hadn’t been a total lie. The volts did exist. Last summer, when Enne had sneaked into Lourdes’s private office for the first and only time, she’d seen the bank slips. She and her mother certainly didn’t live like they had millions of volts, but Enne had read the documents herself. It was...wealth beyond imagination. And Lourdes had kept it from her.
So the volts did exist, and paying Levi would hardly put a dent in their fortune. But Enne had no idea where the bank account was. Or where the volts came from.
It didn’t matter. Once she found Lourdes, she’d have her answers. Once she found Lourdes, Levi would have his volts. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the truth.
She and Levi walked into a hallway lined with portraits of men, women and occasionally whole families, each with blazing purple eyes. Mizers, Enne thought with a chill. She wondered whether or not it was dangerous for the casino to have portraits of the royal families on display, as if they were people to be revered. Most people alive today had witnessed the Revolution, and, however corrupt the Republic might’ve been, it was nothing compared to the tyranny of the Mizers.
The deeper they ventured into St. Morse, the more Enne felt like she was walking into a castle out of a history book. The mahogany woodwork. The blue and green, everywhere. The white stone walls. A hotel casino, Levi had called it. Really, it was more of a fortress. In the nighttime, it might even resemble a mausoleum.
They stopped in front of an elevator, where Levi pulled a lever that illuminated an up arrow above the doors.
“How many volts did you bring?” Levi asked. “Enough to last until you leave?”
“No, not with all of my belongings gone.” A jolt of panic shot through her. She had no clothes. No toiletries. And not enough volts to replace them and still purchase her ticket home, after paying Levi tonight.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. The elevator doors opened, and they stepped onto a shaky metal platform. The black iron gates creaked closed as the operator turned a crank. “How are you with heights? This is the tallest building on the North Side.”
“I’m all right,” she lied. The floor shifted beneath her feet, almost like the deck of the ship she’d traveled on to New Reynes—but then, she hadn’t been terrified of falling to her death. Enne held her breath and squeezed the railing.
Levi watched her with amusement, much as he had all morning. At first, when Levi had tried to steal from her, Enne had considered him a crook. But after they left Scrap Market, there had been an unmistakable sincerity in his voice. It had improved her opinion of him, if only slightly. Still, he was terribly rude. She reminded herself that she needed to tolerate him only until they found her mother.
“Never ridden in an elevator before?” he asked.
“Not one quite so in need of maintenance.”
The operator grunted.
The doors opened to a hallway with emerald wallpaper and silver trim. It looked opulent and grand, but beneath, Enne could see that it was royal only in the cheapest, most obscene manner possible. Every metallic finish was paint; every bit of crystal was actually glass.
“The top floor is only for Vianca Augustine’s favorites,” Levi said, except with more disgust than pride. “This includes the highest-paying guests, close friends of the Augustines, Vianca herself and, of course, me.”
“You mentioned Vianca earlier. Who is she?” Enne asked.
He scowled like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “You should pay better attention to that guidebook. Vianca is the donna of the Augustine crime Family, and she owns St. Morse Casino.”
As Enne digested his words, Levi led her to a room labeled 2018 and unlocked the door. He held it open for her, but she couldn’t tell whether his politeness was meant to mock. It was impossible to differentiate between his smirk and his smile.
The apartment was unnaturally clean. Levi took a seat on the stiff armchair in the living room while Enne examined the shine of his counters and the strange black oven that looked out of place in his cramped kitchen. Bookshelves covered every wall, filled with volumes and papers arranged by height, and a glass conch shell glittered on the coffee table.
Enne took a seat on the couch.
“What?” Levi asked, studying her face. “Missies always expect that I live in a gutter,” he muttered. Then, as though he were actually going to play host, he offered her a green candy from the bowl on his table. “Tiggy’s Saltwater Taffy. Absinthe-flavored. It’s the signature New Reynes treat.”
Enne shook her head, certain anything signature to this city would prove repulsive. “Why are we here?” She’d never been alone in a young man’s home before, and she hoped he couldn’t see her cheeks redden, couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Surely there must’ve been other places in St. Morse to talk in private besides his apartment. The whole ordeal of Sweetie Street and the unfamiliarity with New Reynes didn’t ease Enne’s mind, nor did the pleasing slopes and angles of Levi’s jawline.
“I’m gonna get you a job,” he declared.
She startled. “A job? Here?”
“What? Too below you to earn an income?”
She doubted her teachers at finishing school would have approved of a lady working at a casino. Or a lady working at all, for that matter. “What kind of job do you have in mind?” she asked coolly, refusing to rise to his provocation.
“You’re a dancer. We’ve got several groups of performers—”
“I’m not that type of dancer.”
“And St. Morse isn’t that type of establishment.” He stood and turned into a narrow hallway, motioning for her to follow. By the time she got up, he’d disappeared into the room at the end, and she realized with no small amount of horror that it must have been his bedroom.
“What are you doing?” Enne called from the doorway, unable to even peek inside.
“Finding you something to wear. Your clothes belong in an antique shop.”
Enne sniffed in indignation. Her outfit was considered fashionable in Bellamy, where women had a sense of modesty.
“What do you expect me to wear?” she asked. “Trousers?” Or worse, one of those fishnet numbers she’d seen all over Tropps Street?
He emerged with a dress and an easy smile. “What? Don’t you trust me?”
“Hardly.” And certainly not with that gleam in his eyes. Or with the not-entirely-unpleasant smell of his citrus cologne.
She allowed herself to admit that Levi Glaisyer was very good-looking—at least, in an up-to-no-good way that she supposed some people found attractive. He was of fairly average height, but his build was slender and trim. Of all his noteworthy features—his smooth brown skin, the sharp slopes of his cheekbones—the most identifiable was his hair. It started bronze at the roots, but the tight curls gradually turned to black at the ends, as if singed.
Sometimes talents, especially Talents of Mysteries, carried a particular physical characteristic with them—like the purple eyes of the Mizers.
