Amanda Foody - Ace Of Shades

“And if you don’t find Lourdes before the summer ends?” Levi asked Enne quietly. “You’re willing to risk that?”

“Of course I am. She’s my mother.”

Levi’s stomach tightened, and—to his own surprise—he was about to say something consoling, but then she bit her lip. Maybe dealing cards made him hyperaware of bluffing, but that was a straight-from-the-book tell. He wondered if she was hiding something after all, but he didn’t press her on it.

For now.

“We’re here,” he announced as they crossed the border from Iron territory into Scar Land.

Tents, stands and carts lined the sidewalks, and people crowded around them, waving merchandise in the air to tempt customers or yelling at the kids trying to steal food and trinkets. Several paperboys approached him and Enne, advertising this week’s copy of the South Side’s Guillory Street Gossip or the North Side’s version, The Kiss and Tell. Levi grabbed Enne’s shoulders and pushed her ahead. If she spent too long gawking at everything, a pickpocket would nab her in a blink.

“This is Scrap Market,” he said. “It changes location every day, and it’s in only one place for a few hours at a time before it disappears.”

She broke away from his grasp and glared at him with annoyance. “Are all your markets like this? How disorienting.”

“No, just this one. People here don’t pay in volts—they don’t really have them. Instead, they trade. It changes time and place to make it harder for the whiteboots to find them. The goods here aren’t all legal, and it’s all under the table.”

They passed a food stand, and Levi’s stomach rumbled at the smell of sausages and sizzling bacon. He’d forgotten to eat breakfast. Enne must’ve been hungry as well, judging by the longing look she cast at the doughnut cart.

“Illegal? Then why are we here?” she asked nervously.

“The Scarhands live under Scrap Market.”

“The Scarhands?”

“One of the gangs.”

She halted in the middle of the street. “You said your friend wasn’t in a gang.”

Levi hauled her along, this time not letting her shrug him off. She was going to lose her purse.

“No, I said he wasn’t an Iron,” he grunted. Besides, Reymond Kitamura was a good place for them to start. Not only had Reymond introduced Levi to Lourdes, but he was the Scar Lord, and all secrets of New Reynes flushed down to him eventually.

“Let go of me. It’s terribly impolite—not to mention improper—”

“I’m trying to keep you from getting your purse stolen. You’ve already lost your luggage. Wanna lose your volts, too?” Levi refused to suffer through this entire morning only for Enne to lose his reward.

She stopped struggling, and he led her into a ramshackle building with a sign reading Cheep Orbs and Metalwork. They slid between a couple examining a box of empty glass orbs.

“Those are real shoddy quality,” Levi muttered. “Probably can’t hold over twenty volts without shattering.” He could make better blindfolded...not that he’d made orbs in years. His blood and split talents didn’t mix together well, so he’d decided a long time ago to avoid orb-making altogether.

Enne stared at a crate full of knives, each with a little rust on the handle or cracks in the blade. “How many street gangs are there?”

Levi cleared his throat. Really, there was no person better suited for introducing Enne to New Reynes than himself. “There are three: the Irons, the Scarhands and the Doves. They all live on the North Side.” There were also the two casino Families, the Augustines and the Torrens, but Levi didn’t want to overwhelm her. Besides, he’d rather not think about the Families right now. It was a mistake involving himself with either of them.

“Why do you call yourselves the Irons?” Enne asked.

“It’s a nickname. We didn’t have a name at first—the dens just called us ‘mechanics.’ People who fix games.” He shook his head. “Of course, our clients didn’t actually like to call us that—bad for business. Somehow the name Irons caught on.”

“So you cheat,” she said, the contempt obvious in her voice.

“We make a business out of winning.”

Levi took her to a door in the back of the shop. A rusted lock dangled from the knob.

Although Levi never used his blood talent anymore for its actual purpose—making orbs—he often relied on his skill for fire. Levi could do a few tricks: light a match with the snap of his fingers, walk through open flame without being burned, craft a glass ornament with only his bare hands. Nothing powerful, but his talent was often useful.

Levi grabbed the lock and concentrated on heat. After a few moments, it glowed red and hissed with steam.

“How are you doing that?” she asked.

“It’s my blood talent.” He tugged it, and it snapped. He would’ve thought that obvious, given the orb-maker colors in his hair.

“Which is—”

“Someone will hear you.” He didn’t need the Scar Lord blaming him for giving away today’s location to all of Scrap Market. Reymond liked to lie low.

Levi slipped inside the crack of the door into a dark, narrow staircase. When Enne closed it behind them, everything went black.

“You’d better leave. We’re not seeing anyone today,” someone growled. Enne made a sound somewhere between clearing her throat and a squeak.

“It’s me,” Levi said.

“Pup?”

He hated that nickname. People assumed that Canes smelled auras like bloodhounds, even though they read them with all their senses. The nickname was, in Levi’s opinion, the embodiment of everything he needed to change about his reputation. Once upon a time, the Irons had been the richest gang in the city. Even if he was young, Levi deserved to be taken seriously.

“Nice to see you again, Jonas,” Levi lied.

Jonas Maccabees, the Scarhands’ second-in-command, sneered, “You should stick to Olde Town where you belong.”

“That’s a shame, because I came here to see you. It’s hard to resist that smile of yours.”

Jonas turned on a light, and Levi squinted as his eyes adjusted. The room had concrete walls and a mess of exposed, leaking pipes. It smelled faintly of cigarettes.

“Reymond isn’t seeing anyone today,” Jonas grunted. A scar ran from his left eye down his cheek, disappearing beneath his shoulder-length black hair. More scars crisscrossed his palms, and his skin had a gray tint to it. Like a corpse. Beside Levi, Enne stiffened.

“But he’ll see me,” Levi challenged.

Jonas glared because he knew Levi was right, then mumbled something under his breath and turned to a door at the other end of the room. The undeniable stench of rotting bodies trailed after him.

“Is Reymond their boss?” Enne whispered.

“He’s the Scar Lord.”

“You failed to mention that.”

“Does it matter? I’m the Iron Lord, aren’t I?” Apparently his lordly title didn’t warrant the same concern.

“Maybe this was a bad—”

“Do you want to find Alfero or not?”

She quieted.

Jonas opened the door and ushered them into an office. Reymond perched on the desk. He was short and slender to the point of looking starved, with black hair and brown, hooded eyes. He wore a shiny gold vest and a crimson jacket, a belt of reptile scales and huge rings on every finger, which made eight rings in total—both his middle fingers were stumps.

“He brought a missy,” Jonas said.

“Yes,” Reymond answered, scanning Enne up and down with interest. Levi didn’t usually introduce missies to his friends. “I can see that.”

Levi pulled up a seat at the desk and nodded for Enne to do so, as well. As he sat, he got a whiff of Reymond’s cheap cologne and nearly gagged.