The Shadow Game series

3

“They say the Bargainer wanders the world, approaching those desperate enough to strike a deal. But everyone knows that the Bargainer is from New Reynes. The most fearsome legend ever told, and it started here.

“And one day...the Bargainer will come back.”

—A legend of the North Side

ENNE

Enne sat on her bathroom counter, gingerly examining her bloodshot eyes in the foggy mirror. The contacts Levi had given her were uncomfortable and, she suspected, deeply unsanitary. She’d managed to find better ones at a costume shop, colored a warm brown as opposed to the unnatural blue of the old ones. She prayed Vianca didn’t notice her eye color changing every other day. Thankfully, the donna had other things on her mind.

“It looks like a crime scene in here,” Lola said from behind the shower curtain.

“Pleasant,” Enne muttered.

“I still resent this. I want you to know that.”

Enne rolled her eyes and unscrewed the bottle of eyedrops. “You can’t keep your white hair. You look like a killer.”

“That’s why I liked it.”

Enne cringed as the cold liquid touched her eye. The redness still looked no better.

Lola turned off the water and drew back the curtain. She looked gangly and awkward in Enne’s short towel, her newly red hair plastered across her shoulders and dripping on the floor.

Despite Lola’s jokes, Enne knew her old hair meant far more to her than just the intimidation factor. Lola had originally bleached it because her brother had joined the Doves, and white hair was their trademark. Years had passed since then, but she still kindled the hope of finding him. And though her disguise had gotten her nowhere but trouble—which Lola herself acknowledged—Enne knew it couldn’t have been easy to let her past go.

Lola glanced at herself in the mirror. “Wow. I hate it.”

“You can’t keep looking like a Dove,” Enne told her. “Not when we’re supposed to...”

Enne trailed off and bit her lip. She’d recounted her conversation with Vianca to Lola earlier, and Lola hadn’t taken it well. Since then, all she’d done was order them the most expensive room service on St. Morse’s menu and pick at her food in stony silence. Enne had waited for her to say something—anything—all day, but Lola’s cold shoulder treatment meant Enne just wound up reading one of her favorite Sadie Knightley romance novels and brooding for six hours.

When Lola didn’t respond and walked back to the bedroom to change, Enne jumped off the counter and called after her, “Are we going to talk about this?”

Lola whipped around. “Talk about what, Enne?” Still clutching her towel, she marched over to the bags of clothes from Enne’s shopping trip. She grabbed the top item—a simple blouse with a lacy collar. “What are you supposed to wear? This?” Lola threw the shirt on the couch. “What are you supposed to say? With your posh, South Sider accent?”

She stormed back to Enne and loomed over her. “You’re going to march into the Orphan Guild and...and what? No one there went to finishing school. They’re thieves and killers and liars, and all you look like is a target. Bryce Balfour will eat you alive.”

Enne blinked back tears. She’d already made the decision not to apologize for who she was, and besides, there was nothing Lola said that Enne hadn’t already considered herself. She didn’t know anything about organized crime, how she’d find the volts to pay for associates, how she’d ever convince anyone to follow a clueless schoolgirl from Bellamy. It didn’t matter that the world thought she’d assassinated the Chancellor. Within minutes of meeting her, anyone would know she was a fraud.

“I thought you wanted this! Isn’t that what you said at Scrap Market? That I could be a—”

“That was before I knew about you and Vianca.”

“So did you mean anything that you said about me, then?” Enne asked, her voice shaking. Lola once saw a potential in her when no one else did, but it seemed like now she only saw her as a pawn.

Lola crossed her arms and looked away. “Of course I meant what I said. You’re a Mizer, Enne. And the world doesn’t know that—the world can’t know that—but regardless of Vianca, you have real power. And you don’t want it. That’s what makes you different from the other lords, different from everyone in New Reynes. You don’t want it, and so, maybe, you could do good with it.”

Enne went silent. Of course, Lola was right. Enne didn’t want this, hadn’t asked for this.

“You...” Enne said carefully. “You think I can do this?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”

Lola was bony and uncomfortably wet, but Enne threw her arms around her, anyway. “Thank you,” she whispered, her mind whirling with Lola’s words.

Did she have real power?

And if so, what could she do with it?

“You’re welcome. Now please let go of me.” Lola writhed out of Enne’s grip, smirking. “I’m going to get dressed, and then we can talk about making an appointment with the Guildmaster.”

The telephone rang.

Enne froze. Only two people would have any reason to call her: Vianca or Levi. She moved to answer it and prayed it was the latter.

“’Lo?” whispered the voice on the other line.

Enne sucked in her breath. “It’s you. Are you all right? Are you safe?” she asked.

“Have you heard the news?” Levi asked.

She pursed her lips. Yes, I’m fine. I suppose you must be, too. “No.”

“We need to meet—now. Write down this address.” He read off the name of a place Enne didn’t recognize. “Leave as soon as possible.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked, voice hitched.

“Yes, it’s...we’ll talk about it there.” He paused, and the sound of voices bickering around him almost muffled Levi’s next words. “Please be careful.” He hung up.

Enne set down the phone, worry knotting in her chest. She grabbed her tourist guidebook off the dining table and flipped to the map. “Lola,” she called. “Turn on the radio and get dressed. We’re going to the Deadman District.”

* * *

By the time they exited the Mole Station, the sun had set. The streetlights of the Deadman District shone through shattered glass, and the metallic mortar between the white stone of the buildings glinted in the darkness, so bright that Enne squinted and shaded her eyes as she walked. Everywhere she turned, she saw a chain, a gun barrel, a blade—her mind playing deadly tricks.

While frantically getting dressed, she and Lola had managed to catch enough of the newscast to understand what had happened. Armed brutally with automatics, the whiteboots had executed an attack on the Orphan Guild, killing eight and injuring many others. Their meeting point was only a few blocks from the Orphan Guild’s now-abandoned hideout, and as they approached, Enne had the distinct sensation she was walking into a battleground. The silence around her could be felt, like its presence haunted these streets—like death itself lurked in every shadow.

The last time she’d roamed the streets of New Reynes at night, she and Levi had been fleeing for their lives. Now, the reflection she passed in the dirt-crusted windows was no longer her own. Instead, she saw them. The sallow-skinned, lifeless faces of the Phoenix Club.

She felt for the gun in her pocket, seeking reassurance, seeking the power that Lola had seen in her—that she couldn’t seem to find herself.

At their destination, a long vertical gash stretched across the door, as though someone had dragged a knife down the wood. Lola and Enne exchanged a grim look before Lola knocked, and Jac swung the door open with a pistol pointed at eye level. Enne let out an unladylike curse and grabbed her second’s arm.

Once he saw who they were, he lowered it. “’Lo, missies.”

“Call me missy again,” Lola growled, “and you can be the new Eight Fingers.”

Jac laughed, and despite his familiar dimples and easy demeanor, he looked different. Sleeker. His black hair, greased back and glossy, made his gray eyes look more like steel than dust. He might’ve been hesitant about Enne choosing his wardrobe, but, she noted smugly, he looked great. She clearly had excellent taste.

They climbed the stairwell to the first landing. Behind the door, Levi sat stiffly in a leather office chair. His curls had been dyed black, and his shirt and jacket were colored to match. However, his new ensemble did nothing to hide how terrible he looked. Every time he shifted his posture, he winced in silent pain.

Levi’s gaze moved from the window and met hers, and his breath hitched.

Enne went to sleep last night reminding herself of all the reasons she couldn’t fall for Levi Glaisyer. But her heart still stuttered seeing him look at her like he was now—like he’d felt their separation every bit as acutely as she had.

“Did anyone see you?” Levi asked.

“I don’t think so,” Enne answered.

The room was filled with desks and toppled chairs, each coated in a thick layer of grime. Enne grimaced as she sat down at the one beside him and tried her best not to touch anything. Jac perched on top of her desk without concern for his new clothes, and Lola resorted to standing. Everyone shared the same grim expression.

“I assume you’ve spoken with Vianca,” Levi said to Enne.

“I did this morning,” she replied. “I told her you’re the one who should be doing this, not me.”

“Well...” His gaze flickered to Jac, who avoided his stare. In fact, Jac was faced away from Levi, like he had no intention of looking at him at all. “I convinced her that we should both be doing this, that we’d be better off as allies.”

“I thought the Irons hated you,” Lola said.

Levi pursed his lips. “They have mixed feelings.”

“Your third tried to kill you.”

“I said mixed.”

Enne felt a pinch of resentment. Levi had argued against Vianca exactly as Enne had warned her he would, yet still Vianca had acquiesced to his requests and therefore left Enne without a consultant. It paid to be the donna’s favorite.

“Were you able to catch the news?” Levi asked Lola.

“Yes,” she answered darkly.

“You know far more about the Orphan Guild than we do. What do you think of this?”

“I...” Her voice was unusually high-pitched. Enne knew she must have recognized at least a few of the names on the list of casualties. “I’m shocked. Bryce keeps the location private, known only to Scavenger, Ivory, and the members of the Guild. There must have been a mole—someone who knew where it was and how to cause the most damage.”

“But you know the location,” Levi said. “Has Bryce made any effort to contact you? He must suspect you.”

Lola stiffened. “I doubt he suspects me.”

“Why is that?” Levi asked.

“Because he made it very clear that he’d kill me if I ever betrayed him.” Enne flinched at Lola’s coldness. Was that how the Guildmaster treated all his associates? “And he knows I’m not thick. Or a killer.”

Levi’s forehead creased with worry. “I’m nervous about this. The Irons is the only gang that doesn’t hire from the Orphan Guild, but this attack was directly prompted by events Enne and I caused.”

Enne shivered. “Which means the other lords might blame us.”

The notion of becoming enemies with Ivory, Scavenger, and Bryce left Enne ill. Even if she needed to call herself a street lord, she wasn’t like them. They were...dangerous.

You killed Sedric, she reminded herself. You wanted to. He was despicable. He was a predator.

She remembered the sweetness of the drugged Lollipop Lick on her lips, the pity in the bartender’s eyes. How many girls had Sedric targeted? How many people around him had been complicit in the suffering he’d caused?

You watched Semper die, and you were glad he did.

Enne was just as dangerous.

You killed the whiteboot. You didn’t even hesitate.

She was just as deadly.

You’re not like the other lords. You don’t want this.

It was true that Enne didn’t have a cause to drive her, like Vianca. Or ambition to motivate her, like Levi. But she did have her anger, her grief, her frustration. She felt it all unfurling and writhing inside of her, like a snake rising from its slumber. You do have power, it whispered as it curled around the broken cavities of her heart.

“Enne?” Levi asked, drawing her out of her thoughts. “Do you mind if we speak in private?”

“Of course,” she said, and she cringed watching Levi shakily get to his feet. They walked back into the stairwell, keeping the door propped to let in a sliver of light. Levi leaned against the wall to support himself.

“I want you to know that I’ll still help you,” he told her seriously. “In any way I can.”

Her resentment waning but not quite gone, she said, “You assume I want your help. Last time you called yourself lord, I had to rescue you.”

He put his hand to his heart as though she’d wounded him more than he was already hurt. “I’m offended you don’t think higher of my consulting skills.”

“Then tell me: how will I pay for these associates? Where will they stay? How will I convince them I’m not a fraud?”

He gave her a weak smile. “Just give me some time and a bottle of whiskey, and I’ll find you a few clever ideas.”

She frowned. She didn’t want to hear about his confidence in himself—she’d suffered through enough of that already. She needed to hear that he had confidence in her.

“That life philosophy is why you look like you do now,” she grumbled.

“Like what?” He smoothed the front of his blazer. “I think I look rather dashing. You know, you’re pretty observant, if you guessed my measurements.” He smirked. “Very observant, even—”

“You look terrible,” she said quickly, before he could embarrass her further.

His laugh was followed by a wince. “I mean it, though. I’m sorry I don’t have solutions yet, but I will—I promise. I’ve spent all day trying to figure out how to piece my life back together, and it feels like every time I think I’ve gotten ahead, there’s some other problem, some other risk.” His voice grew gradually more heated. “You saved me yesterday, and I don’t have it figured out yet, but give me a chance to think and—” he angrily hit the side of his wounded leg “—and put myself back together, so I can save you, too.”

As touching as his feelings might have been, Enne didn’t want a savior. She wanted a partner.

She looked away and changed the subject. “I noticed Jac... Did something happen between you two?”

He took a shaky breath. “Jac witnessed my conversation with Vianca.”

Levi didn’t need to say anything else; Enne could already imagine how that must’ve gone. In her conversations with Vianca, Enne could do nothing more than beg. She’d never want someone else to witness that, especially not someone she cared about. Despite being Vianca’s victim, there was a shame tied to the omerta she couldn’t describe. She didn’t deserve it—it defied her own logic—but she felt it all the same.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, reaching for his hand. It was meant to be for comfort, so she was surprised when Levi took her hand and laced her fingers with his. She flushed, thankful for the darkness.

“I’m sorry, too,” he breathed. “I know becoming a street lord is the last thing you’d ever want. It’s the last thing you need. The more famous you are, the more you become a target. And you can’t afford for the world to realize what you are.”

The last thing you’d ever want.

A feeling of wrongness rumbled in Enne’s stomach, heavy and low like the toll of an iron bell. She was a Bellamy schoolgirl. She wore white lace and patent leather and had a sweet tooth. She wasn’t allowed to want this.

To want the danger of being a street lord.

To want the boy who stood in front of her.

To want power.

But who was there to stop her?

In the darkened stairwell, Levi was silent, as though holding his breath and waiting for her to answer. Enne could tell him about how the Shadow Game’s timer still haunted her, and that she hated it. She could tell him about how she was dangerous, that maybe it was the only thing in her life she’d ever been good at. She could tell him how badly she wanted to feel powerful.