kitamura is dead,” he spat. He was too furious for the words to register, even though it was he who spoke them. It felt as though he’d been shot, but was in too much shock to feel the pain.
Although Vianca didn’t smile, she had a way of making her frowns look like pleasure. “Is that why you’re covered in dirt?” She preferred Levi to wear suits, especially the crisp ones she bought him. Every time he stepped outside of St. Morse, she wanted the city to know he was hers. He never obliged, and the omerta never forced him. Still, he knew her wishes. He knew how she liked him.
Like a puppet, dangling on her strings.
“I was there,” he fumed. “He was murdered. And it was your fault.”
She pursed her lips and poured herself a cup of tea from the black pot with the jagged handle. Levi could tell it was her favorite blend—the tea smelled bitter, even from across the room.
“How exactly am I responsible for the death of your business partner?” she asked. Her gaze roamed up his body and his clothes, searching for tears and bruises and weak spots like a miner searching for gold.
“Sedric’s thugs locked him in a building and burned the place down.” Levi shuddered—he could still see the flames when he closed his eyes.
“You think killing Reymond—who was a perfectly successful criminal in his own right—was a message for you? How...” She sipped her tea. “Narcissistic.”
His nostrils flared. “I know it was a message for me.” He took the two Shadow Cards out of his pocket and tossed them on her desk.
She paled. The silver backs of the cards glinted like blades in the lamplight. Shakily, she reached for them. “How did you get these?” she rasped. She traced a long manicured nail over one of the edges, as though searching for a trick.
“They were gifts from Sedric Torren. One three nights ago. One today.”
“The House of Shadows has been empty since the Great Street War.” The House of Shadows was the mysterious mansion where the Phoenix Club had once played the Shadow Game. Legend claimed it was haunted.
“Not anymore,” Levi said. He didn’t add what he knew about Lourdes Alfero, that he might not have been the Phoenix Club’s first victim since their grand reopening.
“Six more days,” she read. “Until what?”
“Until my deadline. Until I’m dead.” He slammed his hands on her desk. “Ten thousand volts. Are you happy now? Your scam is going to get me killed.” He took the clock off her desk and chucked it against the wall. It shattered. Vianca didn’t even wince, which only enraged him further. Nothing touched her, yet every attack pierced him. “And where were you? Away! Away campaigning for a hopeless election that’s already rigged against you.”
She said nothing, which was fine with Levi. He wasn’t finished yet.
“And Enne! I bring her here because she needed help. Thick of me to trust that you, just once, would actually help someone. Help me.” He panted, out of breath from shouting. The secretary outside had probably heard everything he said, but he didn’t care. He was furious enough to kill Vianca...if only he could.
Slowly, Vianca stood up, and Levi instantly felt smaller. Younger. Weaker.
“I don’t know how you managed to find out about Miss Salta, but we can talk about that in a moment. Let’s talk about you first.” She flicked her hand, and Levi’s body crumpled automatically into a chair. As if by invisible restraints, his wrists tethered themselves to the armrests, and his head leaned back, exposing his neck. Even as he writhed, he was powerless to get up. “Let’s talk about us.” She dragged her jagged fingernail across his throat. Levi swallowed, hating the fear flooding into his chest.
“You walk around here like you’re some kind of prince, but even you’re disposable.”
“Am I?” he challenged. He didn’t know much about Vianca’s other associates—she kept him decidedly separate from most aspects of her business—but he knew he was her favorite. She’d been attached to him from the moment she met him. Otherwise, why waste one of her precious three omertas on just a boy? She’d spotted a stray puppy and had wanted to keep him. Even if he was her most successful card dealer, the city was full of card dealers. That wasn’t why he mattered. He was indispensable because he was the only person Vianca Augustine cared about—and that was why she tormented him.
“Of course you are,” she seethed. Her nails dug into his shoulder, and he winced. “Really, Levi, I never would’ve expected this sort of fear from you. It’s unbecoming.”
“Only a fool wouldn’t fear the Phoenix Club,” he said. Vianca wouldn’t challenge that. She feared them, too, just like everyone else who’d heard the legends of New Reynes and knew them to be true.
“I know you, dear,” Vianca murmured. “You love power. You love to hold all the cards in your hand and make a good show. But your poker face needs work. I can read you like the tea leaves in the bottom of this cup.” She poured the steaming tea on his shirt, staining it. The heat didn’t bother him due to his blood talent, but that wasn’t the poi
nt. The point was that Vianca could do whatever she liked, and Levi was helpless to stop her. “You’re supposed to be great, Levi. You’re the Iron Lord. Yet you let the city decide your fate for you.”
“None of this was my choice,” he growled.
“Really? You take none of the responsibility?” She turned away and released him from his restraints. He snapped forward and rubbed his neck where she had grazed him, as though her touch alone had left behind a scar. “Maybe you could be better. All this time, I’ve been trying to make you better.”
“For what?”
She smiled and sat back down behind her desk. “Use your imagination.”
He held back a roll of his eyes. She was always so mucking dramatic. Maybe she had time for her games, but his was running out.
“Why did you choose Enne?” he asked.
“You might wear a suit, but you’re not exactly someone I can send to the South Side. She’ll have her uses.” Vianca didn’t know the half of it. If she discovered Enne was the daughter of Lourdes Alfero, she’d utterly exploit her to the monarchists. And it would be Enne who was killed, in the end—not Vianca. Never Vianca.
“Like with Sedric Torren?” he asked, his voice quiet and steady and laced with hate.
“That was a fortunate coincidence. She looks very his type.”
Levi clenched his fists. All of the North Side was aware of Sedric’s reputation. “That’s repulsive.”
“Oh, I agree. Who better to strike such a man where it hurts?”
“Don’t pretend that anything motivated you besides your own sick mind.”
She tsked. “Watch what you say. I thought you were here asking for my help, Levi.”
“It’s not just help. You owe me.”
“I owe you?”
“Sedric is going to kill me over your investment scheme, and you made Enne one of your twisted playthings. Yeah. I’d say you owe me.”
She leaned forward and clicked her fingernails together. “Because I bestowed my omerta on Miss Salta, you are the one who deserves the recompense?”
He stumbled over his words. She made him sound like a brat. “You’re dangling me as bait in front of your enemies.”
“I’ve provided you with a place to live and steady income.”
“You do that for all your employees.”
“Ah, yes. You’re special.”
She was trying to make him feel like an egotistical child, and he wanted to strangle her. He wanted to summon a fire that left burn marks around her neck.
“Yes, I’m special,” he growled. “I helped bankrupt all your competitors. I’ve made you plenty of volts dealing, not to mention thousands through the investment scheme. Thousands you managed to lose overnight. Your empire is falling.”
Her lips played at a smile. She poured herself a new cup of tea. “And your empire? How are the Irons faring lately? How is their lord treating them?”
Oh, she was keeping tabs on his gang now? “Stop comparing us. We’re not the same.”
“You’re the spitting image of me.” Somehow her voice was proud and ruthless all at once.
“Then it’s no wonder the Irons are crumbling,” he snapped. “Must’ve gotten that from you.”
He inhaled sharply as what felt like a knife twisted into his gut. He couldn’t exhale. The pressure in his chest tightened, and he was sure it would crush him. He grabbed the edge of the desk in front of him. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t gasp. He couldn’t coax a shred of air out of his lungs.
Vianca didn’t release him until he was on the floor, his back digging into the leg of his chair. Then the air burst out, and he coughed and rested his head against the ground as the ceiling slowed its spinning. He’d experienced her torture dozens of times, but he’d never get used to the feeling of suffocating.
“Enough,” she commanded, her lips pursed. “What puppet is allowed to say such things to its master?”
She bent over him as he weakly got to his knees. “I’ve given you everything, and I will give you half the volts you need to pay Torren. But don’t assume I care so much about you that you’re invincible. I could kill you at any moment I wish.”
Five thousand volts.
Five thousand.
He could survive this. A burst of hope filled his chest, sweeter and more relieving than the air.
“Does this cover the recompense for Miss Salta and Mr. Kitamura?” she asked.
He wasn’t thick enough to answer. Everything in this city had a price, and telling Vianca off wouldn’t have done him any good. What he was feeling right now, it wasn’t even close to gratitude, but he knew better than to act anything less than beholden.
“I can give you the volts next week,” she said.
“I only have six days left,” he croaked.
“Then a few days from now. I won’t forget.”
ENNE
If Enne could conquer her fear of heights, then she could knock on a gentleman’s door the hour after her bedtime.
She reminded herself that Levi Glaisyer was no gentleman.
When Levi answered the door, his hair was wet, and he smelled like soap and freshly applied cologne. He wore a casual pair of trousers, dark socks and a white undershirt. Something stirred in her stomach as he leaned lazily against his doorway.
“’Lo, missy,” he said. “Have you come to share secrets?”
“Something like that,” she said, and hurriedly brushed past him before he could see her face redden.
Last time she’d come here, his apartment had been impeccable. Now dishes lay in the sink and he’d closed his blinds, so the only light came from a dim lamp beside his couch. A half-finished art piece, mostly emerald green swirls and spikes, rested on the coffee table, surrounded by papers and oil paints. Water splotches—possibly intentional—dotted the canvas. Thin lines like puppet strings stretched from the top of the painting to the green smudges.
Interesting. She’d never imagined Levi as an artist. She couldn’t tell if he was a particularly good one, though—she didn’t understand what the painting represented.
“I thought we should talk about last night,” Enne said. Since they’d left the blood gazer’s, the black seed of doubt about Lourdes had grown into a forest, and Enne was lost in its center. She hadn’t believed Lola’s accusation at first—hadn’t wanted to believe it—but the more she reflected on it, the more the pieces she knew of her past began to make sense.
He gave her a dark, expectant look and sat down on the couch, motioning for her to join him. “The part about you getting into a fight with a Dove, or the part about what the Dove told you?”
“Both.” She hesitated, searching for how to begin. It would be easiest just to blurt out the truth, heave it off her shoulders and let Levi take away her burden. But she wasn’t sure how long his loyalty to her would last once he learned she was a Mizer.
“You can trust me,” Levi said. “Whatever it is.” And criminal or not, she believed the sincerity in his voice. Whether or not she’d still been in danger, Levi had rushed into the Deadman District last night to save her. Guilt pinched inside of her. She wasn’t sure she would have done the same for him.
“Once I tell you, you can’t unknow it,” she warned, because deceit wasn’t fair to him. “And I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me—I really am, but we’ve reached a point where my secrets are becoming...dangerous. This one isn’t about Lourdes.” She looked at her lap. “It’s about me.”
His pause terrified her. For a moment, she thought he would agree and ask her to leave.
He was all she had.
“Now you have me curious.” Levi scooted closer, and her shoulders relaxed. She wouldn’t be alone in this. “Are you the long-lost daughter of some wighead—”
“I’m a Mizer,” she whispered.
He froze. “That’s no
t possible.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding since last night. “Scordata is my blood name. I don’t know which kingdom or family it comes from. Probably a minor—”
“She must’ve been joking,” he said abruptly. “It was a prank.”
“Knowing Lourdes’s history, and seeing how Lola tried to kill me after she told me the truth...I wish it were a joke.” Enne grabbed one of the throw pillows and hugged it to herself. “That’s not even all of it. She said my split name was Dondelair.”
Levi choked out a laugh. “Now I think you’re trying to fool me.” Somehow, he still managed one of his smirking smiles at a time like this.
She threw the pillow at him. “I wouldn’t joke about this. I’m not...shatz, or whatever you say. I know how dangerous these secrets are.”
“That’s some very unladylike New Reynes slang, you know.” He met her eyes, and she could tell he was searching for any Mizer purple hidden among the brown. She tried not to shiver under his gaze. “Before you tell me this story, I need to know—is the blood gazer taken care of? If she knows, then—”
“She’s taken care of,” Enne said quietly, remembering the hatred in Lola’s eyes after she made the oath.
“Good.” He shook his head and stood up. “I’m going to make a drink. Do you want one?”
No, her reflexes said. But she was no longer home. No longer Enne Salta.
“Oh, um. Okay. And cookies, too, if you have them.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You made a dozen the other night. How can you even look at another one?”
“Easily. While salivating.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I have a box of stale tea cookies just for you.”
Several minutes later, he returned with two glasses and a box of gingersnaps. The drink was amber-colored.
“It’s called a Gambler’s Ruin,” he said. “Mix of bourbon and coffee liqueur and orange bitters. Reymond introduced me to it. Sorry—I’m out of garnish.”
Enne took a sip and grimaced. She and the boys had very different tastes.