Читать книгу King Of Fools - Amanda Foody - Страница 14

Levi hadn’t forgiven Zula Slyk. Three days ago, he and Enne had arrived at Her Forgotten Histories, Zula’s monarchist newspaper, grasping at their last threads of hope and searching for answers about Lourdes Alfero. Bad news hurt no matter how gently you dealt it, but Zula had crafted knives out of her words, designed to bleed and infect and scar.

And all for what? For Enne to flee to the safety of her old life in Bellamy? She bore Vianca’s omerta. She was a prisoner of the City of Sin, just like him.

As he stepped into Her Forgotten Histories and found Zula sitting at her desk, he glared at the journalist’s serious, unfriendly face and decided he hated her.

“Your shades are darker since you were last here,” Zula said as a form of greeting—though Levi still had no idea what that meant. She had short, curly hair, fair skin, and wore far too much jewelry—most notably a large wooden Creed that hung down past her navel. The black tattoos of eyes over her eyelids sent a shiver down Levi’s spine. “You’ve killed.”

He felt no guilt over killing Chancellor Semper, just as Semper had undoubtedly felt no guilt over almost killing him.

“I’ve survived,” Levi said darkly.

She glanced over him. “Barely, by the looks of you.”

Her Forgotten Histories resembled a typical office, filled with unoccupied desks, an old printing press, and a gnarled gray carpet. It looked like it belonged on the South Side, where middle-aged men carrying briefcases and toiling over paperwork could earn the wages they’d later gamble away on Tropps Street. But unlike those places, bits of Faith merchandise were tucked discreetly around the room—ancient etchings in wind chimes, paintings with Creeds hidden in their background, prayer tokens scattered on countertops. Those would never be spotted below the Brint River; the Faith reminded the wigheads too much of the Mizer kings, who had used the Faith’s lore to gain more political power for themselves. It was technically banned after the Revolution.

“Vianca didn’t give me much of a choice in letting you stay here,” Zula huffed. “I don’t want any trouble. Not from the whiteboots. Not from that gang of yours.”

“There won’t be trouble. I’m an excellent houseguest.”

Zula hmphed like she didn’t believe him, then stood up and slid aside the carpet to reveal a trapdoor. “You’ll be down there.”

As she pulled it open and ushered Levi down the wooden steps, excitement stirred in his stomach. He was a person of interest now. Living a life of whispers and mystery, raising empires out of shadows. Now that he wasn’t bemoaning his future, he could see the glamor in his situation.

Until he smelled the sewage.

Zula pulled the string on a dangling light bulb, illuminating an unfinished cellar filled with dusty, forbidden books; a cot; and, in the corner, a sink and a toilet. The stench wafted from behind a door that Levi guessed led to the sewers—probably to serve as a less conspicuous exit.

It took all Levi had not to retch. Even hooch kept down here would sour.

“Not exactly your penthouse in St. Morse, is it?” Zula asked smugly.

He clicked his tongue. “It was never mine. It was always Vianca’s.”

“It was comfort all the same.”

Levi ignored that comment. “I’m expecting company,” he told her. Jac would meet him here this evening, assuming his friend found a means of safely venturing outside of St. Morse.

“I don’t host playdates.”

“We won’t be trouble. Just let him inside when he comes.”

Zula clicked her tongue and walked up the stairs. Before she closed the trapdoor behind her, she added, “And the girl? Is she this Séance character in all the newspapers?”

“It’s none of your business.” Zula had made it clear she’d rather criticize Enne than help her, and Levi didn’t care that Zula had been Lourdes’s friend. She didn’t deserve to know anything about Enne.

“This will end badly,” Zula snapped, echoing her words from their last meeting, and slammed the trapdoor.

* * *

Two hours later, footsteps creaked upstairs. Levi lay on the rigid cot, attempting to sleep, but he suspected Zula was slamming her drawers and clacking her pens against her desk just to irritate him.

“How long are you staying? This isn’t a hostel,” he heard Zula snap. “And look at you. All those burdens on your soul. They’ll devour you, if you let them.”

“Um... Yeah, well, the bags are actually for Levi.” That sounded like Jac. He was early.

The trapdoor opened, and Jac’s calming aura mingled with the unpleasant odors of the cellar. It wafted in wisps and ribbons and smelled like linen and the color gray. Everything about Jac was gray. His blond hair was more colorless than golden. His irises, his skin...even the ever-present dark circles drooping beneath his eyes. During a bright afternoon, with the sun reflecting off his fair features, you’d almost mistake him for a trick of the light.

Jac thumped down the steps, shopping bags from several ritzy Tropps Street boutiques hoisted over his shoulders. He dropped them on the bed and crossed his heart, as gangsters did for their lord.

“That woman’s spooky,” Jac said, coughing. “And it smells like muck down here.” His face twisted in disgust as he lit a match and waved it around the room.

“You might as well light the whole building on fire,” Levi grumbled.

Jac sighed and resigned himself to breathing through his shirt. “You look terrible.”

“I’ll heal,” Levi responded blandly, even though it seemed like the more time that passed, the more he ached.

“I know you’ll say no, but I’m offering anyway.” Jac gave him a pointed look.

Jac’s split name was Dorner, from a family capable of manipulating pain. Because it was his split talent, his abilities were weaker—he could take pain away, but when he did, he held onto the pain himself. Jac claimed his strength blood talent made him more resistant, that he could heal faster, hurt less, and take more, but Levi didn’t believe that.

Besides, this pain should be his and his alone.

“I’ve never been better,” Levi lied.

Jac pursed his lips. “Well, I brought meds. And clothes.”

“I don’t want any more of Vianca’s clothes.”

“They’re from Enne.”

Levi sat up and eyed the bags with curiosity. He couldn’t believe she’d had time to go shopping, especially on his behalf, but he was surprised to find a full new wardrobe inside. The clothes weren’t exactly his style—all pinstripes and subtle and black—but that was probably the point. Levi needed to be less recognizable.

As if he’d heard his thoughts, Jac handed Levi a tube of something. “Hair dye,” he explained. “It’s for both of us.”

Levi snorted as he popped open the bottle of pain medication. “Do we have matching outfits, as well?”

“Don’t be thick. You look terrible in plaid.” Indeed, Jac pulled out a blazer identical to Levi’s in every way except for the print. The color was burgundy, the stitches silky and light-catching—something flashy that Reymond would’ve worn. The thought hit Levi with a wave of grief. If Reymond were alive, Levi would’ve been hiding with him, not with a woman he detested and barely knew.

The raven black hair dye would suit Levi’s dark complexion, but he was hesitant to lose his natural hair. The coloring—copper at the roots and black at the ends—was the mark of an orb-maker, and it was as much a part of his identity as his brown skin, as the Iron ace and spade tattoos on his arms, as the memories of every boy and every girl he’d kissed. Even though Levi didn’t make orbs, his talent, his family, and his past still defined him. The dye felt like an erasure.

But that was exactly why he needed it. His hair was too recognizable, especially when orb-makers were so scarce. A bounty hunter wouldn’t even need to know his face to guess his identity.

As they washed their hair out in the sink, Jac quietly asked, “Have you seen the papers?”

“I have,” he answered, not meeting his friend’s eyes. He’d hoped for a little more time before telling Jac about Harrison. Maybe it was unfair to stall, under the circumstances, but Levi had just dyed over centuries of Glaisyer history and pride in his hair, and he could use some extra time to pretend at least one part of his life was still normal.

“Do you think it really will be like last time? The war?” Jac asked.

A thrill danced in Levi’s chest—a dangerous, irrational thrill. Because Levi might have raised himself on the legends of the Great Street War and made heroes out of masterminds like Veil and Havoc, but all of those stories had ended in ruin.

The only thing he should’ve felt was fear.

“I doubt it will be like last time,” Levi answered, even if a small part of him hoped that wasn’t true. Despite his many recent and frightening brushes with death, the thought of failure scared him more. He would rather die a legend than end his life in anonymity. Jac would probably punch him if he heard him say that, though.

Once Levi finished rinsing out the dye, he nervously checked his reflection in the mirror. It was silly to claim he looked drastically different, but he felt like he did. He wondered what his father would say to see him like this. He’d probably grunt that, because Levi’s two talents clashed with one another, Levi had never been much of an orb-maker, anyway.

Without the mark of his blood talent, Levi’s head of tight, short curls resembled those of most people from Caroko, the city where his parents had been born. Levi was actually pleased with his new look. He’d never noticed how closely he resembled his mother.

Jac, meanwhile, appeared nearly unrecognizable. The black hair contrasted harshly against the pallor of his skin, as did the new pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Apparently Enne had provided them with a full dress-up set. The plaid burgundy suit, the bow-tie, the hint of his tattoos beneath his collar—Jac was remade. Something slicker and more wicked.

“How do I look?” he asked, grinning wide enough to show his dimples.

“You look sharp. What about me?”

Jac examined his all-black ensemble. “Like a menace.”

Levi smugly rubbed some hair grease through his curls, then straightened his jacket. He didn’t normally wear this much black, and the platforms on his shoes made him unusually tall, but he did feel good. Fresh. A new look for a new beginning.

Zula’s voice echoed above them. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You’re asking quite a lot of my hospitality.”

“I thought we were in agreement about Mr. Glaisyer,” the intruder responded.

Levi and Jac warily met each other’s eyes. Levi would recognize that voice anywhere, and sure enough, he sensed the faint wisps of the donna’s green, acidic aura from upstairs. Jac turned a similar shade of green himself.

“He’s downstairs,” Zula told her.

Levi’s skin prickled as the trapdoor swung open and Vianca Augustine descended into the grimy cellar. She scanned the room, narrowing her green eyes—an exact match of her son’s, he realized. She passed over Jac with disinterest, as if he might as well have been wallpaper. Her gaze, instead, fell on Levi, and his stomach clenched.

“You’ve changed your hair.” Vianca pouted. “You used to be so striking.”

Levi rolled his eyes. Dyeing his hair had been a hard decision, but it had nothing to do with his vanity.

“How have you found your accommodations here?” Vianca asked. She ran a finger along one of the liquor shelves and inspected the dust.

“Who wouldn’t want to live in a cellar that smells like muck?” he said flatly.

“Missing St. Morse already?”

Levi would gladly inhale the odors of sewage every night if it meant avoiding her casino. Even if he could barely breathe, he was still breathing somewhat free. And if he had his way, he’d find a more suitable place in Olde Town as soon as possible. Maybe even tonight. As long as Vianca had a means of contacting him, what did she care where he lived? She and Zula didn’t exactly seem like friends.

“Why are you here?” he asked. He didn’t like the idea of Vianca paying him visits whenever she wished, or Jac witnessing exactly how helpless Levi was in the donna’s presence.

“Because I’m in need of you, of course.”

She twisted the emerald ring around her fourth finger, identical to the one Harrison also wore. Levi resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty hands on his jacket; his betrayal was probably written plain on his face.

“I spoke with Miss Salta this morning. Since you’re already so close...” Vianca looked at him pointedly, as though accusing the two of them of something. Perhaps she assumed their relationship was more than a casual acquaintance. The thought didn’t sit well with Levi. All of his weaknesses and desires were Vianca’s to exploit, and he didn’t want Enne to face Vianca’s torment more than she already did. “I thought a joint assignment would be appropriate.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t drag her with you, then,” he responded, even though he wasn’t truly surprised. In Vianca’s opinion, fear was best felt while alone. Having Enne here would have been too much of a comfort.

“I need your undivided attention,” she said slyly.

And then she launched into one of Levi’s most loathed subjects—politics. He was accustomed to her radical monologues, and he was typically well-skilled at zoning out while appearing to listen. Whoever wore the wigs in the South Side had no effect on him.

But since his deal with Harrison, he could no longer ignore news from below the Brint. So he listened. And very quickly, Vianca’s words made his blood run cold.

“Whoever is running against Worner Prescott won’t matter,” she said dismissively. “Séance is going to win him the election, and you’re going to help her do it.”

Harrison Augustine had not yet announced his candidacy, so Vianca didn’t know that the person running against her party was her own son. Levi needed Harrison to win the election, otherwise the hopes he harbored for his freedom were futile.

He was powerless to defy Vianca’s direct orders, but he had no idea how he could follow them and help Harrison at the same time. He swallowed down an urge to throw up. The expression of glee on Vianca’s face and the look of horror on Jac’s hardly helped.

On top of this dilemma, if Vianca forced Enne to become a lord, then Enne would spend more time in the city’s spotlight. She couldn’t afford to risk exposure.

If she were here, if they’d faced the donna together, maybe they could have found a way out of this situation. They’d escaped the Shadow Game after all.

But she was somewhere else, and he was here.

“And what will I be doing to help her?” he managed.

“You had that little gang of yours.” Vianca waved her hand dismissively, and Levi caught her use of the past tense. His stomach sank further. Without the Irons, without the power of being a lord, Levi would have no means of providing information to Harrison. He was running out of loopholes. “You’ll be her consultant.”

“But the Irons—”

“Are a distraction. It’s time to abandon these fantasies and turn your attention to your true strengths.”

“My true strengths?” he gritted out between his teeth. Was she trying to flatter him by taking away everything he’d ever wanted?

“You’re a businessman, not a lord. There’s more than one way to achieve grandeur.”

“If that’s what you think, then why bother making me Enne’s consultant?” Nothing good had ever come to him by angering Vianca Augustine, but he couldn’t swallow down his sarcasm. “If I’m so lousy at what I do, what could I possibly have to offer her?”

“You look unhappy, my dear,” Vianca said, feigning maternal concern. “I thought you’d be thrilled for something to fill your time, as you’ll be spending so much of it in Zula’s basement.” She spoke with delight, as though she loved the picture of Levi locked away somewhere only she could reach him.

“But you wouldn’t have dyed your hair if you intended to stay here, would you?” She leaned forward and smiled, accentuating the harshness of her frown lines. Levi dug his nails into his thighs. He was playing a dangerous game, keeping secrets from her. “Tell me—what have you been planning?”

She coaxed her finger, forcing Levi to speak. He frantically searched for some kind of excuse, anything that wouldn’t give away what he’d planned with Harrison. Pressure from the omerta built around his neck, forcing the air out.

“I’m rebuilding the Irons,” he rasped. It wasn’t the full truth, but it was a truth, and that was enough for the omerta.

“The what?” Vianca asked coolly.

He ground his teeth. He hadn’t seen her investment scheme through and escaped the Shadow Game to remain her plaything. He hadn’t made a reckless bargain with her son only to see it collapse that very same day. She was ripping away his ambitions one by one. She was humiliating him in front of his best friend. After all, she knew all the ways to make him hurt.

But he knew her weaknesses, too.

Even if he couldn’t resist her orders, if he was truly a moment away from the omerta killing him, Vianca would relent. The donna wasn’t interested in seeing him dead. She wanted to see him tormented.

So Levi mustered up his willpower and declared, “I won’t.”

The grip around his throat tightened, and tears sprang from his eyes. Across the room, Jac stood up, as though he’d charge Vianca. But even Jac would know that a small army of Vianca’s henchmen undoubtedly waited outside Zula’s door, should Vianca fail to return. “You’re making a mistake,” Levi sputtered.

“The matter is decided,” she said firmly.

“Would you care to place a wager?” he asked with the little breath he had left.

Vianca eyed him coolly for several moments. He strained his neck, gasping for air. Even as black spots darkened around his vision, even as doubt and fear crept into his mind, he refused to lift a hand to his throat.

“You’re killing him,” Jac croaked. He lunged for one of the bags and pulled out his pistol. He pointed it at her head, his chest heaving.

“If you don’t lower the gun,” Vianca snapped, “I will.”

Levi sputtered and waved his arm, trying to call Jac off.

She wouldn’t let him die.

She wouldn’t let him die.

She wouldn’t let him die.

Jac grimaced and laid the gun on the bed. Suddenly, the grip on Levi’s neck slackened, and he gulped in air.

“What sort of wager?” Vianca asked impatiently.

Levi grimaced and wiped the spit off his chin with his shirt. “You think Enne should be the lord over me. I’m telling you we both can—and with greater success.”

She laughed. “And what do you have to bet? Your dignity?”

“You know I want this,” he said. “You know I won’t stop trying. Enne, a lord? Instead of me?” He forced a laugh. “I was the one who killed the Chancellor. I’m the one who knows this city. I’m the one who already has the connections, the resources, the associates.”

Jac paled at Levi’s words, and even Levi could agree the Irons wasn’t worth dying for.

But his freedom was.

“Give me two months,” Levi told Vianca, “and I will prove to you that the Irons are worth keeping. That you won’t even need Enne to do this.”

“How selfless of you,” Vianca purred. “But though it might be difficult to imagine, Enne possesses certain skills that you lack. Why should I let you waste your time on a pointless wager when you could be helping her?”

He didn’t mean to deny Enne aid; he would still gladly assist her—whatever she needed. But, he quickly decided, under no circumstances could he tell Enne about his deal with Harrison. Even if Vianca’s death would free her, too, telling her would give Vianca another opportunity to discover the truth. This risk was his and his alone to take.

“Three thousand volts,” Levi said. “That’s what the city placed on my head, what they think my gang and my reputation are worth. It might be less than hers, but it’s the same as Scavenger, the same as Ivory. And as far as I can tell, six and a half thousand combined is a far better value than what Enne could offer alone.”

Vianca licked her lips. “I’ll give you six weeks.”

“Six weeks,” he echoed, his voice high-pitched with relief.

Levi knew this plan wasn’t foolproof. Even if he did manage to rebuild the Irons in so little time, once the wager was over, the gang would only become another tool at Vianca’s disposal. So when the time came, he’d find another loophole, another desperate solution. He’d wager everything, over and over again, if that was what it took.

“If you fail, then you will abandon the Irons and your fantasies about them forever. Including that one.” She nodded at Jac.

Levi inhaled sharply. He had bet his dreams, his freedom on this wager, but now his best friend was at stake. Levi tried to imagine a future where he never saw Jac again. There was so little that the donna could take from him that would still hurt, but sure enough, she had found the only remaining good in his life and seized it.

No, not Jac. Not for this. The risk was too great.

But hadn’t he risked worse for Jac already with Harrison?

“Don’t look so frazzled, Levi,” she said, turning to go up the stairs. “I’m the one who should be disappointed. I was looking forward to a partnership between you and Miss Salta. I thought you would have, as well. Unless you think now you’ll get both things you want. The gang...and the girl.”

Levi didn’t give Vianca the satisfaction of seeing him grimace. If Vianca could dangle his friendship with Jac as bait, he hated to think what she could do with him and Enne. No wonder she was so keen to play matchmaker. Jac must have agreed with him, because his aura was prickly with warning.

“It’s not like that between us,” Levi said quickly.

Vianca shot him back an icy smile. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” And then she climbed up to the top floor and shut the trapdoor behind her.

Levi and Jac didn’t speak until the sound of her footsteps disappeared. Levi sat down on the cot, heart pounding. He didn’t know if he’d managed to save or damn himself. It felt like he’d done both at the same time.

Levi took a deep breath, ready to come clean to Jac on all of the events of this morning, every detail of his deal with Harrison. But then Jac stood up, seething.

“Is that what I’m worth to you?” he demanded. “Muck, Levi. I’m not just another thing for you to gamble away.”

He made toward the stairs, and Levi shot up after him.

“Jac, wait! I had a reason for this. A good reason—”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” Jac threw open the trapdoor.

Levi winced as he raced to follow him. His broken ribs made it agonizing to move, let alone run. “Where are you going?” he called. Jac couldn’t go home—not with a bounty on his head.

“Like you care,” Jac snapped.

Before he made it to the door, Zula let out a shrill shriek. “You—boy—don’t you dare go outside. Both of you, be quiet.”

They whipped toward her. Zula was seated at her desk, a beaded shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a mug of tea in her hand. She hunched over the radio and turned up the volume.

“The most recent reports are confirming eight casualties,” the newscaster spoke. “Several of the injured have been rushed to New Reynes North General Hospital. Although Captain Hector declined to comment, we were able to get in touch with Sergeant Roy Pritchard, who personally participated in the operation. Sergeant, what information can you give us about tonight’s events?”

“After the tragic assassination of Chancellor Semper, the precincts across the city have been working around the clock to bring the perpetrators—Levi Glaisyer and this so-called Séance—to justice. But as far as we see it, these are two individuals who make up part of a much larger problem. We fully intend to purge organized crime from the North Side, and the success of today’s operation sends a clear message to criminals: We will show no tolerance...and no mercy.”

Levi and Jac crowded around the radio together, their fight momentarily forgotten. “What happened? What does he mean?” Levi asked, his mouth dry. He wasn’t exactly used to hearing his name on the radio.

“Eight people are dead?” Jac murmured. “Who did they say—?”

“If you’d both be quiet, you’d have your answers,” Zula hissed.

The newscaster continued, “Many have already called our station expressing outrage at the age of the victims. The Orphan Guild—”

“Is a misleading title,” the Sergeant said quickly. “They are an organization comprised of people of all ages, feeding agents directly into gangs such as the Scarhands and the Doves. It’s little better than human trafficking. Although we were unable to apprehend the Guildmaster, Bryce Balfour—”

“Lola works for the Orphan Guild,” Jac squeaked.

“She couldn’t have been there,” Levi said, even though he didn’t know if that was true. Eight casualties at the Orphan Guild wasn’t just an operation—it was a massacre.

It was war.

Zula switched the radio off and glared at them. “This is how it began last time. Already, people are dead.” Her gaze fell on Jac’s fingers, clamped around his Creed. “Your prayers are worth nothing, boy. You’re the ones who started all this.”

But Levi wasn’t in the mood to swallow Zula’s pointless judgment. He shot Jac a desperate look. “Please don’t leave.” Without Jac, he had no means of securing the information Harrison needed about the Torren empire. Without Jac, Levi was without a second, without a best friend, with the entire world in flames around him.

Jac averted his gaze. “I won’t. Yet.”

Levi realized this was the best he could hope for until he explained the truth. But there wasn’t time for that now.

He spotted Zula’s telephone against the wall and limped toward it. His fingers trembled as he turned the dial. “Operator? I need you to connect me to St. Morse Casino. I need to speak to Erienne Salta.”