Lola stirred and pulled the blankets over her head. “Sounds like doom.”
“You could see doom in the burn markings on your toast,” Enne snapped. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Lola’s constant pessimism.
Lola clicked her tongue and rolled over, her back to both of them.
Enne carefully set both the Tokens and her revolver on the nightstand before standing up. Once she did, she realized how tired she was—tired all the way down to her bones. The stains on her bedsheets betrayed how terribly she’d slept the past few nights; they were gray from sweat and grief-stricken tears.
Three days ago, Enne had learned that her mother was dead. And despite all that had happened, and all the mystery still clouding Lourdes’ double life, three days was hardly enough time to mourn.
Especially when there were other emotions layered within her grief, complicating it, twisting it. There was the frustration at never truly knowing Lourdes. Guilt that Enne had unwittingly foiled her mother’s efforts to protect her. Hurt that Lourdes had used her talents to keep Enne isolated her entire life.
Even worse than realizing she’d been wrong about Lourdes was realizing she’d been wrong about herself. Talents were more than simply abilities—they were a part of a person’s identity. Every person possessed two. The stronger one was called the blood talent, and the weaker one, the split talent. All of Enne’s life, she’d believed she was a Salta, that she came from a common, mundane dancing family. In Bellamy, she’d struggled and wept trying to keep up with the illustrious dancing talents of her classmates. That was who she had been—the person always reaching for next to last. The person never truly belonging. The person who couldn’t help but fail.
Because Lourdes had let her believe it.
It would take a long time to untangle those emotions. For now, all she understood was how deeply she missed her mother.
“Vianca will want to see you,” Jac said warily, once again interrupting Enne’s thoughts. He was right—last night, Vianca had instructed Enne to find her as soon as she woke up.
I have excellent plans for you, my dear, Vianca had purred.
An acidic mixture of fear and hatred rose in her throat when she thought about Vianca. Whatever Vianca had planned for her, it had little to do with Enne’s well-being and all to do with the donna’s games with her enemies across the city. Enne’s only value was her usefulness. Even though Vianca couldn’t remove her omerta even if she wanted to, there were other ways to dispose of Enne...if Enne no longer impressed.
Enne refused to let that happen. She’d lost too much to the City of Sin to lose her life, as well. No matter what it took, shewouldsurvive this city.
She rose, pushing her concerns away. “I’ll go see Vianca now. Both of you, wait here until I come back.”
“I didn’t realize I was taking orders from you now, missy,” Jac said, smirking.
Enne didn’t rise to his provocation. “It’s past noon. Vianca will have news about what’s happened while we slept. You shouldn’t go outside unaware.”
“And what will we do while we wait?” Lola asked, yanking the blankets from her face. “Play cards?”
“You look like a sore loser, Dove,” Jac teased.
“I don’t gamble away my voltage.”
He shot her a sly smile. “Oh, there’s more you can bet than volts.”
Lola sat up, her expression unamused. “I’ve killed men twice as big as you.”
Enne knew better than to believe her. Lola was all talk, like when she’d claimed she could drive and then nearly flipped their hot-wired motorcar, or when she’d threatened Enne’s life but could barely hold her own ground under attack. Jac would best her within seconds in a fight.
But still, her glare cut sharper than any of her knives. Jac averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.
Enne grabbed a dress out of her closet and walked to the bathroom. She stared at her strange violet eyes in the mirror, eyes that had been brown until last night. Her hand trembled as she reached for the trick contact lenses Levi had given her. It would be easier if he were here. If she didn’t have to face the donna—and the consequences of what they had done—alone.
She wondered if he’d woken thinking the same.
On her way out the door, Enne called back to Lola, “Don’t scare Jac too much while I’m gone.”
* * *
One thing Enne missed desperately about Bellamy was the decor. There, upholstery was floral, curtains were frilled, and everything was the color of macarons—cantaloupe orange, pistachio green, and rose pink. Enne’s bedroom had resembled a patisserie, and for her, serenity was curling up on her bed amid cream-colored blankets, with a plate of cucumber sandwiches, a scandalous romance novel by her favorite author, and a beeswax candle scenting her room with lavender.
If Enne’s aesthetic was a bakery, then Vianca’s was a very expensive grotto. All of St. Morse Casino was decorated in emerald and sapphire, with dark wood and velvet fabric and whatever else devoured the light. There was something sinister in its details. The way the legs of tables curled like coiled snakes. The way it smelled of vinegar, like something pickled and preserved. The way the portraits of executed Mizer families lined each of the hallways, staring at unsettled patrons as they passed.
And Vianca, her long fingernails clacking against her desk, her reptilian green eyes narrowed and fixed on Enne’s throat, was exactly the sort of monster that slithered out of grottos.
