But she would not show them that. “I have them,” Enne told them. “Right here.”
Avoiding Lola’s gaze, Enne unlocked Justin’s handcuffs. Then she hoisted him up by the mud-crusted hood of his coat and dragged him, flailing and moaning, toward the door.
The Scarhands moved to let her pass, but one asked, “Who’s the Dove?”
Her best friend’s brother.
“The one responsible,” answered Enne, swallowing down her guilt.
She’d made it a few steps into the hallway before she felt a blade in her side. The tip of it pressed through the fabric of her sweater, and she froze. She should’ve known blaming the Dove wouldn’t be enough. Enne was the one who’d listened to him. Enne was the one at fault.
But it wasn’t a Scarhand’s knife. It was a scalpel.
“Don’t do it,” Lola rasped. “Please. Don’t.”
Enne dropped the Dove, who collapsed and knocked his head on the floor. He laughed as he watched them, clutching his abdomen like their demises were just so muckingfunny. He didn’t even attempt to scramble to his feet and run, not with the Scarhands flanking him at either side.
Lola watched him incredulously, tears spilling out of her bloodshot eyes.
“Put the scalpel down, Lola,” Enne told her carefully.
“You can’t kill him.”
This boy might’ve been Lola’s brother, but Enne remembered the stories Lola had told her about their relationship. The idea of everything Lola had put herself through to find him made Enne furious. Working at the Orphan Guild, even when she’d hated her bosses. Bleaching her hair, no matter the danger it put her in. The Spirits had been more of a family to Lola than this boy ever had.
The Scarhands around them made no move to help Enne. Instead, they assessed her, and Enne knew she was not living up to their expectations, not of a lord, not of a Mizer. They already had a reason to hate her. They already had enough reason to use her—her bounty had tripled since Jonas’s execution. Enne needed to make a show of strength, otherwise they’d take advantage of her weakness.
“I’m sorry, Lola,” Enne murmured, quiet enough so that the Scarhands couldn’t hear. “But this isn’t about you. He set us—”
“Itshouldbe about me. I’m your second, aren’t I?”
“So what am I supposed to do, then?” snapped Enne. “It’s because of him that thirty people are dead. What if one of those people had been Roy? Grace? What if one had beenyou?”
Something in Lola snapped at those words, and Enne didn’t guess what it was until Lola snarled, “You nearly made sure of that without his help.”
Enne’s balance teetered. Her memories flashed on a reel, images and sounds and emotions twining together. Footsteps. Running closer. Her heart—pounding.
Bang!
The sound of Lola groaning. The sound of Jac falling.
Enne felt more of herself unravel. The gazes of the observing Scarhands seemed to render her transparent, exposed. “I-it was dark. The Doves—”
“Were ahead of you, not behind you,” Lola gritted out. “You’ve spent the past ten days making us watch Roy beat you to a pulp, just to prove to everyone you can take a hit.Youare the reason those people are dead. If you’d been thinking straight, you wouldn’t have fallen for Justin’s trick from the start.”
Enne’s emotions switched from desperation to anger. Not just from the traumatized picture of Enne that Lola was painting to the Scarhands, but from Lola’s own obsessive need to be right. She wasn’t. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she fumed.
“To what?” Lola asked.
“To be cast as the villain, no matter what choices you make.” Enne remembered the first time she’d met Lola. Enne might’ve been the one to win their fight, but Lola was the one who’d started it. “You were the first one to teach me that.”
Lola’s expression hardened at the memory. “And you weren’t supposed to be like the other lords. You told me you never wanted this.”
Enne seethed. “What part of this do you think I want?” She had not asked for her talent. She had not asked for this responsibility, to be the one always ensuring she and her friends stayed alive.
“If you don’t want this,” Lola told her, “then stop it. This isn’t the only way you have to play.”
Enne’s rage felt white-hot. Lola pretended to understand, but Lola had never willingly put her life on the line for someone else, or been forced to hurt the people she cared about. She had no idea what it meant to play.
