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 matter-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.”
“The writer?”
Enne perked up and slid into the chair next to him. Maybe he would turn out to be a promising source after all. “Have you seen her?”
“I don’t go looking for trouble, missy,” he said. “You don’t look like you do, either.”
“I was told writers like her come here.”
“They did, when they were alive.” He looked at her pointedly, and Enne, again, felt herself standing at the edge of that cliff. She was tired of feeling this way. Angry for feeling this way. She could no longer tell if she needed to sob or to scream. “Maybe there’s something else I can do for you,” he offered. “You need a job?”
“I’ve got a job. What I need is information.”
“Ah, but the Orphan Guild can always get you a better job.”
“The Orphan Guild?” The name sounded familiar—maybe something she’d read in her guidebook. Likely something to avoid. She looked around the room for an excuse, for an exit.
“Not from the city? Most people would know the Orphan Guild. It’s the name of opportunity.”
“I’m not an orphan,” she said defiantly. Not an orphan. Not a doll. Not a lost cause.
“What are your talents?” he asked. Something about his voice reminded Enne of Mistress—sweet as syrup. The way he leaned forward, the glimmer in his eyes, it was all very alluring. He did have something to offer, she felt instinctively. He was trustworthy. Speaking with him was a good decision.
She leaned closer, an invisible force drawing her to his voice. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or something else.
“I’m a dancer,” she offered to him. “And a split counter.”
“The Scarhands could always use counters. We have a lot of them, in the Guild,” he said thoughtfully. “A shame to scar those pretty hands, though.”
He reached out and touched Enne’s cheek, then turned her head side to side, inspecting her. At first, Enne let him. He was trustworthy. He was no threat.
“I’m a bad counter,” she admitted, because she felt like she needed to be honest with him. “And...” She searched for the words, and it was growing more difficult to find them, more difficult to remember why she’d denied the young man earlier. “I don’t want a job.” She tried to peel her eyes off him and his sleazy smile to find the others. Levi. Jac. Reymond. She squinted around the cabaret, but it was hard to picture their faces. Whenever she tried, she saw the young man’s.
He clicked his tongue and turned her head back toward him. Her shoulders relaxed. “Split counters aren’t bad counters, missy. Maybe that’s not really your talent.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We have blood gazers. They’re complimentary.”
“Blood gazers?” Enne repeated, confused.
“They can see your talents. Lots of people are mistaken about them, you know.”
His words struck a nerve, and Enne shook her head, the hold of the trance fading. She squeezed the edge of the table, her thoughts veering in several directions. Talents. His voice. Mistaken. A secret.
Maybe mommy didn’t really know the daddy after all, she heard Alice’s sneer. But her comment had been just a competitor being cruel. It shouldn’t have shaken Enne like it had.
Were you that terrible? Levi had asked about her rehearsal.
The truth was quite the opposite—she’d been a natural. She still remembered the look on Alice’s face when she’d perfected the simple routine in a matter of hours. How the entire troupe had noticed her, applauded her, and the rush that had sped through her chest.
She should’ve told Levi instead of making it a secret. But it felt like a secret. Like something wrong.
Something wrong with her.
The more the thoughts shook her, the more she listened to the other voices, the less she remained under the young man’s spell. She pushed her seat away from him.
“Stop it,” she told him.
“Stop what?”
She willed herself to get up, but her body felt heavier than usual—and not from the alcohol. “Let me go.”
“I’m just doing you a favor,” the young man said, licking his lips. “I could give you a name of a gazer. It never hurts to know.”
“I don’t want to know,” she snapped. She dug her fingernails into her thighs.
“Don’t be thick, missy. It’s free of charge.”
Enne tried to gather up the strength to move, but she couldn’t lift herself from her seat. His voice felt like an anchor dragging her below the surface. It’s a favor, she heard. He’s trustworthy. Kind. Helpful.
The young man started writing down a name and an address on the back of a business card. “She’s dependable,” he said, “and she owes me a favor.”
Enne knew she shouldn’t reach for it. She tried not to. But her arm lifted—not like a puppet, but more as if drawn to a magnet. Her fingers trembled.
Someone shouted behind her and, in a blur, ran and snatched the card out of the young man’s hand. Reymond grabbed Enne by the arm and hoisted her up, seething.
“Are you even allowed in here?” he spat at the young man. His voice sounded like the strings of a violin snapping. Enne jolted from her chair, alert, awake, and backed away from both of them.
The man frowned. “Eight Fingers. You know her?”
“He’s a Chainer, missy,” Reymond snarled, and Enne’s blood chilled as she remembered the man she’d seen on Chain Street. A debtor. A street slave. Another few minutes under his spell, and she could’ve been just like him. “Favors,” Reymond growled, brandishing the business card, “don’t count if you steal them.” His breath reeked of liquor.
“I’m not like them,” the boy said.
“Can’t change what you are. You’re a poacher.”
“I’m a salesman.”
“Does Levi know you’re here?”
“I’m not afraid of Pup,” he challenged. “Besides, Sundays are my nights off.” He grinned wickedly. “I figured you might remember.”
Reymond went scarlet. “Muck off, Harvey.”
He yanked Enne away from the table, back toward the bar. “I leave you alone for fifteen minutes, missy, and you manage to find the seediest person here.” He shook his head. “Don’t tell Levi about this. He’ll blame me, and he hates the Guild. He and Mardlin are real holier-than-thou about it.” Reymond took the card out of his pocket. “What did Harvey give you?”
“It’s nothing,” she muttered.
“I can hear lies, missy,” he hissed.
“It is nothing. I...didn’t want to take it.”
Reymond squeezed her arm tighter, so tight it hurt. “Why is it that half the time you speak, I can hear the lies on your lips?”
Enne’s ears heated in a sort of shame. She hadn’t realized she’d been lying to him—and to herself. She did want to know after all. She’d broken plenty of Lourdes’s rules since leaving home, but doubting her mother felt like the worst sort of betrayal.
Reymond leaned down lower. “I don’t care if you hide something from me, but I know you’re hiding something from Levi. Why is he helping you?”
“Because I’m paying him to,” she said, her voice rising. She snatched the card out of his hand and thrust it in her pocket.
“You’re lying again.”
She froze. She intended to pay Levi, once they found Lourdes. Enne didn’t have access to the bank account or the volts on her own. But if Reymond told Levi, then Enne would be without help. Levi had promised they were in this together, and she thought she believed him, but it was hard to be sure. Volts were more of a guarantee than good intentions.
“Levi’s in trouble,” Reymond said. “He won’t tell me exactly what it is, but I have my suspicions. And if I find out you’re leading him into more, or if anything happens to him, then I will find you.” He didn’t need to add on another threat. Enne understood him perfectly well. “Levi isn’t like us. He’s better than us.”
Us, he said. But he and Levi were both criminals—Enne was better than both of them.
“I’m not like you,” she snapped.
“Lourdes was. I recognize a familiar face when I see one.”
He let her go, and Enne rubbed her arm where he’d squeezed, where her muscles ached.
“They’re over there.” He nodded at a table in the corner, where Jac and Levi were laughing over several empty glasses. Reymond left her to join them, and Enne wandered over slowly, slightly shell-shocked, still slightly drunk.
Levi locked eyes with her, and he smiled. It made her stomach knot. She needed to sober up.
“I like the lipstick,” he said.
“Did you find anything?” she asked, ignoring Reymond’s suspicious stare as she slid into the seat beside Levi.
Levi held up a napkin. “I won this.”
“Impressive.”
“No, there’s an address on it. We’ll go tomorrow.”
Enne relaxed. They wouldn’t leave empty-handed.
She wasn’t empty-handed, though. She still had the business card in her pocket. It was a terrible idea, but she did want to know the truth about herself.
Of course, she’d rather hear it from her mother. And the address Levi had could lead them straight to Lourdes, which meant Enne didn’t need a blood gazer. Not yet.
“I didn’t find anything,” Jac said sheepishly.
“I met another Salta,” Enne told them. “She’s dancing now.” Demi was still onstage, somehow wearing even less than she had before. The raunchy music and raunchier moves made Enne flush. Still, she had to admire Demi’s technique. She was very graceful.
“Maybe Levi could’ve gotten you a job here.” Jac slapped Levi on the back.
Levi looked away hurriedly and took a sip from his already empty glass.
Jac turned to her. “Too much for your sensibilities, missy?”
“I’m not a prude,” she countered, even if the suggestion made her cheeks flush furiously.
Jac snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She pointed at Levi’s tie. “You weren’t wearing that earlier.”
“I like it,” he said.
Reymond rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t leave any of you alone in cabarets.”
“Go easy on us,” Levi said, slipping his arm around Enne’s shoulders, forgetting that she was sore. She cringed, but this time, didn’t feel like pushing him away—drunk Enne didn’t so much mind that smirk of a smile. She resisted the urge to lean into him and scolded herself—maybe Levi was the only person she knew in New Reynes, but that didn’t mean they were familiar.
“Besides,” he said, unaware of Enne shifting with sudden embarrassment under his arm, “we got what we came for.”
Demi’s act ended with her brandishing sparklers in both her hands, her leg propped against a barstool, her slip scandalously riding up. The audience—their table included—cheered, and the four of them decided that was their cue to leave.
But Enne hadn’t gotten what she’d come for. As they made their way up the stairs, she scanned the faces in the crowd one last time. Lourdes was nowhere to be found.