Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(100)

Chez lay on his back. His fingers reached for the knife he’d lost earlier, but he was clearly in too much pain to move. The skin on his face, neck and chest had burned cleaned through, exposing a mess of blood and bone and tissue. He made a gargling noise, and tears glistened in the corners of his left eye. The right one was gone—now an empty socket filled with crimson and black, wet and bulging.

Levi gagged, both at Chez’s appearance and the smell of it all—the burnt cloth and burnt flesh. He stood frozen under the terror and hatred of Chez’s glare. He wondered if Chez would die. Instead, he lay there, grinding his teeth, the blistered parts of his chest still heaving up and down. He shook all over, and bits of spit dribbled down his chin.

Maybe you should kill him, a voice in Levi’s head told him. Maybe that would be better than this.

But he wasn’t sure Chez would die. If Levi killed him, would it be mercy, or would it be murder?

It already is murder, he thought. You did this.

He nearly killed you.

Yet you were the one who asked to fight.

He was your friend once.

In the end, Levi retrieved his gun and left Chez there for someone else to find. He didn’t know if that was the right decision or the cowardly one, but the longer he watched him, the more he hated himself.

He doesn’t have to die. Only you do.

After he finished throwing up against an alley wall, Levi made his way back to Luckluster. There was still no point in running. This was the last chance he had to write his legacy, and no matter how terrified he was, at least Levi would be remembered for how he didn’t beg.

Luckluster’s red lights sparkled all the way down the street. Levi sighed and leaned against an empty motorcar, taking in the glory of the Casino Distrct.

Someone tapped his arm. Levi jumped, brandishing his gun, and tripped over the curb.

It was Lola. She was dressed as she usually was, in her top hat and leather boots.

“What do you want?” he asked. She was awfully far away from Dove Land, and Luckluster didn’t seem her type of haunt.

“We thought you were inside,” she breathed.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me. And Enne.”

Levi frowned. Enne shouldn’t have any idea where he was. Levi hadn’t told her about the scheme—it was the one thing he’d done right. So why was she here?

“Vianca sent her to save you,” Lola explained. “And to kill Sedric Torren.”

Levi’s heart screeched to a halt.

He’d had it all planned: his death, on his terms. He’d have no one else’s blood on his hands tonight. Especially not Enne’s.

“Where is she?” he rasped.

“You just missed her.” Lola glanced worriedly at the red neon lights. Levi hadn’t thought she gave a muck what happened to Enne, but clearly he’d been mistaken. “She’s already inside. She’s looking for you.”

Levi didn’t bother responding as he sprinted toward Luckluster, where his killers were waiting for him.





ENNE

Lola had lied about her driving skills.

They sped down the streets of the Deadman District, the motorcar swerving and skidding through every turn. Enne white-knuckled the door handle each time Lola slammed the brakes.

“You said we needed to get there fast,” Lola pointed out.

At this point, Enne would just be thankful if they got there alive.

After narrowly missing several cars, road signs and pedestrians, they screeched to a halt a block away from Luckluster.

Lola pulled something black and silky out of her pocket—Enne’s mask from Scrap Market. “You might need this.” She slipped it into Enne’s concealed pocket, beside the leather box with the poison.

“Knock him dead,” Lola said cheerfully.

Enne grimaced. “Really? That’s distasteful.”

The lights of Tropps Street danced around her, flashing in no particular pattern. They made her feel the way she had after drinking those Snake Eyes at the Sauterelle.

“Better him than you,” Lola replied gravely.

“If I’m not out by eleven...” Enne paused before repeating her mother’s oft-used phrase. “Then I’m dead.”

Lola nodded solemnly. “Be careful.” And Enne knew that she meant it.

Enne took a deep breath, shoved down the storm raging in her insides and walked down the block and through the revolving doors. Where Vianca had decorated St. Morse to resemble an old Mizer palace, all gaudy opulence and vintage luxuries, the Torrens had opted for New Reynes’s famous burlesque sinfulness. The staff wore uniforms easily mistaken for lingerie. Red carpet lined the floor and stairwell, darkened by dirty footprints, and scarlet lights blinked against the black-and-red-striped walls. It reminded her of a fun house. Even the jazz band played a carnival tune that beckoned players to contortionist shows and roulette tables.

Enne checked the gambling rooms first, then the theater, the ballroom. Neither Sedric nor Levi were anywhere to be found.

Maybe she was already too late.

As she dashed around the corner, Enne collided with a man with his back turned, his white button-down a canvas for the dancing shadows and crimson lights.

“I apologize. I didn’t see—”

The stranger spun around. He smelled faintly of citrus cologne, and he had a fading black eye and complementary ace and spade tattoos on both his arms.