“Our first guest has finally arrived,” one man said. His face was long, and his chin hooked outward into a point. His mostly gray hair was parted down the center, sharpening his severe widow’s peak. Levi had seen his picture before, of course, but the black-and-white newspapers failed to convey that Chancellor Malcolm Semper was equally gray-cast and haunting in person.
Shark left, and thethump thumpof his feet on the stairs echoed around the room. Levi scanned the faces of the Phoenix Club for Sedric, but none of them were him.
“Levi Glaisyer, why don’t you take a seat?” Semper gestured to the chair beside him.
“Where’s Sedric?” Levi asked.
“Mr. Torren isn’t a member of the Phoenix Club, so he doesn’t participate in our Game.”
Levi limped to his chair and settled into the rigid leather seat. Was this where Alfero had sat when she died? Or Gabrielle Dondelair when she won?
The only remaining empty chair was directly across from him.
“We will explain the rules once our final guest arrives,” Semper said.
So Levi didn’t even warrant a solo execution. He wondered who else the Phoenix Club had decided to play with tonight.
“We weren’t expecting another player,” said a woman Levi recognized as Senator Josephine Fenice. Her wild silver hair draped across her body down to her waist. She was Semper’s right hand and the woman who personally oversaw the execution of the previous Mizer royal family of New Reynes—even the children.
“I received a last-minute message,” Semper explained. “Mr. Torren feels he has more to offer us. He’s very eager to please.”
Levi’s heart stuttered at the mention of Sedric. What had happened between him and Enne? Did she finish what she’d come to do?
“Who is the player?” Fenice asked.
“The message didn’t say,” Semper answered. “Only to expect him here at two.”
Levi had little idea of the time, only a guess that it was almost midnight. He heard the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to the tenth day, counting down to his end. He tried to push away his concern over Enne. He needed all his concentration.
Once upon a time, Gabrielle Dondelair had won this Game. He needed to forget about all the legends, all the nightmares. The Shadow Game was a game like any other; there were winners, and there were losers. He wasn’t helpless. He wasn’t finished. He needed to remind himself who he was.
If anyone in this city had a chance of outplaying unbeatable odds, it was the Iron Lord.
ENNE
Enne’s head smacked against glass, jolting her awake. Her eyes flickered open briefly, but, glimpsing Sedric’s face, she immediately squeezed them shut again. She heard a door open, and a warm summer wind kissed her skin. She was in a motorcar, but her surroundings were slanted awkwardly to the left. The noise of Tropps Street was gone. The events of the evening gradually returned to her—Levi’s disappearance, the drugged drink, the Shadow Card—and she held her breath to keep from crying out.
Sedric cursed and climbed out of the car. The door closed.
She eased her eyes open. Voices murmured outside, their tones escalating. Judging from that and the tilted angle of the car, they must’ve been stuck in a ditch. The windows were darkened with screens, so Enne had no way of confirming this—nor any idea where in the city they were.
She quietly reached for the abandoned suit jacket on the seat in front of her. Inside, she found her revolver from earlier, which Sedric had stolen. Rather than take it and alert him that she was awake, she emptied it of bullets and slipped them in her pocket, where the leather case with the injection was still carefully concealed among folds of satin.
The Shadow Card was sitting on her lap, the face of the Fool laughing up at her. It was the invitation card, she knew, but whose? Had Sedric meant it for her, or was he only delivering her Levi’s? She didn’t think Sedric knew Enne and Levi had any connection.
Only two things were clear now: Enne still needed to kill Sedric Torren, and she needed to stop the Shadow Game.
Voices. Footsteps. The seat tilted forcefully. The engine roared, and the motorcar jolted forward out of the ditch.
The door opened. She closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness.
Someone—Sedric, probably—sat opposite her, bringing the odors of sweat and cigar smoke with him.
As the car resumed its course, she didn’t move for another ten minutes. Enne desperately hoped he couldn’t hear her heart pounding.
When the car finally stopped, Sedric lifted something to her nose. The stench of ammonia made her lurch. “Sleep well, doll?”
“Where are we?” She forced her voice to slur, as if she was just coming to.
