LEVI
Levi and Enne emerged from the edge of Olde Town, squinting into the light. Not the sunlight—the New Reynes sky was overcast, the smog leaving foul smudges against the clouds. No, they were squinting at the flashing lights of Tropps Street, the center of the Casino District, and—as far as anyone on the North Side was concerned—the center of the city. Everything shone on Tropps Street: the glint of costume jewelry, the golden teeth of the bouncers’ smiles, the waxy sheen of faux leather and, of course, the neon reflections in the puddles of rainwater, piss and emptied liquor cups along the sidewalks.
There was nothing like the Casino District. From the moment Levi had arrived in New Reynes, he’d made it his home. Then he’d made it his territory. One day, he would make it his kingdom.
To the right, a man played an accordion along the curb. He sang about the woes of unrequited love, but it wasn’t clear if he was referring to a sweetheart or the bottle of absinthe at his feet. Enne cringed each time the singer cursed.
“You seem nervous,” Levi said.
She hugged her arms to her chest and darted an anxious glance over her shoulder. “This street is so crowded, but it’s not even noon. Don’t these people work?”
He snorted. “Crowded? You should see this street at night.”
Half a block ahead, a man in a trench coat stared at them from beneath a dull and flickering yellow sign. Rusted chains dangled from it like metal streamers. The man’s face was sallow and sunken, and he reached a shaking hand forward like a prisoner trapped behind bars, begging for food or volts.
Enne stiffened and knocked into Levi’s shoulder, piquing his annoyance. “Why is he watching us?” Enne whispered.
“He’s a street slave. Don’t worry—he can’t follow us.”
“What does that mean? What’s stopping him?” She ducked to his other side so that Levi was between her and the man.
“He’s trapped on that street,” Levi explained. “The families there have a talent that binds people in debt to them within a certain area. That street is like a jail cell.”
She shivered. “What are they in debt for?”
“Drugs. Mostly Rapture, Mistress and Lullaby—all from Torren and Augustine suppliers. Try to avoid Chain Street.”
She nodded fearfully and fiddled with something in her pocket. If Levi didn’t know better, he’d guess she was an antsy runner carrying an expensive package. The farther west they walked down Tropps Street, the closer they came to Scarhand territory. Even if it wasn’t peak hours, there were probably still a few gangsters roaming the alleys, hunting for orb pouches or—for the particularly skilled—grazing trace volts off unlucky passersby’s skin. Enne was marking herself as a target.
Then, to Levi’s ever-increasing aggravation, Enne removed her coin from her pocket and began fiddling with it as she walked. He glanced at the cameo of the queen on the front. If it was from before the Revolution, it was probably worth more than sentimental value. All the more reason to avoid wandering eyes.
“Put the coin back,” he snapped. “That looks like gold from far away.” This missy was bound to be more trouble than she was worth. He didn’t have the time or patience to teach her the rules of New Reynes.
Enne bit her lip and slipped it back into her pocket. At least she listened to what he said.
“What’s the coin from, anyway?” he asked.
“It’s an old token. Lourdes gave it to me.”
She’s alone and agitated, Levi reminded himself. Of course she was acting jumpy. What she needed was a distraction.
“So just how different is New Reynes from Bellamy?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer: completely.
“Well, to start with, it’s a lot dirtier,” she said, her nose crinkled. Levi was beginning to think that was her signature look. “And it smells foul.”
“What? This city?” He inhaled deeply through his nose. “That’s the smell of opportunity. And maybe a little piss.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you might be fonder of it if you were born here.”
“You can’t tell from looking at me, but I wasn’t born a Sinner,” he said. “But yes, I am rather fond of the eau de New Reynes. Maybe you will be, too, after a while.”
She crinkled her nose again. Pretty or not, Levi wondered if he had ever met such a delicate, unpleasant creature. “Where are you from, then?” she asked.
“My family lives in Elta.” The word felt like a shard of ice on his tongue. It was a city a few hours east, on the opposite coast. “Before that, my parents came from Caroko.”
Caroko was once a great capital of one of the seven Mizer kingdoms. During the Revolution, like many orb-maker families who’d been loyal to the Mizers, the Glaisyers were forced to relocate near the ever-suspicious eyes of New Reynes, the capital of the Republic. His mother, who’d been a bit of a world traveler in her youth, hadn’t resented the move. His father, however, had mourned the loss of his home and the king he’d once served. Rather than teach Levi about Caroko, his father had refused to discuss it, as if the city itself was gone, left in an unspeakable state of grief. He considered himself a martyr.
“How long have you lived in New Reynes?” Enne asked, bringing Levi’s focus back to the present.
“Since I was twelve.” Levi had fled the brutality of his home seeking the brutality of somewhere else—a place where, this time, he could fight back.
Frowning, he shook away the unpleasant memories. In less than a minute, she’d managed to steer the conversation entirely away from herself. He didn’t like it when people didn’t talk about themselves. In his experience, that usually meant they had something to hide.
“You’re full of questions, aren’t you?” he commented.
“You’re a stranger leading me through an unsightly area in an unseemly city. Of course I’m full of questions.” He supposed that was a reasonable response, though he’d hardly call his own territory “unsightly.”
Someone cooed to their right.
“Welcome to Sweetie Street,” he said, not bothering to hide his grin. He could think of no place better to watch Enne squirm.
Swarms of people stumbled down the alley, all flushed and in some degree of hungover stupor. The women dressed in dark skirts with lacy tulles, lipstick every shade of red, faces white or pink with powder. The men wore black-and-white-striped suits, with jewel-studded pipes resting suggestively between their lips. At night, the dancing silhouettes in the windows beckoned customers from all across the city with promises of warm beds and warmer embraces.
“Whatever you do,” he whispered in Enne’s ear, “don’t look anyone in the eyes.”
“Why not?” she asked, jerking her gaze from the window displays to the ground, which was covered with broken glass and sparkly confetti.
“Their talent is seduction.” He swore he saw goose bumps prickle against her skin, and he fought to contain his laughter. “You can’t let them get too close, either. One touch—” he squeezed her shoulder “—and even you would be discarding your skirts and stockings. One kiss, and you’d be overcome by an almost primal sort of lust.”
Enne narrowed her eyes like she’d realized he was mucking with her, but then a woman giggled to their right, and Enne jolted as if she’d heard a gunshot. The woman swayed back and forth, wearing only a ruby corset covered in black lace, her glitter-covered chest spilling out the front. The number ten was written across her cleavage in violet lipstick.
“Oh goodness,” Enne gasped, her gaze darting wildly between the cobblestones and the woman’s breasts. “What does the number mean?”
“Price.”
The whimper that escaped her lips was enough to send Levi into hysterics. He laughed so hard he needed to clutch his abdomen to steady himself.
“Oh, I’m glad you find my decency so amusing,” she snapped. “So is Sweetie Street frequented by everyone in the City of Sin? Is this where you come every night after...whatever illegal things you do?”
“Me? I don’t need to come here,” he said, only somewhat in earnest, but mostly because he couldn’t help himself. His cockiness earned him a disgusted but embarrassed look from Enne. “Think of it this way,” he said. “When you go back to Bellamy, you’ll be able to scandalize all your uppity friends.”
Enne laughed hollowly. “As if I need them thinking any less of me.”
“Less of you? Are you not snobbish enough for their preferences?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m a Salta. There are much better, richer families at my finishing school with more impressive dancing talents. No one notices me. Most of the time, they hardly acknowledge I’m there.”
Must’ve hit a nerve, Levi thought. That was the most she’d said about herself yet. It also struck him as rather unbelievable. Her doll-like features, her determined dark eyes—how could anyone not notice her?
“Then why go back there?” he asked.
“Because I have only a year left of school before my debut. It’s why...I’d really love to be able to return before the start of term.” If Levi didn’t find the thought of a “debut” so ridiculous, he might’ve felt sorry for the longing in her voice. She was sacrificing a lot to find Alfero, assuming Alfero could even be found.
“And if you don’t find Lourdes before the summer ends?” Levi asked Enne quietly. “You’re willing to risk that?”
“Of course I am. She’s my mother.”
Levi’s stomach tightened, and—to his own surprise—he was about to say something consoling, but then she bit her lip. Maybe dealing cards made him hyperaware of bluffing, but that was a straight-from-the-book tell. He wondered if she was hiding something after all, but he didn’t press her on it.
For now.
“We’re here,” he announced as they crossed the border from Iron territory into Scar Land.
Tents, stands and carts lined the sidewalks, and people crowded around them, waving merchandise in the air to tempt customers or yelling at the kids trying to steal food and trinkets. Several paperboys approached him and Enne, advertising this week’s copy of the South Side’s Guillory Street Gossip or the North Side’s version, The Kiss and Tell. Levi grabbed Enne’s shoulders and pushed her ahead. If she spent too long gawking at everything, a pickpocket would nab her in a blink.
“This is Scrap Market,” he said. “It changes location every day, and it’s in only one place for a few hours at a time before it disappears.”
She broke away from his grasp and glared at him with annoyance. “Are all your markets like this? How disorienting.”
“No, just this one. People here don’t pay in volts—they don’t really have them. Instead, they trade. It changes time and place to make it harder for the whiteboots to find them. The goods here aren’t all legal, and it’s all under the table.”
They passed a food stand, and Levi’s stomach rumbled at the smell of sausages and sizzling bacon. He’d forgotten to eat breakfast. Enne must’ve been hungry as well, judging by the longing look she cast at the doughnut cart.
“Illegal? Then why are we here?” she asked nervously.
“The Scarhands live under Scrap Market.”
“The Scarhands?”
“One of the gangs.”
She halted in the middle of the street. “You said your friend wasn’t in a gang.”
Levi hauled her along, this time not letting her shrug him off. She was going to lose her purse.
“No, I said he wasn’t an Iron,” he grunted. Besides, Reymond Kitamura was a good place for them to start. Not only had Reymond introduced Levi to Lourdes, but he was the Scar Lord, and all secrets of New Reynes flushed down to him eventually.
“Let go of me. It’s terribly impolite—not to mention improper—”
“I’m trying to keep you from getting your purse stolen. You’ve already lost your luggage. Wanna lose your volts, too?” Levi refused to suffer through this entire morning only for Enne to lose his reward.
She stopped struggling, and he led her into a ramshackle building with a sign reading Cheep Orbs and Metalwork. They slid between a couple examining a box of empty glass orbs.
“Those are real shoddy quality,” Levi muttered. “Probably can’t hold over twenty volts without shattering.” He could make better blindfolded...not that he’d made orbs in years. His blood and split talents didn’t mix together well, so he’d decided a long time ago to avoid orb-making altogether.
Enne stared at a crate full of knives, each with a little rust on the handle or cracks in the blade. “How many street gangs are there?”
Levi cleared his throat. Really, there was no person better suited for introducing Enne to New Reynes than himself. “There are three: the Irons, the Scarhands and the Doves. They all live on the North Side.” There were also the two casino Families, the Augustines and the Torrens, but Levi didn’t want to overwhelm her. Besides, he’d rather not think about the Families right now. It was a mistake involving himself with either of them.
“Why do you call yourselves the Irons?” Enne asked.
“It’s a nickname. We didn’t have a name at first—the dens just called us ‘mechanics.’ People who fix games.” He shook his head. “Of course, our clients didn’t actually like to call us that—bad for business. Somehow the name Irons caught on.”
“So you cheat,” she said, the contempt obvious in her voice.
“We make a business out of winning.”
Levi took her to a door in the back of the shop. A rusted lock dangled from the knob.
Although Levi never used his blood talent anymore for its actual purpose—making orbs—he often relied on his skill for fire. Levi could do a few tricks: light a match with the snap of his fingers, walk through open flame without being burned, craft a glass ornament with only his bare hands. Nothing powerful, but his talent was often useful.
Levi grabbed the lock and concentrated on heat. After a few moments, it glowed red and hissed with steam.
“How are you doing that?” she asked.
“It’s my blood talent.” He tugged it, and it snapped. He would’ve thought that obvious, given the orb-maker colors in his hair.
“Which is—”
“Someone will hear you.” He didn’t need the Scar Lord blaming him for giving away today’s location to all of Scrap Market. Reymond liked to lie low.
Levi slipped inside the crack of the door into a dark, narrow staircase. When Enne closed it behind them, everything went black.
“You’d better leave. We’re not seeing anyone today,” someone growled. Enne made a sound somewhere between clearing her throat and a squeak.
“It’s me,” Levi said.
“Pup?”
He hated that nickname. People assumed that Canes smelled auras like bloodhounds, even though they read them with all their senses. The nickname was, in Levi’s opinion, the embodiment of everything he needed to change about his reputation. Once upon a time, the Irons had been the richest gang in the city. Even if he was young, Levi deserved to be taken seriously.
“Nice to see you again, Jonas,” Levi lied.
Jonas Maccabees, the Scarhands’ second-in-command, sneered, “You should stick to Olde Town where you belong.”
“That’s a shame, because I came here to see you. It’s hard to resist that smile of yours.”
Jonas turned on a light, and Levi squinted as his eyes adjusted. The room had concrete walls and a mess of exposed, leaking pipes. It smelled faintly of cigarettes.
“Reymond isn’t seeing anyone today,” Jonas grunted. A scar ran from his left eye down his cheek, disappearing beneath his shoulder-length black hair. More scars crisscrossed his palms, and his skin had a gray tint to it. Like a corpse. Beside Levi, Enne stiffened.
“But he’ll see me,” Levi challenged.
Jonas glared because he knew Levi was right, then mumbled something under his breath and turned to a door at the other end of the room. The undeniable stench of rotting bodies trailed after him.
“Is Reymond their boss?” Enne whispered.
“He’s the Scar Lord.”
“You failed to mention that.”
“Does it matter? I’m the Iron Lord, aren’t I?” Apparently his lordly title didn’t warrant the same concern.
“Maybe this was a bad—”
“Do you want to find Alfero or not?”
She quieted.
Jonas opened the door and ushered them into an office. Reymond perched on the desk. He was short and slender to the point of looking starved, with black hair and brown, hooded eyes. He wore a shiny gold vest and a crimson jacket, a belt of reptile scales and huge rings on every finger, which made eight rings in total—both his middle fingers were stumps.
“He brought a missy,” Jonas said.
“Yes,” Reymond answered, scanning Enne up and down with interest. Levi didn’t usually introduce missies to his friends. “I can see that.”
Levi pulled up a seat at the desk and nodded for Enne to do so, as well. As he sat, he got a whiff of Reymond’s cheap cologne and nearly gagged.
“We won’t take long,” Reymond said, dismissing Jonas, who closed the door as he left. Then he held out his hand to Enne. “I’m Reymond Kitamura,” he said.
She shook it and gave a winning smile to rival Levi’s own. All of her apprehension from before was concealed. “It’s a pleasure. My name is Enne Salta.”
“You don’t dress like any Salta I’ve ever met,” he remarked, which made Enne lift her chin indignantly. Levi snorted, picturing Enne in a burlesque costume. Well...it wasn’t so terrible a picture, if he was being honest with himself. “Or any of Levi’s boys or missies, for that matter,” Reymond added, smirking at Levi.
He shrugged in response. Levi had a long romantic history of scattered affairs—a few girls and many boys—that had become the subject of teasing from his friends. They claimed he had a hopeless habit of kissing and telling.
“I’m not his missy,” Enne said hurriedly.
“Good. Glad to hear you got taste,” Reymond joked.
Aside from the dons of the casino Families, Reymond Kitamura was arguably the most powerful person in the North Side, a reputation he enjoyed flaunting in Levi’s face at every opportunity. When Levi had first arrived in New Reynes—twelve years old, scrappy and eager—Reymond had taken him in. The two were like brothers, though, as Jac had pointed out on more than one occasion, they fought more often than they got along.
Two Octobers ago, when Vianca Augustine had dumped the investment scheme on him, Levi had turned to Reymond as a business partner. Since then, Levi had tried to keep their working relationship under wraps, but Chez had discovered it several months ago. His third considered it a betrayal. Officially, the Irons and the Scarhands were far from friends, and the gangs took their rivalries seriously. So Levi visited Reymond only when it was absolutely necessary these days, even if he sometimes missed their squabbles.
Reymond pulled a cigar out of his pocket. He pointed it at Levi, almost like he was offering it to him, except he wasn’t. Levi snapped his fingers, igniting a small flame at his fingertips and lit the end. Reymond cupped it and took a deep inhale. The smoke billowed out his nostrils, and Enne crinkled her nose.
“We’re still late on the Torren payment,” Reymond reminded him, as if Levi needed reminding. “Two weeks or so.”
“Let’s talk about this another time,” Levi muttered. Enne already knew he ran a gang; he didn’t want her knowing about the scam, too. He couldn’t have her running off on him...at least not until she paid him tonight. And if Reymond did have any leads on Alfero, then it was in Levi’s best interests to stick with Enne. He couldn’t lose the potential for a ten-thousand-volt reward for finding her mother, even if the chances were slim.
“Now seems fine to me.” Reymond blew out a cloud of smoke, and Levi seriously considered the repercussions of wringing his skinny neck. Clearly, he’d caught his friend in a bad mood. “And the whiteboot captain?”
Levi debated with himself for a moment, then decided that, after being chased just this morning, Enne was unlikely to talk to anyone about this conversation. She didn’t know anyone in this city except for him. Still, they needed to be discreet.
“I paid the captain this morning,” Levi answered begrudgingly. “But he knew. He knew about the scam.”
Reymond’s eyes widened. “Did he tell anyone?”
“I don’t think so, but he said some things about Sedric Torren that have me concerned.”
Reymond anxiously tapped the soot off his cigar. “You talk to Vianca yet?” Powerful as Reymond was, the only person who could truly protect Levi from Sedric was Vianca, the donna of the Augustine family, the owner of St. Morse Casino, and—as far as Levi was concerned—the foulest woman in New Reynes.
“Not yet. I’m not sure what she’ll do to help.” St. Morse was a sinking ship. Vianca’s radical political beliefs made her unpopular on the South Side, where many of her patrons lived. Meanwhile, the Torren Family had the wigheads in their pockets.
“You’re Vianca’s favorite. She’d do anything for you,” Reymond said, blowing out another exhale of smoke. “You’re her bitch.”
Levi’s fury simmered as Reymond smirked. “We’re not here to talk about this,” Levi snapped.
He wanted to add that Enne and Alfero’s volts might’ve been the solution to their problem, but he couldn’t think of a way to say that without Enne picking up on it. He’d have to discuss that with Reymond another time.
But he already knew what Reymond would say. Alfero is dead, Levi. Of course she’s dead. You’re too easily persuaded by a pretty missy.
“But I wanna talk about business,” Reymond insisted. “Ever since Vianca lost our thousands of safety volts, this is starting to sound a lot more dangerous. I have skin in this game, too.”
“If you wanna pitch in more, partner—”
“No can do. Fifteen percent was the deal.” Reymond flicked his ashes in a porcelain bowl that was broken on one side. “No can do.”
“Are you both quite done?” Enne snapped. “It’s very inconsiderate to talk business in front of a stranger.”
Reymond snorted and picked at his well-manicured cuticles. He took precise care of the fingers he had left and never liked to get his hands dirty. “She’s a real charmer, Pup.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t come here to charm you,” she snapped. “I came here in search of information on Lourdes Alfero.”
Reymond paused. “Did you, now?”
Despite Enne’s numerous flaws—namely that she was mucking annoying—she knew how to weasel in and out of a conversation. Levi respected that.
“Have you heard anything about Alfero lately?” Levi asked Reymond, more than eager to steer the discussion away from their failing con.
“She comes and goes,” he answered. “The usual spots. But I haven’t heard anything noteworthy recently. What do you need to know?”
Enne’s face lit brighter than a neon sign outside of Luckluster Casino. “I need to find her. She’s missing.”
“How do you know her? You don’t look like the type to read monarchist papers.”
“You can tell this just from looking at me?”
The Scarhands worked in the business of counterfeiting, arms dealing and information, and Reymond had sacrificed ten years, dozens of men and two fingers to carve out his gang’s place in the North Side. Reymond credited his power to his blood talent: he could see through any lie. But he probably didn’t need it to guess that the dare in Enne’s words was empty.
“Most of the Pseudonyms are dead,” Reymond said flatly. “Lourdes Alfero is smart. She survived this long. If she’s missing, though...”
“Please, where was she last seen?” Enne’s voice quivered.
“She frequented the Sauterelle. It’s a cabaret a few blocks off Sweetie Street. There, they’d probably know her as Séance, her pen name.”
Enne paled at the mention of Sweetie Street. “Are you sure—”
“Levi and I both have friends there. We can get you in.”
Levi nodded. Mansi worked at the Sauterelle. “My shift is this evening. But tomorrow we’ll pay a visit,” he said. This was perfect. With the promise of a lead tomorrow, Enne would need to stay with Levi and pay him tonight. He doubted she would attempt to brave Sweetie Street by herself. And if he could promise her this night, then the next, then the next, maybe they really could find Lourdes. Maybe she was the answer to all of his problems.
He just needed Lourdes to be alive. And he needed Enne to stay.
“What’s wrong?” Reymond smirked, seeing Enne crinkle her nose. “Got a problem with variety shows, doll face?”
Enne shook her head.
“No...” Reymond tilted his head to the side. “That’s not it. It’s that you’re afraid Lourdes is probably dead.” Reymond had many good qualities, but no one would call him considerate. He didn’t hold back any blows. “You know, you still never mentioned how you knew Alfero.” Reymond was already using past tense.
Enne’s face was pale as she rose from her seat in a rush. “Thank you, but I need some air.” She nearly tripped on her dash to the door. Levi stood hurriedly and followed her. He didn’t like Enne much, but even he admitted that Reymond’s words were harsh, considering the morning she’d already had.
Enne pushed through the back room and up the stairwell. By the time they exited the orb shop, tears glinted in her brown eyes.
Outside, the wind had picked up, and the clouds—black from factory smoke and an oncoming storm—cast a shadow over the city. The tents were gone. Carts, gone. Stands, gone. Scrap Market had picked up and left, and Enne and Levi were the only ones standing on the empty street.
“Is she really dead?” Enne asked, her voice high and broken in a way that stirred his own memories.
For a moment, Levi was eleven years old again, kneeling at his mother’s sickbed. He swallowed.
“Don’t,” he warned.
She didn’t listen. She let out a gasp, then a sob.
Levi stepped back from her, unsure what to do or how to comfort. Tears pooled down her cheeks, and she blotted them away with the back of her hand.
“I don’t know if she’s alive,” he said truthfully but gently.
“But I’d feel it. I’d know if she was dead.”
If Jac were here, he would’ve agreed with Enne. Jac was sentimental like that. Levi was usually too cynical to indulge such hopes, but, this one time, he needed to believe. He needed Enne’s reward.
I need her to stay.
But it was also something more than that. He recognized his own ghosts in Enne’s eyes.
He put a hand on Enne’s shoulder and bent down to her level. “Look at me. We can’t talk here, in the middle of the street for the whole world to hear. You know that, and you know why, don’t you?”
Enne nodded, her hand fiddling in her coat pocket. Even with her limited knowledge of New Reynes, she understood why the monarchists were a dangerous subject.
“I have a shift tonight at St. Morse Casino, so I’m going to take you there now.” Levi swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t regret his next words. “But I promise, I’ll help you find your mother, no matter what.”