“You should be dead.” As Lola reached for her knife on the desk, Enne managed to squirm out of her grip. Enne backed several feet away, close to the door. She shakily reached into her pocket for Levi’s gun, then remembered with a surge of dread that Lola had locked it in her desk.
“Whatever you saw,” Enne said, fighting to keep her voice under control, “there’s nothing I can say until you tell me what it is.”
Lola lunged so that she blocked Enne’s path to the door. She held the knife out, pointed toward her. “There isn’t anything to say. You’re a Mizer, and it would be better for this whole city if you were dead.”
Confusion swamped her, followed by panic. The words echoed around the cold cement walls, and Enne shivered down to her bones, trying and failing to make sense of Lola’s words. The Mizers were dead. Obviously, Lola had make a mistake.
But that didn’t matter. Enne could tell the blood gazer was certain by the way Lola glared at her and locked her jaw. Whether or not Lola told the truth, if she turned Enne into the wigheads, her accusation alone would warrant a death sentence. Enne would watch tomorrow’s sunrise from the gallows.
Which left Enne with three options.
She could try to talk Lola down and plead for her life.
She could escape, but with Lola forever believing this mistake and possibly revealing it to the entire world.
Or...Enne could kill her.
The last thought wasn’t a whisper or a shadow. It didn’t lurk. It didn’t send quakes of guilt or uneasiness through Enne’s heart. As her first night in New Reynes had proved, Enne could do what it took to survive. She wouldn’t have lasted this long otherwise.
Enne backed deeper into the cellar, toward the wine rack. Behind her, her hand found its way onto the neck of a bottle.
“There must be a mistake,” she said smoothly. “Surely you can hear yourself. How could anyone believe such an outrageous claim?”
Do I believe her? Enne didn’t have time to figure that out.
“I don’t make mistakes,” Lola snarled.
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
Lola advanced, her knife raised high. “It’s nothing personal, but the person I love lives in this city, and we can’t afford another street war. You’ll be a weapon to whoever owns you.”
“I’m just a girl,” Enne countered. “And no one owns me.”
Enne had always been a good liar, but her fear made her voice shake. Her words sounded obviously false, even to herself.
“It’ll be quick,” Lola assured her. “It’ll barely hurt at all.”
Don’t reveal your emotions.
Trust no one.
Never find yourself lost.
“I could pay you,” Enne lied.
“I’m not for sale.”
“You’re not even making sense. My eyes are brown.”
Lola smirked and beckoned with her scalpel. “Come closer so I can get a good look at them.” As Lola took another step in her direction, Enne squeezed the bottle’s neck. She was sore from rehearsal, and the blood gazer had almost nine inches on her. Enne’s chances of overpowering her were low. But even if she escaped, then Lola would reveal her secret, true or not. Either option meant death. “Mizer talents don’t work like the rest of them. They need to be triggered. Your eyes aren’t purple yet.”
“Then what harm could I cause?” Enne’s heart pounded so hard she thought her bones might shatter. There was no negotiating with this girl. This was headed nowhere but violence.
“As long as you’re alive, you’re a threat.”
Then Lola lurched forward to strike.
Enne jumped out of the way and smashed the bottle against the cinder-block wall. It shattered, and the pinot grigio splashed over her skirt and puddled on the floor. The two held their weapons out, as if challenging one another, although it was clear which of them had the upper hand. To Enne’s despair, her bottle had broken at the end of the handle rather than the wide part, yielding a blade no longer than a few inches.
Enne lunged for the other door, but Lola jumped, aiming for her back. Instead, she cut Enne’s upper arm, slicing through the sleeve of her blouse. Enne screamed and slipped, knocking against the wood of the door with a thud and crumpling to the ground.
Lola dived for Enne’s leg, but Enne managed to kick her in the chest. Lola sprawled backward, landing hard on her tailbone with a gasp. While the blood gazer collected herself, Enne scrambled to the door and twisted the handle, and she tumbled forward into a stairwell.
Enne raced up the steps, two at a time, grabbing the railing to launch herself forward.
Upstairs was wreathed in darkness. She entered a new room and squinted at the only piece of furniture: a grand piano with a sheet draped over it, visible only as a shadow beneath the dim moonlight in the window. She frantically sprinted around, her hands held out in front of her, feeling for the wall or another door.
Before she could find an exit, Lola stumbled out of the stairwell. In the dark, Enne could hear the blood gazer more than see her as she pounced forward.
Enne narrowly missed the trail of Lola’s knife. The blood gazer was slower and more uncoordinated than Enne had dared to hope. Even with Lola’s height, Enne was simply more athletic. As Lola stomped and lurched, like a bear swatting at a bird, Enne danced around her and kicked her behind the knees. Lola crumbled, her boot clunking the leg of the piano, sending a cacophony of reverberations through the room.
Mere moments after Lola hit the floor, startled and knocked out of breath, Enne snatched the knife out of her grip and stepped on Lola’s arm to pin her down.
“There,” Enne said shrilly. She pointed the knife at Lola, her heartbeat wild, angry scarlet bursting in the corners of her vision. Enne let out a guttural groan of victory from a place inside herself she didn’t recognize.
Lola stilled. Enne could make out only hints of her expression in the darkness. Defiance. Surprise. Fear. Enne wasn’t used to inspiring such emotions. But she didn’t falter, nor did her hand tremble as she squeezed the knife’s handle. If anything, she felt triumphant. She’d been belittled. She’d been threatened. She’d been assaulted.
“Remind me what you were planning on doing with me,” Enne said, her voice low, quiet and—even to her own ears—threatening.
Lola lifted her chin up haughtily. She said nothing.
Enne was now in the position to make demands, but she had little idea which decision was the wisest. Certainly, it would be safest to kill someone who wanted her dead.
She pressed the knife against Lola’s throat, and the blood gazer whimpered, all bravado disappearing in a moment.
It was the whimper—not her own murderous thoughts—that startled Enne. Was she prepared to kill a girl no older than herself? Was she prepared to kill anyone at all?
Enne had left her world behind to come to New Reynes, and each new day had revealed a new sacrifice. Her freedom. Her innocence. Her identity. The more the city took from her, the more her resolve grew to protect the remnants of her old life she had left. Her hope. Her self. Her survival.
“I didn’t come to New Reynes for trouble, if that matters to you,” Enne hissed. “There are people I care about in this city, too.”
Lola’s eyes softened. Barely.
“Tell me about my talents,” Enne demanded.
“Your full name is Enne Dondelair Scordata,” Lola whispered, and Enne froze. “Do you see now why I’d call you a threat?”
Enne barked out a laugh. A Dondelair? Even in Bellamy, they knew of that family. Every word Lola uttered was growing more and more absurd.
But against all rationale, a part of her wanted to believe it. Despite their infamous treachery, the Dondelairs had once been considered one of the most renowned families of acrobatics, and Enne, who had spent her entire life considered common, hungered to be called exceptional. Just once.
But Lola was right to call Enne a threat. A Mizer and a Dondelair. Either was worthy of execution. If Lola was to be believed, Enne had been a criminal since the day she was born.
“Who were the Scordatas?” Enne asked.