The others surrounding them watched Enne hesitantly, as if waiting instruction. As if Enne really was a street lord.
Lola’s desperate look urged her into action. They crawled across the sloping roof of the warehouse, then jumped to the building beside it. Enne landed gracefully on her feet. Lola, however, crumbled to her knees as soon as she hit the cement.
Unsurprisingly, hopping roofs was an exhausting activity. When they reached a rooftop several blocks away from the factory, Enne and Lola huffed for breath, and the blood gazer’s hands were covered in scrapes from repeatedly stumbling and bracing herself. They were a safe enough distance away that the kids had begun to scatter. Now it was just the two of them.
“There are thousands of them in the North Side, just like that,” Lola said. “Pulling stunts. Haunting gang territories. Hoping to be noticed by the Guild or by their lords.” She grimaced. “They’d be the most vulnerable if another war broke out on the North Side. There’s no one to protect them.”
Enne’s heart twisted into something painful and ugly. She didn’t have it in her right now to listen to one of Lola’s accusatory tirades.
“Why did you call me Séance?” she asked, fighting to keep the tension out of her voice.
“All lords have a street name.”
“I thought you wanted me dead. ‘A weapon to whoever owns me’ and all?”
“I still think you’re dangerous. Maybe more dangerous than I first believed. I thought the city would claim you—break you.” Lola paused, looking intensely into Enne’s eyes. “Now I think the city could be yours to claim.”
Enne grimaced. “That wasn’t your decision to make.”
Lola was too late, anyway. Enne was already broken, already claimed.
“Do you want to know the real reason I dyed my hair white?” Lola clenched her fists and turned toward the skyline. “After we lost our parents, my brothers and I swore we wouldn’t go near the gangs. We were young, so we worked under the table. My oldest brother was attending a music conservatory on the South Side, and once he finished, he was going to take care of all of us.
“Then I found out he’d been lying. He’d joined a gang, thought it was an easier way to provide. And when that gang fell, I watched him get shot. I watched him die.”
Enne held her breath. She hadn’t asked for Lola’s story—she wasn’t prepared for it. It was an unwelcome reminder that her tragedy wasn’t the only one in the world, that she wasn’t the only one who carried scars. Now she understood why Lola hated guns.
“After that, it was only me and my younger brother left. But Justin, he didn’t just mourn our brother—he obsessed over him, the gangs, the North Side. He stopped caring about me. He stopped caring about anything except his own ambitions. He joined the Doves.”
Lola took off her top hat, letting down her white hair. “When you join the Doves, your name is replaced with a new one. You do not leave. You speak to no one.” Lola clenched her fist. “And so I moved to Dove Land, dyed my hair white and started working for the Orphan Guild...all for a chance at a scrap of information, anything to lead me back to Justin, to know if he’s even alive. Even if he doesn’t care, I still do.”
Lola finally turned to face her, her expression unusually soft. “So I get it. We’re each looking for someone. We’d each do whatever it takes to find them. In the end, we’re the same. And if...” She cleared her throat. “If you did call yourself a lord, if you claimed real power, then maybe you could help me find him.”
Enne took a deep, strained breath. It had felt wrong to interrupt Lola during her story, but now that Lola had told her truth, Enne would need to share hers.
“Lourdes is dead, Lola,” Enne said softly, and Lola tensed. “She was dead before I even came to New Reynes.” Enne sat and hugged her knees to herself. “I don’t even know why I came with you to Scrap Market. Looking for the article was a waste of time.”
She’d been deluding herself, anyway. Lourdes wouldn’t have spoken to her daughter through the words of the article. It would have been ink, not a voice. She would’ve written about revolutions or elections or change, and none of those things really mattered. She wouldn’t have told Enne that she loved her. She wouldn’t have been able to hear Enne tell her that she loved her, too.
“I’m so sorry, Enne,” Lola said, crouching down beside her. “How did you find out?”
“Levi and I visited the address. The Street of the Holy Tombs.” Enne untied the mask and dropped it at Lola’s feet. “I’m done with this now. The searching. There isn’t anything left to find, and even if there was, it’s too dangerous. I’m sorry about your brothers, and I’m sorry about what you thought I was. But I need to focus on staying alive.”
Lola turned away so Enne couldn’t see her face, but Enne sensed that she was disappointed. The two girls weren’t quite friends, but they’d come a long way from being enemies.
“You’re giving up?” Lola’s voice cracked. “Even if she’s dead, there’s still—”
“There’s nothing left to find.”
Enne turned her back. Before she leaped to the next roof, she said one more word to Lola—a message intended for someone else, someone who wouldn’t ever be able to hear it.
“Goodbye.”
LEVI
Sedric expected the volts in two days, and Levi was two and a half thousand short.
Beside him, Jac licked his hands and smoothed back his blond hair. Levi straightened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to expose the tattoos on his arms. A message, just like his million-volt smile: he was the Iron Lord, strutting into a gambling tavern. His territory. His kingdom.
They turned the corner. The lights of the gambling den were dimmed by heavy shades on the windows. It was called Dead at Dawn—opened at midnight, closed at sunrise. As Levi cut through the line outside, the bouncer eyed his black tattoos and his blacker eye.
“Pup,” he said. “Back from the dead. I heard Chez killed you.”
News traveled fast on the North Side. “Funny. I’ve never felt better,” Levi replied with a tight smile.
The man behind him growled for cutting to the front. Levi bristled, though only slightly. This was a gambling den, and he was—had been—the gambling lord. He could do what he pleased.
“That so?” the bouncer asked. He looked at Jac. “If Chez were lord, he’d have your oath. But you’re with Pup. Interesting.”
Jac bared his teeth. “My oath belongs to the Iron Lord.”
Levi tipped his hat, and the bouncer held open the door as they passed through.
Light bulbs flashed everywhere, dangling from the ceiling by wires, and a jazz band played in the back. The air was so thick with cigar smoke that when Levi exhaled, a patch of clear air formed around his lips. Levi wove through the tables searching for a game of Tropps. They had specifically chosen this den because it wasn’t a client—none of the dealers were Irons, which meant they were unlikely to encounter trouble. As Jac split from him and headed toward the roulette wheels, Levi slipped into an empty seat at a Tropps table.
The young man beside Levi wore all black clothes and an obnoxious feather behind his ear. He grinned at Levi with rotted teeth and white lips, and he reeked of dead flesh.
“Nice feather,” Levi said. “That new?”
“Needed something new, now that I’m the Scar Lord,” Jonas Maccabees replied. “I see you still got the tattoos, though. Those reminders are forever.”
Jonas and Levi had never gotten along, but for some reason, Scavenger’s voice lacked its usual edge. Maybe being lord suited him. Or maybe Levi’s not being lord suited him, as well.
“I still keep wondering why,” Jonas said quietly. “We never messed with the Torrens.”
Levi swallowed a lump of guilt and grief. “I’ve got no idea.”
“If Reymond was here, he’d call you a liar.”
“Are you gonna cause a scene?” The night was young. There were other dens.