Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(53)
“That’s not from work, is it?” he asked. Guests at Jac’s tavern, the Hound’s Tooth, could grow rowdy in the early hours of the morning. But sometimes Levi suspected Jac was the one starting those fights. The guests could blame it on liquor. He didn’t know how Jac rationalized it.
“No. Not—”
“I thought you were done boxing.” Levi fought to keep his voice steady instead of stormy. He tried to be patient with his friend, but on nights like this one, it wore at him. Sometimes he felt like no matter how much he helped Jac, it wouldn’t matter until Jac started helping himself. “They always rig those games. Remember the time they slipped you something? You were out over twenty-four hours.”
“Cool it. I didn’t eat or drink anything. And I won. Ten volts. Not bad, eh?”
Levi didn’t bother with a response. He was a breath away from shouting, but he couldn’t tell if it was from anger or simply exhaustion.
Levi sighed and hung his hat on the coatrack. “What are you doing here?” He unbuttoned his jacket.
“I thought I’d check in on you,” Jac replied. “Only a week left. I have one of our runners watching Luckluster—seeing if the Torrens are up to anything unusual—”
“My gun,” Levi blurted, feeling around his empty pockets in alarm. He’d definitely brought it with him earlier that day. He knew better than to traverse the North Side without it. “Muck. My gun’s gone.” Then he remembered the image of a certain missy wearing his jacket, and he panicked.
“Grab what you got,” Levi announced. “We’re going to Dove Land.”
ENNE
The Deadman District was just as picturesque as the name implied. The web of sewers reeked of grime and waste. The foul stench clung to the pavement, crusted against pipes and dug itself into her clothes so that it would no doubt follow her even after she left. The alley walls glinted from the silver metal mortar between the stones, giving each of the buildings the look of shattered glass. Red and yellow graffiti stained the rooftops—mostly symbols of some kind, but also a few names.
“‘Leftover remnants of the Great Street War,’” Enne read from her guidebook. “‘Seven years after the Revolution, when the city of New Reynes attempted to eradicate street crime from the North Side.’” Obviously, the wigheads hadn’t succeeded.
Few of the streetlights worked, casting the streets into an ominous darkness. The city felt still here, like the whole neighborhood was holding its breath. It was a place where any heartbeat could’ve been your last.
She was getting close. After memorizing the remaining steps from the map, Enne slipped the book back into her pocket—right beside Levi’s gun. Maybe Enne should’ve brought him along, but he’d been so against the idea of coming here, and this was a secret Enne needed to uncover on her own. She needed to know the extent of her mother’s lies. She needed to know why she’d worked herself tirelessly her entire life just to achieve mediocrity, when she was a natural at something else. Why her mother had watched her torture herself in silence.
No one had ever called Enne a natural at anything. Instead of making her proud, the word only left her aching. She felt the pain in the toes she’d broken in ballet. In the memories when Lourdes had scolded her for cartwheels and tumbles. In the times she’d stared at her shoulders wondering if she was too broad, too strong, too undelicate.
She reached a dead end on the street and peered at the number over the final home.
“This is it,” she muttered nervously. The shutters tilted off their hinges like hangnails, and the wooden fence was rotted and termite-grazed. The sign out front directed visitors to enter through the cellar. “Charming.”
Enne opened the wooden doors and crept down a damp stairwell. At the end was another door, this one with two bullet holes above her eye level. Her heart skipped a beat, remembering Levi’s warnings, but it was too late to turn back now.
With one hand protectively on the gun in her pocket, she knocked.
A light shone from the bullet holes. “Who is it?” asked a female voice, and Enne relaxed slightly. She hadn’t been expecting a woman.
“I’m looking for the blood gazer,” Enne said, her voice high and polished, as it reverted to whenever she was nervous. “I have a recommendation from Harvey Gabbiano.”
The door swung open. The first thing Enne noticed was the girl’s white hair, the indicator that she was a Dove. She wore it bluntly cut near her shoulders, as if done with a razor, with a strip above her right ear shaved to a buzz.
Her skin was fair and dusted—nearly every inch of it—with freckles. She looked to be around Enne’s age. Though thin, her shoulders were broad, her arms large, all bones and no muscle—as though she were built like a blunt weapon.
She looked Enne up and down. “How exactly do you know Harvey? Never seen him step foot on the South Side.” Enne furrowed her eyebrows—she was dressed in a plain skirt and blouse that Jac had stolen for her near Tropps Street. “It’s the way you speak, missy,” the girl explained.
“We met at the Sauterelle. He mentioned you owed him a favor.”
She scowled and opened the door wider. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t like being in debt to Gabbianos—even good ones.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver harmonica, of all things. She lifted it to her lips and played a low note, like a sigh. “My name’s Lola Sanguick. Who are you?”