“You went too far today,” Jac said low enough that only Levi could hear.
Levi tensed, his winning mood already diminishing. “You tell me this now?”
“It wasn’t you, Levi. It was an act, and Chez saw through it,” Jac said. “He doesn’t want a show. He wants volts.”
“What else was I supposed to do?” They were already sneaking into the Sauterellejust so they wouldn’t have to pay for tickets.
Jac shook his head. “I just have a bad feeling.”
Reymond plucked the cigar from Jac’s mouth and took a hit. “You always have a bad feeling. You’re more jitter than person.” He handed Jac back the cigar, who looked less than eager to have it returned. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing,” Levi said hurriedly, because he already knew Reymond’s advice: if there was a threat, squash it. Break the rules before they broke you.
Jac inspected the cigar, clearly decided he no longer wanted it, and offered it to Enne.
“What do I look like?” she asked.
Jac grinned. “Like a Sinner.”
Shehmphed.
The back door to the cabaret opened at last, and Mansi poked her head out. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of Reymond. “Oh, um, Eight Fingers,” she said weakly.
“I’m a friend, little missy,” Reymond said, his voice welcoming, though Levi knew each of his eight rings contained a different type of poison, memorabilia from his days as a Dove. “We’ve come to enjoy a good show.”
Mansi looked hesitantly to Levi, who nodded, then opened the door. The four of them slipped in. He patted Mansi on the back. “This is our secret, isn’t it, kid?” he asked.
“People will stare,” she whispered. “People will recognize him.”
Mansi was right—neither Reymond Kitamura’s slimy face nor gaudy style was easy to forget. Levi preferred a more inconspicuous approach himself. In fact, he preferred almost any approach Reymond didn’t. He figured this was why Reymond had taken such a liking to him.
“He’ll behave,” Levi promised, as if he had any control over the Scar Lord.
Mansi nodded uncertainly and scampered off, back to her post in the kitchens.
Enne lingered in the hallway, clearly waiting for Levi. The music from the show grew louder, the cigarette smoke stronger, the lights brighter. But they paused briefly in the hallway’s darkness.
“What if she’s in there?” Enne asked breathlessly. It was obvious who she was talking about.
Levi had considered this, but it seemed unlikely. Lourdes wouldn’t let her daughter worry while she passed her nights at a variety show.
“She probably won’t be,” he said gently. “But this is the arts neighborhood. A lot of her associates come here.”
Enne nodded, but Levi could tell she didn’t feel much better by the way she reached out and grasped his arm. She might’ve been collecting herself, but the touch was enough to make Levi unravel. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the lights ahead, her breath hitched. Just the look of her like that made his chest knot.
She was dangerous, this missy. Barely two days of knowing her, and Levi was so fixedly intertwined with her troubles. He’d been Vianca’s prisoner for four years, and never had anyone else shared his cell. Never had anyone else understood.
He let her compose herself, even though his own heart was pounding. It was nice to feel needed, nice to provide. For the past several months, he had only taken, never given, and he couldn’t give her much, except some measure of comfort.
“We’re going to find her,” he promised. She nodded again. He wasn’t sure she was even listening, so he squeezed her shoulder. She shied away, wincing.
“Did I do something wrong?” Levi asked.
“Sorry. I’m just terribly sore,” she said, rubbing her arm.
Levi grinned. “Already had your first rehearsal? Well, you seem to be in one piece. Are you that terrible?”
She hesitated, then gave him a weak smile. “I soothed myself by imagining telling you off later.”
