The Shadow Game series

“Buy yourself whatever you need. And Mr. Glaisyer and Mr. Mardlin, as well. Now take a seat.”

Enne did so, laying the pouch on her lap. Of course she hadn’t come here only to be doted on. Vianca always wanted something. She might give occasionally, but she would always take twice as much.

Vianca slid Enne that morning’s edition of The Crimes & The Times. Enne stared in horror at the wanted sketch of herself below the headline. Séance’s black mask covered most of her features, and although Enne knew it was supposed to be her, it wasn’t an exact match. Her jawline wasn’t wide enough, and her forehead was much too high. No one would pass her on the street and look twice.

Unlike hers, Levi’s adjacent sketch was entirely recognizable. He wore his signature smirk, like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself on the front page.

SENATE CALLS FOR WAR ON THE GANGS

Enne’s stomach dropped as she scanned the article. There were portraits of the lord and second of every gang, as well as the Orphan Guild. She held her breath as she examined Jac’s easy smile and the warrant for his arrest and execution below it. She really hoped he’d listened to her and stayed in her room.

“Have you heard of Worner Prescott?” Vianca asked.

Enne skimmed the page, in case she’d missed his name. He wasn’t mentioned. “No, Madame.”

“And that is precisely the problem.” Vianca sighed and poured herself a refill of her tea, though the drink looked long cold. “There’s an election this November for the seat of the New Reynes representative—one of the most influential positions in the Senate. Worner Prescott is the monarchist party’s candidate.”

Enne knew little of politics. Because Bellamy was only a territory, not a state of the Republic, they didn’t have voting or representation rights. The rivalry of the First and monarchist parties was no concern to them. Most found politics a beastly discussion at salons and parties.

Still, she knew the reputation of the monarchists: violent radicals. Lourdes had devoted her life to their cause, but Enne didn’t know why. She wasn’t sure if this meant Lourdes, too, had been a violent radical, or if the monarchist party was less despicable than she’d always believed. It unnerved her that Lourdes and Vianca had something so fundamental in common.

Malcolm Semper, the late Chancellor of the Republic, had been the father of the First Party. Josephine Fenice, his successor, was another First Party politician, another soulless member of the Phoenix Club. Enne might hesitate to call herself a monarchist, but she did know if the Phoenix Club was on one side, then she was on the other.

“Sedric Torren was running against Prescott,” Vianca continued. “Now that he’s dead—much thanks to you, my dear—the First Party will need to scramble for a new candidate and campaign. For once, we have the advantage.”

The Augustine and Torren Families had rival casino and drug empires, and so Enne had always assumed Vianca had wanted Sedric gone because he was a business competitor. But clearly Vianca had also had political motives since the beginning.

“On top of this, we have this supposed war,” Vianca continued. “Do you know anything about the Great Street War?”

Enne shook her head. She only vaguely remembered it from Levi’s stories and from her guidebook.

“For the South Side, it wasn’t noteworthy. It barely touched them,” Vianca explained. “But for the North, it was bloodbaths and chaos.” Her tongue lingered on those last few words, as if savoring their taste. “We can only hope for history to repeat itself. The monarchist party thrives on troubled times.”

Bloodbaths and chaos. Would that happen again? What must that have meant, by New Reynes’s standards?

“You’ve thoroughly impressed me, Miss Salta. But this new assignment is long-term, and you’ll need more than luck and charm to manage it,” Vianca told her, as if Enne had escaped the Shadow Game solely on her superficial qualities. “Because of it, I’m terminating your role with the acrobatics troupe.”

Enne gaped. “But...but—”

“It’s decided. The troupe takes up too much of your time. And I would prefer our working relationship to remain outside of public knowledge...unlike my relationship with Mr. Glaisyer.”

Acrobatics was the only thing in New Reynes Enne had actually enjoyed. She might not have had her cucumber sandwiches, but at least she had her work as a release. Enne had spent her entire life fighting to achieve mediocrity, and for the first time, she’d discovered that she was naturally talented at something. For once, she could compete. She could excel. And just like that, after only a week and a half, Vianca was taking it from her.

“What is this new assignment?” Enne gritted out between her teeth.

“You’re going to embrace Séance’s newfound infamy and fashion yourself into a proper street lord.” The donna let out an unnatural giggle and sipped her tea.

“You can’t be serious,” Enne whispered. The streets of the North Side had always been dangerous, and now they were even more so, according to the article right in front of her. And Enne might’ve been friends with Levi, but she didn’t know the first thing about being a successful street lord—as if Levi really served as any example.

“Am I ever not serious?” Vianca poured a second cup of stale tea and slid it to her. Enne took it only to have something to fiddle with to soothe her nerves. “I need someone influencing the North Side from the streets, and who better than the famous Séance?”

“The Iron Lord?” Enne suggested.

Vianca scoffed. “Levi’s ridiculous dreams of becoming a street lord are over. Will he be managing a gambling enterprise from Zula’s basement? He doesn’t have the volts or the connections, and with the Scar Lord dead and Mr. Mardlin now an equally wanted man, who will be Levi’s face?” She shook her head, the corners of her lips tilting into a smile. Enne didn’t understand how Vianca could pretend to care about Levi, yet take such pleasure in the mutilation of his desires. “That boy has always had delusions of grandeur. Besides, I intend for Levi to help you. As a consultant, if you will. You’re a more promising criminal than he ever was.”

It was a compliment Enne neither wanted nor appreciated. Lola might’ve called Enne a lord, but Enne wasn’t someone who could command a real gang. She’d hoped that, in a few months’ time, Séance’s name would slowly fade from notoriety to memory. If she had to embrace Séance’s persona and live the life of Enne Scordata, a born criminal, then how much of Enne Salta—the dancer, the lady, the romantic—would remain? She had so little left to surrender to New Reynes.

“This is what you will do. Now listen closely.” Vianca leaned forward and lowered her voice. “First, you must pay a visit to dear Bryce.”

Enne frowned in confusion. “Bryce?”

“The Guildmaster,” Vianca said impatiently. “He’ll help you recruit others. Use the remaining volts I gave you to purchase members.”

The Guildmaster referred to the Orphan Guild. Enne didn’t know much about them. She knew Lola worked for them as a blood gazer—she could read the talents of those who didn’t know their ancestry. Enne remembered Harvey Gabbiano, their salesman, who had used his Chaining blood talent to try to ensnare Enne at a cabaret. She also knew from Reymond that Levi opposed the practices of the Orphan Guild on some sort of moral high ground.

“I have a busy schedule these next few months supporting the campaign,” Vianca continued. “I cannot be everywhere at once. I need someone to insert themselves into Worner Prescott’s inner circle. I’m investing a fortune into this candidate, so I want to know what he’s doing at all times—who he speaks with, where he goes. That information is invaluable. The First Party has already succumbed to corruption, and we can’t afford to do the same.”

Enne gaped. Anyone operating in Prescott’s inner circle would need to be wealthy, refined... Goodness knew how Enne could locate such a person in the North Side. She imagined herself attempting to teach etiquette to Jac or Lola, who would probably question the purpose of a butter knife if you couldn’t stab anything with it.

“I’m not sure the Orphan Guild will be able to supply such a person,” Enne said slowly.

Vianca raised her eyebrows. “I was referring to you. We’ll see if that finishing school of yours paid off, won’t we?”

Enne caught her breath. The South Side might’ve been the closest place to Bellamy in New Reynes, but it was also the place the Phoenix Club called home.

When she had last looked a member of the Phoenix Club in the eyes, she’d been wearing a mask. Would they recognize her if she did so wearing pearls?

Before Enne could formulate a response, Vianca continued. It seemed as though, despite Enne’s and Levi’s actions making front-page news, Vianca had barely penciled in fifteen minutes for this meeting.

“Keeping tabs on Prescott will hardly be a full-time commitment. You’ll have plenty of time to find and train your associates. You’ll perform tasks as I suggest them, and of course, you can improvise on your own as you find appropriate. Whatever benefits Prescott and the monarchist party.”

Vianca was right—this wasn’t like poisoning Sedric or stopping the Shadow Game. This was four months of organization until the election in November. It was complex and all-consuming, just like Levi’s investment scam had been. And if not for Enne, that scam would’ve gotten Levi killed.

In the span of minutes, without Enne being able to interject a word edgewise, Vianca was sealing Enne’s fate for her.

But Enne knew what it would mean to object. Vianca’s omerta held a terrible power over her. Twice now, Enne’s past refusals had resulted in her suffocating and groveling on the donna’s carpet, and she had no intention of doing so again. Her only option to save herself was to convince Vianca her plan wouldn’t work.

“Levi won’t want to be a consultant while I’m the one playing lord.” That, at least, Enne knew was true.

Vianca raised her tea to her lips and looked at Enne pointedly. “That’s not my concern.”

“He’ll be difficult.”

“He knows by now not to make me impatient.”

The already dark room seemed to grow darker still. She was running out of options.

“If I’m not an acrobat, how will I earn income?” Enne asked, as though she were being strategic rather than desperate. “I’ll need to pay these associates.”

As if in answer to her own question, her fingertips suddenly tingled with the static of the volts pulsing inside her skin. The Mizer blood talent was to create volts. Now that she’d awakened hers, there was no limit to her potential for wealth. All it would take was an orb-maker, and she happened to know one very well.

She quickly dismissed the thought. If her ancestry was discovered, she would be killed. There was no quicker path to death than using her talent.

Vianca set down her empty teacup. “Miss Salta, this is the City of Sin. Opportunity is only a flip of the card or roll of the dice away. I’m sure even you can think of something. Besides, you can still live here on my generosity, and you’re quite welcome for that.” She tossed The Crimes & The Times into her waste bin. “You’re dismissed.”

Thirty minutes later, the bells above the door chimed as Enne slipped into a Tropps Street clothing boutique. The store’s floral perfume filled the air, and Enne inhaled it deeply, willing it to soothe her the way such comforts once had. The more she reflected on her conversation with Vianca, the more helpless she felt.

The Casino District, ordinarily so crowded with ruckus and filth, was quiet. In the wake of the headlines, the citizens of New Reynes had stayed indoors. The sirens had gradually stopped. The city felt like the hush before a stage curtain lifted, but what the city waited for was war.

Enne fingered the lace details on a dress sleeve. She liked it. She liked the beads embedded in its neckline. She liked the creamy white canvas boots on display in the window.

She liked the feeling of a gun in her hand.

And it was that thought, that last thought, that made her hand falter as she examined the dress. It didn’t feel right that she could like all of these things without contradiction. Somewhere, there was a lie. She was a lie. How could she pretend to be her old self after all of the horrible things she had done?

Enne had never been someone to feel apologetic about herself. She hadn’t been sorry that she always trailed behind her classmates—they’d hardly noticed her enough to claim she got in their way. She never apologized to Levi when she demanded courtesy, or cried, or wanted for things she knew meant less than nothing to him. So the weight of this shame that she carried for who she was felt wrong. It felt ugly. And she was apologizing to no one but herself.

She had been a lost, naïve, spoiled girl overwhelmed by the City of Sin. And she wasn’t sorry for that.

Now she was no longer lost, or naïve, or spoiled. She was hardened, and strong, and heartbroken. She had made terrible, difficult choices—including murder—but she had survived. She wouldn’t apologize for that.

Vianca would force her to make more terrible, difficult choices, and if Enne ever hesitated to apologize for herself, then she would fail—just like Levi had failed. If someone wanted to call her naïve, then they would. If someone wanted to call her heartless, then they would. It didn’t matter whether she decked herself in knives or pearls. The world would always demand that a girl apologize for herself, but she would apologize for nothing.

And so Enne filled her arms with as many frilled, beaded, silly clothes that she could carry, and she paid with the volts she’d earned through blood.

“You know what would look splendid with this?” the cashier asked her, with the first genuine smile Enne had seen in a while. She reached for the basket behind her and retrieved a pair of white satin gloves. They were delicate, ladylike, and indeed splendid.

Enne pursed her lips, images of the Irons’ signature card tattoos and the Scarhands’ marked palms coming to mind. Vianca had instructed Enne to form a gang, but had “no concern” for how Enne would lead it.

“You’re exactly right,” Enne answered. “But let’s make it two pairs.”

JAC

Last night, Jac Mardlin dreamed of his own death.

It started with a bad decision; he jumped into the driver’s seat of the flashiest motorcar he’d ever seen—white leather seats and a black racing stripe streaking across the hood. He hadn’t intended to steal it; all he wanted was to lean back, close his eyes, and fantasize about owning something so luxurious. But suddenly, the locks on the doors bolted, the keys twisted in the ignition, and the car raced forward at a stomach-lurching speed.

He cursed and fought against the steering wheel. The wind rushed at him so fast his eyes watered, and everything he passed became a blur. Even as he slammed his foot on the brakes and tugged the clutch so hard it snapped, the car still sped on.

Until it drove straight off Revolution Bridge.

Many hours later, in the waking world, Jac eyed his hand of cards and chewed his bottom lip, mentally tallying every foggy detail of the dream. The white from the car’s seat leather made him think he should pick an even-numbered card. But there’d been that black racing stripe, and black always symbolized an odd number, a contrast.

He settled on the four of hearts and threw it down. “Better save your luck, Dove, because—”

Lola let out a wild cackle of victory and snatched a switchblade from the pot of weapons. “You muckhead.” She threw down her own pair of fours on the table.

He scowled. “I don’t like Pilfer. It’s a kids’ game.”

“Then deal a game of Tropps. You don’t have much else to lose.” She shrugged and slipped what had once been his best switchblade into the pocket of her jacket. The nightdress she wore underneath, borrowed from Enne, was clearly several sizes too small and made her look bone-skinny and vaguely feral. Jac had encountered stray cats who looked more charming than Lola did in the morning.

She rested her feet on the table, and he crinkled his nose as he yanked the pile of cards out from under them. “I thought Irons were supposed to be good at these sort of games,” she said.

Strictly speaking, Jac wasn’t half lousy at cards. But the sirens that had blared all through the night in search of his best friend had suddenly gone silent. He twitched his leg restlessly. “I’m gonna open a window.”

“It’s hotter outside,” Lola warned. Both of their foreheads dripped with sweat. It was officially a New Reynes summer.

“I need a smoke.” He stood up and slid the window open. Twelve years he’d lived in New Reynes, and he’d never heard Tropps Street so quiet. Not after One-One-Six, a long dead street lord, shot up every last soul in a private auction house. Not after the casket of Sedric’s father, Garth Torren, had been solemnly paraded outside his casino, as though he’d died some kind of saint.

It was hard to scandalize a city built on sin, a city that had seen it all. But today—more than any other day—the city was shaken to its core.

Jac struck a match and watched it burn like a votive candle.

“I can turn on the radio, if you want,” Lola offered. “But Levi’s probably fine.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Afraid you’ll hear your name?”

He inhaled his cigarette deeply. It was no secret that he worked with Levi; that he lived on 125 Genever Street in Olde Town, apartment 4C; that he covered the Wednesday through Saturday shifts at the Hound’s Tooth tavern. The whiteboots had probably already interviewed his boss, already rummaged through his home and what little he had. He tried to imagine what conclusion they could’ve drawn from his possessions. A loner, this one, they’d say. No decorations. No sentimentals. Jac had lived there for two years and still treated his place like it was temporary—a side effect of someone who’d never really had a home.

“I wasn’t in a good place not that long ago, but I have been lately, or at least in a better one,” he explained. He didn’t normally share these details with anyone, even ones so vague. But he needed to unload his thoughts on someone other than Levi, someone who could feel sympathetic without also feeling responsible. “I guess that’s gone now.”

Levi and Enne had made sure of that last night.

He squeezed his hand into a fist. He knew Levi hadn’t wanted to start that shatz investment scheme that got him invited to the Shadow Game. And Levi had looked out for Jac time and time again, so Jac didn’t feel he had a right to be angry. Hell, he was angry at himself for feeling angry.

But Jac also knew Levi and his reckless dreams. And if Levi was safe right now, then Jac would swear some part of his friend was mucking pleased—even if Levi had put everyone around him in danger.

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he bitterly spat out, “I hate this casino.”

Lola pursed her lips, and Jac waited for her to say something about how, while he’d sworn his allegiance to Levi willingly, she’d been forced to give Enne her oath with a knife at her throat. Or how good people did bad things, and bad things happened to good people, and neither they nor their friends could really call themselves good people anyway. She was annoying and wise like that.

But all she said was, “Deal the cards. You’re clearly very vulnerable right now, and I intend to take advantage of that.”

Jac snorted and tapped his cigarette ashes into the rim of a teacup as he slid back into his seat.

“Enne will hate that, you know,” Lola told him. The teacup was porcelain, covered in some floral design that Enne would find pretty. Jac realized Enne, who’d only lived here for ten days, probably didn’t possess much she could call her own, so he retrieved his cigarette guiltily and pushed the cup away.

Lola leaned over and slid it back toward him. “But fuck them.” The corner of her lips slid into a smile.

Jac barked out a surprised laugh, and the knots in his shoulders loosened. Over the next ten minutes of Tropps, the teacup’s bottom steadily grew coated in ash.

Then the apartment’s front door swung open, and Enne marched inside wearing an outrageous floppy hat, a floor-length jacket she definitely didn’t have on when she left, and at least a dozen bags hanging off of each arm. “I’m back,” she chirped. She set the bags down in a heap by the couch.

“Why are you dressed like you’ve suddenly become a rich widow?” Lola asked.

“I went shopping. Levi doesn’t exactly own anything anymore, does he?” she huffed, collapsing into an armchair as though she’d just finished back to back gloves-off matches in the ring.

Jac raised an eyebrow. “Dressing him now, are you?”

Enne ignored him and gestured aimlessly to all the bags. “I also bought him some medication, since he looked terrible last night. There’s stuff for you, too, Jac. I guessed at your measurements.”

Jac stood up and examined the pile skeptically. “I’m almost afraid to look. What do gentlemen wear in Bellamy? White ribbon boater hats and daisy cufflinks?”

“As if that soiled newsboy cap you wear every day is such a deliberate fashion choice?” Enne countered. Jac cleared his throat, prepared to defend his beloved, patched-up hat to his grave, when Enne furrowed her eyebrows and sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“Jac’s been using one of your prized teacups as an ashtray,” Lola said quickly.

Jac glared at her and muttered, “You traitor.”

Enne waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t care. And I didn’t just go shopping. There’s something I want to talk to you both about.” She reached into the closest bag and pulled out a copy of today’s The Crimes & The Times. She tossed it at Jac, who caught and unfurled it. He squinted at the headline for a moment, untangling the words he recognized, but he didn’t need to read them to understand the significance of the two wanted posters on the front.

Lola’s chair screeched as she stood up. She studied the paper from over Jac’s shoulder.

“Three thousand volts,” Lola read under Levi’s sketch. Instantly, all Jac’s resentment from earlier vanished like a puff of cigarette smoke.

His best friend was a dead man walking.

“I’m getting out of here,” Jac breathed. It was still several hours before Levi had asked to meet, but he didn’t care. If Levi was in danger, then Jac would find a way to save him.

Because that was what they did for each other. There was no line they wouldn’t cross. Not even a line of fire.

“Wait,” Enne said sharply. “Turn the page.”

He did, though a part of him already knew what he would find.

“One thousand volts,” Lola murmured, reading his own bounty.

Jac stared at his face with the feeling like there’d been some terrible mistake. Levi was hardly a notorious political assassin, and Jac was barely a second-string bouncer at a third-rate pub. Not that long ago, the two of them had sat on street corners in the Casino District, goading passersby with games of coins and cards in the hopes of conning at least enough for a meal.

“Vianca said there could be a repeat of the Great Street War,” Enne told him, which was the last thing she could’ve said to make him feel better. He supposed she wasn’t trying to comfort him. The clothes she’d bought weren’t gifts—they were necessities. And if daisy cufflinks were what it took to make him unrecognizable now, then he’d happily strut around town like a dandy. “If you want a motorcar to Olde Town, I can call you one.”

Enne’s voice was level, calm, all practicality. For the first time, Jac wasn’t at all surprised that he was looking into the eyes of the person who’d killed Sedric Torren. If she was afraid, she was damn good at hiding it.

“How did you pay for all this?” he asked her, eyeing the shopping bags with suspicion.