King Of Fools. Amanda Foody

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      Enne caught her breath. The South Side might’ve been the closest place to Bellamy in New Reynes, but it was also the place the Phoenix Club called home.

      When she had last looked a member of the Phoenix Club in the eyes, she’d been wearing a mask. Would they recognize her if she did so wearing pearls?

      Before Enne could formulate a response, Vianca continued. It seemed as though, despite Enne’s and Levi’s actions making front-page news, Vianca had barely penciled in fifteen minutes for this meeting.

      “Keeping tabs on Prescott will hardly be a full-time commitment. You’ll have plenty of time to find and train your associates. You’ll perform tasks as I suggest them, and of course, you can improvise on your own as you find appropriate. Whatever benefits Prescott and the monarchist party.”

      Vianca was right—this wasn’t like poisoning Sedric or stopping the Shadow Game. This was four months of organization until the election in November. It was complex and all-consuming, just like Levi’s investment scam had been. And if not for Enne, that scam would’ve gotten Levi killed.

      In the span of minutes, without Enne being able to interject a word edgewise, Vianca was sealing Enne’s fate for her.

      But Enne knew what it would mean to object. Vianca’s omerta held a terrible power over her. Twice now, Enne’s past refusals had resulted in her suffocating and groveling on the donna’s carpet, and she had no intention of doing so again. Her only option to save herself was to convince Vianca her plan wouldn’t work.

      “Levi won’t want to be a consultant while I’m the one playing lord.” That, at least, Enne knew was true.

      Vianca raised her tea to her lips and looked at Enne pointedly. “That’s not my concern.”

      “He’ll be difficult.”

      “He knows by now not to make me impatient.”

      The already dark room seemed to grow darker still. She was running out of options.

      “If I’m not an acrobat, how will I earn income?” Enne asked, as though she were being strategic rather than desperate. “I’ll need to pay these associates.”

      As if in answer to her own question, her fingertips suddenly tingled with the static of the volts pulsing inside her skin. The Mizer blood talent was to create volts. Now that she’d awakened hers, there was no limit to her potential for wealth. All it would take was an orb-maker, and she happened to know one very well.

      She quickly dismissed the thought. If her ancestry was discovered, she would be killed. There was no quicker path to death than using her talent.

      Vianca set down her empty teacup. “Miss Salta, this is the City of Sin. Opportunity is only a flip of the card or roll of the dice away. I’m sure even you can think of something. Besides, you can still live here on my generosity, and you’re quite welcome for that.” She tossed The Crimes & The Times into her waste bin. “You’re dismissed.”

      Thirty minutes later, the bells above the door chimed as Enne slipped into a Tropps Street clothing boutique. The store’s floral perfume filled the air, and Enne inhaled it deeply, willing it to soothe her the way such comforts once had. The more she reflected on her conversation with Vianca, the more helpless she felt.

      The Casino District, ordinarily so crowded with ruckus and filth, was quiet. In the wake of the headlines, the citizens of New Reynes had stayed indoors. The sirens had gradually stopped. The city felt like the hush before a stage curtain lifted, but what the city waited for was war.

      Enne fingered the lace details on a dress sleeve. She liked it. She liked the beads embedded in its neckline. She liked the creamy white canvas boots on display in the window.

      She liked the feeling of a gun in her hand.

      And it was that thought, that last thought, that made her hand falter as she examined the dress. It didn’t feel right that she could like all of these things without contradiction. Somewhere, there was a lie. She was a lie. How could she pretend to be her old self after all of the horrible things she had done?

      Enne had never been someone to feel apologetic about herself. She hadn’t been sorry that she always trailed behind her classmates—they’d hardly noticed her enough to claim she got in their way. She never apologized to Levi when she demanded courtesy, or cried, or wanted for things she knew meant less than nothing to him. So the weight of this shame that she carried for who she was felt wrong. It felt ugly. And she was apologizing to no one but herself.

      She had been a lost, naïve, spoiled girl overwhelmed by the City of Sin. And she wasn’t sorry for that.

      Now she was no longer lost, or naïve, or spoiled. She was hardened, and strong, and heartbroken. She had made terrible, difficult choices—including murder—but she had survived. She wouldn’t apologize for that.

      Vianca would force her to make more terrible, difficult choices, and if Enne ever hesitated to apologize for herself, then she would fail—just like Levi had failed. If someone wanted to call her naïve, then they would. If someone wanted to call her heartless, then they would. It didn’t matter whether she decked herself in knives or pearls. The world would always demand that a girl apologize for herself, but she would apologize for nothing.

      And so Enne filled her arms with as many frilled, beaded, silly clothes that she could carry, and she paid with the volts she’d earned through blood.

      “You know what would look splendid with this?” the cashier asked her, with the first genuine smile Enne had seen in a while. She reached for the basket behind her and retrieved a pair of white satin gloves. They were delicate, ladylike, and indeed splendid.

      Enne pursed her lips, images of the Irons’ signature card tattoos and the Scarhands’ marked palms coming to mind. Vianca had instructed Enne to form a gang, but had “no concern” for how Enne would lead it.

      “You’re exactly right,” Enne answered. “But let’s make it two pairs.”

       JAC

      Last night, Jac Mardlin dreamed of his own death.

      It started with a bad decision; he jumped into the driver’s seat of the flashiest motorcar he’d ever seen—white leather seats and a black racing stripe streaking across the hood. He hadn’t intended to steal it; all he wanted was to lean back, close his eyes, and fantasize about owning something so luxurious. But suddenly, the locks on the doors bolted, the keys twisted in the ignition, and the car raced forward at a stomach-lurching speed.

      He cursed and fought against the steering wheel. The wind rushed at him so fast his eyes watered, and everything he passed became a blur. Even as he slammed his foot on the brakes and tugged the clutch so hard it snapped, the car still sped on.

      Until it drove straight off Revolution Bridge.

      Many hours later, in the waking world, Jac eyed his hand of cards and chewed his bottom lip, mentally tallying every foggy detail of the dream. The white from the car’s seat leather made him think he should pick an even-numbered card. But there’d been that black racing stripe, and black always СКАЧАТЬ