Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(82)

      DAY SEVEN

   “In the City of Sin, secrets are their own sort of currency, and reputation holds more power than fortune.”

   —The City of Sin, a Guidebook: Where To Go and Where Not To





ENNE

Olde Town reminded Enne of a graveyard or a mausoleum, with the way its atmosphere evoked the decaying and forgotten, embraced monsters and nightmares.

The Street of the Holy Tombs was in the center of Olde Town, and one of the few neighborhoods with active residents. It was the cathedral to the graveyard, the beating heart of a mostly dead corpse. Ghostly wind chimes dangled in every window. Weather-worn gargoyles perched on the buttresses overhead, their faces contorted with hunger and wrath. Creeds were painted on every door, and candles burned on broken windowsills.

“It’s very charming,” Enne managed. With every step, she braced herself in case a wandering specter or beast jumped out at her. The Street of the Holy Tombs had a way of undermining her sense of reality.

She fought the urge to stand closer to Levi, remembering how last night she’d so nearly accepted his advances and surrendered herself to New Reynes. Every touch, every look from Levi was a temptation to abandon the girl she’d always been. Enne might’ve strayed from a few of her ladylike ideals, but she wouldn’t lose her entire identity. When she did leave this city, she would leave it in one piece.

“Believe it or not,” Levi said, “people come to this street looking for a scare. There are museums of medical abnormalities. Catacombs lined with skulls. Nightclubs of mirror mazes and horrors.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s all for show,” she said. Creeds and any practice of the Faith were forbidden, and Enne didn’t think even the greediest citizens of New Reynes would display them just for the sake of profit.

“It’s not.”

They found the storefront for number nineteen, a place called Her Forgotten Histories. A middle-aged woman with short curly hair sat outside on a rocking chair, her face hidden behind today’s copy of The Crimes & The Times, whose front-page headline announced the two-year anniversary of the disappearance of Chancellor Malcolm Semper’s daughter. The woman wore a wooden Creed around her neck, nearly twice as large as Jac’s.

“Do you think that’s her?” Enne whispered. “Zula Slyk?”

“I’m not sure,” he said.

A white cat purred and rubbed at the hem of Enne’s skirt. White cats supposedly brought bad luck, a thought Enne might not have considered if they were anywhere but a street devoted to superstition.

“Can I help you?” the woman called to them.

“We’re looking for someone named Zula Slyk,” Enne said.

She folded down her newspaper. “That would be me.”

Don’t get your hopes up, Enne reminded herself. There was an aching wound inside her from missing Lourdes, and these words wrapped it in a protective shell. If she kept her expectations low, she wouldn’t feel the throbbing. If she cut off all her emotions, she wouldn’t be so weak.

Zula inspected them as they walked closer. “I’ve always wanted to meet Vianca’s other boy,” she said. At first, Enne thought she was referring to Vianca’s son, which was absurd: Levi and Vianca had plainly different heritages.

“Ah,” Zula said, her gaze falling on Enne. “She never told me she had a girl.”

Then Enne realized what Zula mean—the omerta. But how could she know? She spoke as if Vianca’s shackles dangled visibly from their wrists.

Zula’s amicable expression fell as Enne drew closer. She squinted at Enne’s features, as though she recognized her from somewhere, or perhaps Enne reminded her of a person she would rather not see.

“Does Vianca know who you are?” Zula asked, her voice suddenly full of bite.

Enne stopped, her heart racing. If Zula knew who she really was, then surely she wouldn’t be another dead-end lead. “Do you?” Enne asked, nervously, hopefully.

Zula shakily drew her hand to her chest and stood up from her chair. “Come inside. I know why you’re here.”

Enne and Levi exchanged a cautious glance. “What if this is a trick?” Levi whispered.

“There were only three names on that bank account. Mine, Lourdes’s and hers. Lourdes must’ve trusted her.” She felt a pang in her chest. If Zula knew Enne’s true identity, then Lourdes had trusted Zula more than she’d trusted her own daughter.

Levi nodded, and they followed Zula inside.

A black printing press took up the majority of the room. Among the remaining space, desks were wedged against bookcases, papers dried on clotheslines tied to lamps and the backs of chairs. A framed painting of a martyr hung on the back wall.

Her Forgotten Histories was a newspaper. That made sense, since Lourdes was a journalist. Perhaps that was how they’d met.

Zula drew the blinds closed over each of the windows, even shooed the cat outside. She motioned for both of them to sit at a desk.

“I should’ve known you’d come,” Zula said. “I always told Lourdes to give you my name—who else would keep you safe? But I didn’t think she’d listen. So obstinate. Never grew out of that.”

Enne drew in a shaky breath. That was definitely Lourdes. “How do you know her?”