by Amanda Foody
“I’m so sorry, Enne,” Lola said, crouching down beside her. “How did you find out?”
“Levi and I visited the address. The Street of the Holy Tombs.” Enne untied the mask and dropped it at Lola’s feet. “I’m done with this now. The searching. There isn’t anything left to find, and even if there was, it’s too dangerous. I’m sorry about your brothers, and I’m sorry about what you thought I was. But I need to focus on staying alive.”
Lola turned away so Enne couldn’t see her face, but Enne sensed that she was disappointed. The two girls weren’t quite friends, but they’d come a long way from being enemies.
“You’re giving up?” Lola’s voice cracked. “Even if she’s dead, there’s still—”
“There’s nothing left to find.”
Enne turned her back. Before she leaped to the next roof, she said one more word to Lola—a message intended for someone else, someone who wouldn’t ever be able to hear it.
“Goodbye.”
LEVI
Sedric expected the volts in two days, and Levi was two and a half thousand short.
Beside him, Jac licked his hands and smoothed back his blond hair. Levi straightened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to expose the tattoos on his arms. A message, just like his million-volt smile: he was the Iron Lord, strutting into a gambling tavern. His territory. His kingdom.
They turned the corner. The lights of the gambling den were dimmed by heavy shades on the windows. It was called Dead at Dawn—opened at midnight, closed at sunrise. As Levi cut through the line outside, the bouncer eyed his black tattoos and his blacker eye.
“Pup,” he said. “Back from the dead. I heard Chez killed you.”
News traveled fast on the North Side. “Funny. I’ve never felt better,” Levi replied with a tight smile.
The man behind him growled for cutting to the front. Levi bristled, though only slightly. This was a gambling den, and he was—had been—the gambling lord. He could do what he pleased.
“That so?” the bouncer asked. He looked at Jac. “If Chez were lord, he’d have your oath. But you’re with Pup. Interesting.”
Jac bared his teeth. “My oath belongs to the Iron Lord.”
Levi tipped his hat, and the bouncer held open the door as they passed through.
Light bulbs flashed everywhere, dangling from the ceiling by wires, and a jazz band played in the back. The air was so thick with cigar smoke that when Levi exhaled, a patch of clear air formed around his lips. Levi wove through the tables searching for a game of Tropps. They had specifically chosen this den because it wasn’t a client—none of the dealers were Irons, which meant they were unlikely to encounter trouble. As Jac split from him and headed toward the roulette wheels, Levi slipped into an empty seat at a Tropps table.
The young man beside Levi wore all black clothes and an obnoxious feather behind his ear. He grinned at Levi with rotted teeth and white lips, and he reeked of dead flesh.
“Nice feather,” Levi said. “That new?”
“Needed something new, now that I’m the Scar Lord,” Jonas Maccabees replied. “I see you still got the tattoos, though. Those reminders are forever.”
Jonas and Levi had never gotten along, but for some reason, Scavenger’s voice lacked its usual edge. Maybe being lord suited him. Or maybe Levi’s not being lord suited him, as well.
“I still keep wondering why,” Jonas said quietly. “We never messed with the Torrens.”
Levi swallowed a lump of guilt and grief. “I’ve got no idea.”
“If Reymond was here, he’d call you a liar.”
“Are you gonna cause a scene?” The night was young. There were other dens.
Jonas ground his teeth. “Not tonight.”
As the dealer passed out the cards, Levi did his best to ignore Jonas’s silent fury and horrifying smell so he could focus on the game. His hand wasn’t all that terrible, but not all that good, either. He carefully fiddled with the cards concealed in his sleeve.
He didn’t win the first round, and the second time he drew only low cards and folded immediately. Even when he tried, it was hard not to think about the due date in two days, circling him with fangs bared. About Enne telling him she was alone. About Chez on his old throne. It didn’t help having Scavenger beside him, a physical reminder of how he’d risen while Levi had fallen.
When he found his opportunity, Levi exchanged the cards in his hand for the better ones up his sleeve. It was dexterous, fast. Not even Jonas beside him had seen it. Levi didn’t need to think to switch the cards—the movements were automatic, memorized from a time when he still sat on street corners, dressed as a legend long past, asking victims if they’d like to play.
His short winning streak distracted him the way only hope could. He slid a miniature tower of chips to his pile as the dealer passed him his new card. He grabbed it.
* * *
The smoke of Dead at Dawn cleared, and Levi stood in front of a white door in the hallway. Dimly, he recalled what Zula had said about the hallway, about the shade that bound him and Enne, but really, all he could think was that he needed to find a particular door. He reached forward and turned the knob of the one in front of him. It opened.
Levi stepped into a room filled with familiar smoke and murky lights. He was in Dead at Dawn, but he hadn’t woken up. The men shouted. A whistle blared. After he pushed his way through the sweaty bodies that reeked of absinthe and cigars, he reached the edge of the boxing pit. Jac lay on the ground. He wore only a white undershirt and his pants—who knew where he’d left his jacket and button-up. The man above him kicked him in the side, but Jac was already unconscious.
“Jac!” Levi shouted, panicking.
The opponent lowered himself to his knees and punched Jac in the face. Again. And again. The floor below them glinted with blood and a missing tooth.
Then the opponent paused and looked up at Levi. He winked. Levi recognized him as the man who’d followed him into the burning building in Scrap Market. Who’d delivered his second Shadow Card. Who’d stopped him from saving Reymond.
This was Sedric’s second reminder. First Reymond, now Jac.
Levi’s heart stilled. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. The dealer must’ve slipped him a Shadow Card, so this was only a hallucination—nonsense, just like anything to do with the hallway or Zula’s “talent” for reading shades.
But if this was real, like a voice inside him warned, then Levi needed to stop it. He needed to wake up.
Levi checked his brass pocket watch, and, judging by how long he’d played Tropps before he passed out, this scene was either happening right now as he slumped unconscious in his seat, or just a few minutes into the future.
He knew only one way to wake up from a nightmare, and that was to die. Levi tapped the shoulder of the man beside him. The second he turned, Levi punched him in the nose. It broke with a satisfying crunch and a gushing of blood.
The man stumbled back into the crowd and cursed. A heartbeat later his knuckles collided with Levi’s jaw. Levi moaned, hoisting himself up with the help of the barrier encircling the boxing pit, and pulled his knife from his pocket with no intention of using it. The second the man saw it, he pulled out his own, with every intention of slicing it across Levi’s throat.
Three punches, one kick and thirty seconds later, he did.
* * *
Levi gasped and woke to the feeling of cold liquid being poured on his head. He sat up, his skin clammy, and wiped the Gambler’s Ruin out of his eyes.
“I thought you mighta died,” Jonas said cheerily. He set his empty glass down and held out his hand to help Levi up, but Levi shook his head and stood up himself. He didn’t want Jonas to feel the Shadow Card hidden inside his clenched hand.
“Feeling kind today?” Levi asked, tryng to catch his breath.
“Kind?” Jona
s echoed. “No one’s ever accused me of kindness.”
Levi’s gaze fell on the table, and he cursed when he realized all the chips he’d won were gone. Whatever. Jac was more important, and if the scene from the hallway was as prophetic as Levi feared, Jac might already be in the ring.
Levi’s reputation was already down the drain, and now he’d fainted in front of another street lord. Jonas smiled, and though they were the same height, it still felt as if Jonas was looking down on him with cruel delight. He’d always liked to watch Levi squirm.
But Levi didn’t care about losing his reputation anymore. Not like he cared about losing his best friend.
“Never mind,” Levi muttered as he shoved the card in his pocket. He grabbed his hat off the ground and turned, trying to find his way to the boxing ring.
He raced down a flight of stairs and into the room from his vision, following the word PIT painted in red on the walls. His wounded leg and broken rib throbbed with each hurried step.
Jac was still conscious. He staggered as the man—Sedric’s man, the same from the vision—punched him in the chest. Levi jolted for a moment, seeing his vision so clearly confirmed, and then he fingered the gun in his pocket. But shooting Jac’s opponent was a big risk—Levi wouldn’t be able to pay Sedric back from a jail cell, nor would prison protect him from the don’s vengeance. Besides, unlike Eight Fingers or Ivory, Levi wasn’t a killer.
He rushed to the referee who sat on a chair overlooking the pit.
“You have to stop the match,” Levi told him.
“Why is that?” the man asked, his eyes never leaving the fight.
“That boy’s only seventeen. He’s not of age.”
“You got a birth certificate?” The referee took a sip from his glass.
Jac tripped. His opponent kicked him in the back. On the other side of the pit, the man who’d killed Levi during his vision cheered Jac’s opponent on. Chills spread down Levi’s back—it certainly wasn’t a sight he saw every day.
He whipped back around to the referee. “Please.” Not something Levi said every day, either.
“Get lost.”
Levi spotted a bar twenty steps ahead, and he didn’t even stop to think—he ran. The bartender shouted as Levi jumped over the counter and grabbed two double handles of absinthe. He charged at Levi, but Levi was already leaping back over the bar and heading for the pit. Levi yanked open the lids and poured the alcohol all over the straw-covered ground of the ring. The referee whistled, but he ignored him. When Levi snapped his fingers, a spark flew out and ignited half the pit.
Levi jumped. He hit the ground and fell into the flames, but as he rolled out into the dirt, the fire on his clothes extinguished. Jac lay on the ground, deathly still. His opponent stared at the inferno with wide eyes, and the crowd above scattered and charged toward the stairs.
Levi grabbed the opponent and twisted him around. The man must’ve recognized Levi from Scrap Market, because he grunted when their eyes met.
“Tell Torren that if he lays a hand on Jac,” Levi snarled, “I’ll burn the flesh off his bones.”
Dangerous words to say to a Torren. It was the sort of thing any of the Torren cousins would take pleasure in doing to him.
Levi pulled the gun from his pocket. Before he could aim it and make a proper threat, someone else’s bullet hit the man between the eyes. The man wavered for a moment, blood trickling down his brow bone, nose and lips, and then he collapsed at Levi’s feet.
Above them, Jonas pocketed his pistol and motioned for Levi to hurry. No time to be fazed by the man shot two feet in front of him, Levi picked up Jac—the fire was gaining, and even if it wouldn’t hurt Levi, it would burn Jac—and carried him to the edge of the ring. Jonas grabbed Jac’s arm over the barrier and hoisted him over.
“Why did you help me?” Levi asked breathlessly.
“Who doesn’t want Pup to owe them a favor?”
“I...” To understate it, the idea of owing Scavenger a favor sounded less than appealing. “Thank you.”
Jonas snatched the black feather from behind his ear and set it on the referee’s empty chair, like a calling card. “You tried to save Reymond. I didn’t forget.”
Jonas headed for the stairs and left Levi in the burning building with Jac. Levi gritted his teeth. This time, he wouldn’t try to save anyone. He would save Jac.
Levi slapped Jac lightly on the cheek. The hideous black stitches on his eyebrow had unlaced, and the cut oozed with blood. “Wake up. Time to leave.”
Jac’s eyes didn’t open.
Levi threw him over his shoulder—which was no small feat, given Jac’s broad frame and Levi’s broken rib—and hauled him up the stairs and through the gambling room.
Outside, it was still night, though it felt like hours had passed. Jac groaned, stirring slightly in Levi’s hold.
“You should’ve forfeited, you thickhead,” Levi said. He wasn’t even sure if Jac had heard him. He stood his friend upright and slapped his cheek lightly again. “Walk with me. You’re killing me, here.” His leg, his rib, his everything screamed out in pain. Jac muttered something unintelligible and stumbled forward, the bulk of his weight still leaning against Levi’s shoulder.
When they finally made it to St. Morse, Jac was mostly lucid. Levi laid him on the couch, then handed him a glass of whiskey for the pain. He hurriedly rummaged around his drawers for first aid supplies—Jac was covered in scrapes.
Levi bent down to open the kit and winced—muck, his rib hurt.
Jac reached forward, and his fingers twisted around the buttons in Levi’s shirt. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”
Levi pushed his hand away. Jac’s split talent for taking away pain was inviting, but he knew better than agree. When Jac took away pain, it didn’t disappear—Jac carried it himself. No matter how many times his friend offered, no matter the circumstance, Levi always declined. His pain was his own, and Jac always took on more than he could manage.
“I’m stronger than you think,” Jac grumbled.
“But not as strong as you think.” Levi grabbed Jac by the jaw and opened his mouth. “That’s a nice missing tooth.” He stuffed a wet tea bag into the empty spot. “This will help the bleeding.” The scene reminded him of the Jac from three years ago, the one who’d depended on Lullaby to lull him and his pain to sleep, no matter the acts of rage and recklessness it triggered during the day. This wasn’t the first time Levi had played nurse, caught between worry and anger.
“I’m sorry,” Jac said, as if he knew what Levi was thinking. Jac hardly remembered anything from that year.
Levi slapped him on the shoulder. “I know. Just try to get some sleep.”
He headed to the kitchen and lit the oven. He’d had this idea a while ago—a bad idea, of course. He’d just left Dead at Dawn empty-handed, and he had one more day to win back the volts for Sedric. Even if he spent all of tomorrow gambling, there was nothing to win during the day. If he was going to pay Sedric as soon as the tenth day arrived, then he had only one more night. One more chance. And he needed to win big.
Luckluster was the only other casino in New Reynes that could shell out that sort of voltage in one night.
It was a completely shatz idea, gambling in Sedric’s own casino. Levi knew that.
But not if he was guaranteed to win.
He didn’t remember the last time he’d made glass. The special oven he kept in his apartment was the result of a half-hearted decision from years ago to fiddle with glass cores in false dice. The con had fallen through, and he hadn’t used the oven since, but he’d never bothered to get rid of it.
After nearly an hour spent kindling the oven, Levi reached inside and removed the pot of the glass mixture, which glowed a fluorescent orange. Fluorescence—he’d gotten that idea thinking about Luckluster and its famous neon lights. If he did this correctly, he’d be able
to count cards alone—and quickly. Sleights of hand were near impossible to conceal from Luckluster’s dealers, so with the stakes high, Levi needed a different assurance that he would win.
He needed a miracle.
He needed a con.
After melding and slicing the mixture into the proper shape, he added a solution of blue dye and tonic water to the glass. He finished it with a clear galvanizer, then set the contacts on his counter to cool.
As Levi poured the rest of the tonic water into a flask, Jac’s snores echoed through the kitchen. He’d passed out, his mouth wide-open. His empty whiskey glass sat on the coffee table, and his hand was clutched around his Creed.
Levi retreated to his bedroom and lay down on his bed, still fully clothed. He fell asleep with the flask on the nightstand, a gun under his pillow and the sunrise shining in his eyes, reminding him that only one more midnight loomed before Sedric’s deadline.
DAY NINE
“The City of Sin is painted white so that the filth can stain.”
—The City of Sin, a Guidebook: Where To Go and Where Not To
ENNE
“My dear,” Vianca said when she noticed Enne standing at her door. “Do come in. I’d usually ask you to sit, but I’m afraid we don’t have time for that. I have a task for you—though not of a pretty sort this time.”
Enne crept into the room carefully, the memories from her previous experience in Vianca’s office making her tremble. The carpet where Vianca had strangled her without even a touch. The chair where Enne had sat when she learned she would poison Sedric Torren. The sweet, sinister smell of Vianca’s perfume that Enne could still nearly taste as she inhaled.
But that last encounter was over a week ago, she reminded herself. Enne was different now. Stronger, weaker...she wasn’t sure. But what mattered was that that was then, and this was now. She closed the door behind her and approached the donna’s desk.