King Of Fools. Amanda Foody

navel. The black tattoos of eyes over her eyelids sent a shiver down Levi’s spine. “You’ve killed.”

      He felt no guilt over killing Chancellor Semper, just as Semper had undoubtedly felt no guilt over almost killing him.

      “I’ve survived,” Levi said darkly.

      She glanced over him. “Barely, by the looks of you.”

      Her Forgotten Histories resembled a typical office, filled with unoccupied desks, an old printing press, and a gnarled gray carpet. It looked like it belonged on the South Side, where middle-aged men carrying briefcases and toiling over paperwork could earn the wages they’d later gamble away on Tropps Street. But unlike those places, bits of Faith merchandise were tucked discreetly around the room—ancient etchings in wind chimes, paintings with Creeds hidden in their background, prayer tokens scattered on countertops. Those would never be spotted below the Brint River; the Faith reminded the wigheads too much of the Mizer kings, who had used the Faith’s lore to gain more political power for themselves. It was technically banned after the Revolution.

      “Vianca didn’t give me much of a choice in letting you stay here,” Zula huffed. “I don’t want any trouble. Not from the whiteboots. Not from that gang of yours.”

      “There won’t be trouble. I’m an excellent houseguest.”

      Zula hmphed like she didn’t believe him, then stood up and slid aside the carpet to reveal a trapdoor. “You’ll be down there.”

      As she pulled it open and ushered Levi down the wooden steps, excitement stirred in his stomach. He was a person of interest now. Living a life of whispers and mystery, raising empires out of shadows. Now that he wasn’t bemoaning his future, he could see the glamor in his situation.

      Until he smelled the sewage.

      Zula pulled the string on a dangling light bulb, illuminating an unfinished cellar filled with dusty, forbidden books; a cot; and, in the corner, a sink and a toilet. The stench wafted from behind a door that Levi guessed led to the sewers—probably to serve as a less conspicuous exit.

      It took all Levi had not to retch. Even hooch kept down here would sour.

      “Not exactly your penthouse in St. Morse, is it?” Zula asked smugly.

      He clicked his tongue. “It was never mine. It was always Vianca’s.”

      “It was comfort all the same.”

      Levi ignored that comment. “I’m expecting company,” he told her. Jac would meet him here this evening, assuming his friend found a means of safely venturing outside of St. Morse.

      “I don’t host playdates.”

      “We won’t be trouble. Just let him inside when he comes.”

      Zula clicked her tongue and walked up the stairs. Before she closed the trapdoor behind her, she added, “And the girl? Is she this Séance character in all the newspapers?”

      “It’s none of your business.” Zula had made it clear she’d rather criticize Enne than help her, and Levi didn’t care that Zula had been Lourdes’s friend. She didn’t deserve to know anything about Enne.

      “This will end badly,” Zula snapped, echoing her words from their last meeting, and slammed the trapdoor.

      * * *

      Two hours later, footsteps creaked upstairs. Levi lay on the rigid cot, attempting to sleep, but he suspected Zula was slamming her drawers and clacking her pens against her desk just to irritate him.

      “How long are you staying? This isn’t a hostel,” he heard Zula snap. “And look at you. All those burdens on your soul. They’ll devour you, if you let them.”

      “Um... Yeah, well, the bags are actually for Levi.” That sounded like Jac. He was early.

      The trapdoor opened, and Jac’s calming aura mingled with the unpleasant odors of the cellar. It wafted in wisps and ribbons and smelled like linen and the color gray. Everything about Jac was gray. His blond hair was more colorless than golden. His irises, his skin...even the ever-present dark circles drooping beneath his eyes. During a bright afternoon, with the sun reflecting off his fair features, you’d almost mistake him for a trick of the light.

      Jac thumped down the steps, shopping bags from several ritzy Tropps Street boutiques hoisted over his shoulders. He dropped them on the bed and crossed his heart, as gangsters did for their lord.

      “That woman’s spooky,” Jac said, coughing. “And it smells like muck down here.” His face twisted in disgust as he lit a match and waved it around the room.

      “You might as well light the whole building on fire,” Levi grumbled.

      Jac sighed and resigned himself to breathing through his shirt. “You look terrible.”

      “I’ll heal,” Levi responded blandly, even though it seemed like the more time that passed, the more he ached.

      “I know you’ll say no, but I’m offering anyway.” Jac gave him a pointed look.

      Jac’s split name was Dorner, from a family capable of manipulating pain. Because it was his split talent, his abilities were weaker—he could take pain away, but when he did, he held onto the pain himself. Jac claimed his strength blood talent made him more resistant, that he could heal faster, hurt less, and take more, but Levi didn’t believe that.

      Besides, this pain should be his and his alone.

      “I’ve never been better,” Levi lied.

      Jac pursed his lips. “Well, I brought meds. And clothes.”

      “I don’t want any more of Vianca’s clothes.”

      “They’re from Enne.”

      Levi sat up and eyed the bags with curiosity. He couldn’t believe she’d had time to go shopping, especially on his behalf, but he was surprised to find a full new wardrobe inside. The clothes weren’t exactly his style—all pinstripes and subtle and black—but that was probably the point. Levi needed to be less recognizable.

      As if he’d heard his thoughts, Jac handed Levi a tube of something. “Hair dye,” he explained. “It’s for both of us.”

      Levi snorted as he popped open the bottle of pain medication. “Do we have matching outfits, as well?”

      “Don’t be thick. You look terrible in plaid.” Indeed, Jac pulled out a blazer identical to Levi’s in every way except for the print. The color was burgundy, the stitches silky and light-catching—something flashy that Reymond would’ve worn. The thought hit Levi with a wave of grief. If Reymond were alive, Levi would’ve been hiding with him, not with a woman he detested and barely knew.

      The raven black hair dye would suit Levi’s dark complexion, but he was hesitant to lose his natural hair. The coloring—copper at the roots and black at the ends—was the mark of an orb-maker, and it was as much a part of his identity as his brown skin, as the Iron ace and spade tattoos on his arms, as the memories of every boy and every girl he’d kissed. Even though Levi didn’t make orbs, his talent, his family, and his past still defined him. The dye felt like an erasure.

      But that was exactly why he needed it. His hair was too recognizable, especially when orb-makers were so scarce. A bounty hunter wouldn’t even need to know his face to guess his identity.

      As they washed their hair out in the sink, Jac quietly asked, “Have you seen the papers?”

      “I have,” he answered, not meeting his friend’s eyes. He’d hoped for a little more time before telling Jac about Harrison. Maybe it was unfair to stall, under the circumstances, but Levi had just dyed over centuries of Glaisyer history and pride in his hair, and he could use some extra time to pretend at least one part of his life was still normal.

      “Do you think it really will be like last time? The war?” Jac asked.

      A