“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 withhim, not with a woman he detested and barely knew.
