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Authors: Roshani Chokshi

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BOOK: The Gilded Wolves
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“Listen—” started Tristan.

At the same time S
é
verin said, “I forgive you.”

Tristan paused. “I’m not asking for forgiveness.” He swallowed hard, then lifted his gaze. His gray eyes looked bleak. Sleepless. “I don’t trust Hypnos. I don’t trust the Order.”

S
é
verin groaned. “Not this again.”

“I’m serious this time. I just … I have
a feeling and I need you to listen to me—”


Tristan
.” S
é
verin gripped his shoulders. “You’re my family, and I will always protect you. But I won’t hear this.”

“But—”

“Another word and I will find a way to get you off this acquisition and send you straight back to L’Eden. Is that what you want?”

Tristan’s face burned red. Without another word, he stalked out of the room. S
é
verin stared at the
closed door.

“You shouldn’t dismiss him like that,” said Laila.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging through his bones. “He didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,
Majnun
.”

Madman
. That name meant only for him. On her lips, it sounded like a talisman. Something that could protect him. Chew up the dark.

He caught her scent as she came closer. Sugar and rosewater. Had
she packed that vial of perfume with her? Swiped it down her throat and across her wrists as the train pulled to a stop? Those mysteries were for some other man to uncover. Not him. And then he remembered that he hadn’t been alone in a bedroom with her since that night …


Majnun?
” she asked, tilting her head.

“I’ve never asked why you call me that,” he said, fumbling for something to say.

“That’s a secret you haven’t earned.”

She smiled. Her mouth was red. Not by rouge, but by blood-rush. On her full lower lip, he could see the faint indents of teethmarks. They held him in thrall.

“What will it take?” he asked. His voice was roughened by lack of sleep, and it came out gruffer than he meant it to.

“What will you offer?” teased Laila.

Her hair had come undone from its chignon.
He liked her hair best like this: a little feral. A little soft. Wholly her. Wisps of black silk curled around her long neck. She tucked a strand behind her ear, and S
é
verin wished a strong wind would blow through the room if only so that she’d do it again.

“What do you want, Laila?” he asked. “A feather from a legendary bird? Magic apple?”

“Please,” said Laila. “I hate repeats in my wardrobe.”

S
é
verin paused. Wardrobe. The word brought him back to himself. That’s what he wanted to talk to her about. The wardrobe was how she’d accessed the guard uniforms.

“Laila, in the guards’ wardrobes, I think you could only read the uniforms for the incoming guards. Not the outgoing. I need you to double-check,” he said. “We can’t have any surprises.”

For a second, it looked as if she wanted to
say something else. But in the end, she only nodded. “Of course. I’ll go right now.”

After Laila left, S
é
verin didn’t move from his spot on the wall. He thought of the matriarch’s gloved hands, the way he could have crumpled her broken fingers if he wanted to. Even if Enrique hadn’t ruined his pillows, S
é
verin couldn’t bring himself to climb into House Kore’s bed. What if he’d slept in it once
as a child and simply couldn’t remember? He fell asleep where he sat, slumped with his head against the wall. And as he did, he dreamt of the snap of ortolan bones and teethmarks on Laila’s bloodred mouth.

 

15
ENRIQUE

Enrique held his walking stick just slightly off the ground, careful not to drop the light bomb on anything. The greenhouse was on the other side of the lawns. Revelers swirled around him. Women in velvet bodices with wolf masks. Men in tailored suits with wings affixed to their shoulders. Around him, waiters and waitresses wearing fox and rabbit masks weaved through the crowd,
carrying platters of a steaming drink that granted kaleidoscopic visions. As they walked, some of the waiters changed height, abruptly shooting up into the air on the Forged stilts concealed in their heels and pouring bottles of champagne in slender streams into the laughing, open mouths of guests. Platters of food drifted through the crowd without anyone to carry them. On their surfaces, Enrique
spied hollowed pomegranates and pale cakes, oysters on the half shell served on dripping panes of ice.

Unlike the Order of Babel auction, hardly anyone here had darker skin or a lilting accent. And yet, he recognized the decoration. Lovely and monstrous things plucked from tales that grew on the other side
of the world. There were Forged dragons out of myths from the Orient, Sirenas with heavy-lidded
eyes,
bhuts
with backwards feet
.
And though they were not all his tales, he saw himself in them: pushed to the corners of the dark. He was just like them. As solid as smoke and just as powerless.

He didn’t even look like himself. Or like any man from China that he’d met in the past. He was hiding in a caricature, and it let him pass without comment. Maybe it was an ugly thing to hide behind,
but that was why he was here … so that he wouldn’t have to hide any longer.

The greenhouse loomed ahead. In the dimness, he could make out the strange symbols carved around it. Examples of sacred geometry. Even the footpath beneath him was covered in distinct symbols, tessellated stars inside circles, fractals of stars hidden in the trees. The very eaves of House Kore’s mansions spoke of ancient
symbology with their repeated nautilus coils.

Enrique was nearly at the greenhouse when he felt someone grab his shoulder. He yelped, almost jumping in the air. He spun around to see Laila hiding behind a tree.

“Glad I caught you,” she breathed. Laila slipped something in his hand. “I found these in the guards’ uniforms, but only for the ones guarding the greenhouse.”

When Enrique opened his
hand, all he saw was a candied violet.

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth at the moment, but—”

“Turning down food?” Laila went wide-eyed. “You
must
be nervous. This isn’t candy. It’s an antidote.”

“For what?”

“For the venom,” she said, frowning. “Didn’t Tristan tell you?”

Faintly, he heard the snap of something underfoot. Laila turned her head sharply and groaned. “I have to go. I think
I’m being followed.”

Enrique scowled. Laila dealt with this all the time at the Palais, but he thought she’d at least be free of it here for a change.

“Idiot drunks. You have a blade?”

“Multiple.”

Laila touched his cheek once, then melted into the night.

The air around the greenhouse sweltered. No revelers came this far, which made sense. Fifty guards with shining bayonets was not exactly
what he would call inviting. The greenhouse itself was a massive, imposing structure. Frosted glass, with clear roofs. That earthen, wet smell seeped into the air around it. Along the walls, he saw a familiar pattern. The same one that had been on the gilded mirror of the Palais Garnier: a six-pointed star, or hexagram, intertwined with crescent moons and pointed thorns and a great snake biting its
own tail. Symbols of all four original Houses. There was something about that star that jolted him, though. The star was the sign of the Fallen House, the House that had dared not to protect the Babel Fragment, but
use
it, all because they thought God wanted them to. The hairs on the back of Enrique’s neck prickled.

A guard stopped him outside the greenhouse. “And you are?”

Enrique considered
a retort, then looked at the bayonet and thought better of it. Bullet or no, that was still a sharp and pointy end.

“Greetings,” he said, roughening his voice. He held out his access card. “I am here to assist Monsieur Tristan Mar
é
chal.”

“At this hour?”

“Does beauty follow the hours of the day?” asked Enrique, lifting his voice. “Do the heavens simply say ‘no, thank you’ because it’s a bit
after midnight? I think
not
! My occupation knows no time. I don’t even know what time it is. Or where I am. Who am I? Who are
you
—”

The guard raised his hands. “Yes, yes, very well, I will accept the card. But know that I am under orders only to answer to Monsieur
Mar
é
chal. Not
you
. And the matriarch has requested that no one spend longer than ten minutes in the greenhouse, save for Monsieur
Mar
é
chal.”

Only ten minutes? S
é
verin hadn’t seemed to know that. The guard held open the door. Enrique walked inside. Tristan was waiting for him, elbow-deep in some hideous bloom.

“Corpse flower!” said Tristan excitedly.

He looked happy enough, but there was that strange blue tinge around his eyes that spoke of sleeplessness. Nightmares, even.

“Not my favorite term of endearment, I must admit.”

“No,
this
is a corpse flower.”

“Is that why it smells like death?”

“Taxonomy is rarely creative with its names,” said Tristan, standing.

The lights of the greenhouse were far brighter than those in S
é
verin’s room. For the first time, Enrique noticed how sallow Tristan’s skin looked. Usually, his round cheeks were bright with color, always propped up in a grin. But though he was cheerful enough
when he saw Enrique, he had the look of someone depleted.

“Are you well?” Enrique asked. He carefully laid down the walking stick. He wouldn’t need it here.

Tristan swallowed. “Well enough. Or, at least, I will be soon.”

Soon. When they had found the Horus Eye. When S
é
verin was named heir of House Vanth, and the world itself might be within reach.

Enrique squeezed his shoulder. “Just one day
more.”

Tristan nodded.

“What is this place?” asked Enrique, taking off his jacket.

“A poison garden—I made it myself. No spiders allowed, though. Stupid House Kore rules. Goliath would hate it.”

Enrique paused, halfway through unstrapping the prosthetic hump. He glanced at his jacket on the floor, where the candied vio
let lay in his breast pocket. An antidote for poison. It hadn’t surprised
him that Laila had known, but why hadn’t Tristan? He would have planned for it.

Around him, the greenhouse looked far too peaceful to be poisonous, but he recognized venom all around him. Wolfsbane and oleander hung from the glass and steel ceiling. Widow’s ivy and black laurel grew in abundance. Larkspur the color of a late-evening sky flourished in the corners, and deadly Pied Piper flutes
so pale they looked like orphaned clouds spiraled toward the sky as if they were trying to find the way back home. Enrique positioned his feet more narrowly in the path. Poisonous flowers and piranha solution was a terrible idea to mix together.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Enrique shuddered. “So beautiful I’m driven by envy to destroy it immediately.”

Tristan smacked his arm.

Using the key
hidden in the heel of his shoe, Enrique unclasped the metal hump. He tossed Tristan a pair of small pliers that Zofia had packed, and a pair of needles. They set to work unlocking the base, peeling back the metal shelling and protective layers until the box holding the piranha solution broke free. Enrique and Tristan took out their foldable gas masks at the same time. Tristan poured some water in
the lenses, and Enrique checked for any cracks. None. A single crack, and he’d lose an eye and get poisoned. Or worse.

Enrique held a small hammer in his hand, fingers trembling. If they did this wrong, he’d probably burn off his hands. Then again, he might not even notice because his vision would be the first thing to disappear. Tristan glanced at the door.

One chip.

Two.

The casing broke.

Enrique tossed it high in the air. He and Tristan had about four minutes before they were in any trouble.

“Let’s go—” he started, but right then he heard Tristan start gasping.

Tristan grabbed his fingers, nearly crushing them in his grip. His face went from pale to tinged with blue.

A knock sounded at the door.

“What’s going on in there?” demanded one of the guards.

“Nothing!” shouted Enrique.

“We are only allowed to accept orders from Monsieur Mar
é
chal. Sir, is everything all right?”

Tristan tugged at his goggles. Then brushed something off his jacket. Petals. Frantically, he pointed at the poisonous Pied Piper flutes. Enrique had once read that the moment one touched the petals, they released oils that could seep into one’s skin. Tristan must have accidentally brushed against the
flower.

“Monsieur?” demanded the guard. “Do we need to come in? We will take your silence in the affirmative if so.”

Tristan’s face turned blue.

“He cannot speak because he got too close to a poisonous plant!” shouted Enrique, thinking fast. “If he speaks, he will inhale a toxic fume and … and die!”

Outside, the guards began to shuffle back and forth, arguing with one another. Enrique reached
out, shaking Tristan.

“Just croak out a word!”

Tristan’s eyes turned watery, limpid. Drooping. And then he slumped over.

“No no no no no,” muttered Enrique, throwing the tools into the metal hump and fixing it sloppily to his shoulders.

“We’re coming in!” shouted the guard.

The doors cracked open a sliver. For a moment, Enrique won
dered whether he should just smash the rest of the piranha
casing, but he couldn’t do that without risking severe burns. Several guards peered through, rifles at the ready.

One of the guards in the back whispered, “Wasn’t his hump on the other side?”

But the second one shoved him to the ground. “Monsieur Mar
é
chal! He’s been injured.”

The other guards were clamoring to get inside. Shouts crowded the air.

“What’s that?” asked the first guard, staring
at the piranha solution falling slowly from the ceiling.

A heavy mist began to descend on the plants. Plumes of sulfur unraveled into the air.

“I told you that if you let him speak, he would inhale too much toxic fumes. Now look at him. You should leave before you risk serious injury.”

“Wait a minute, that solution is eating into the ground—”

“Is it? That’s curious. I can’t remember it doing
that.”

The first guard narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your accent?”

“Accent?” repeated Enrique, trying to slip back into his disguise.

The first guard stepped forward. “Your mustache is coming off.”

“Toxic fumes. You know. Mustaches are always the first to go.”

The first guard cocked his rifle.

“No! Don’t do that. Totally unnecessary. There’s just something wrong, perhaps, with your
eyes.”

Enrique lunged for his walking stick. He couldn’t have the deaths—or disintegration—of these guards on his conscience.

“There’s nothing wrong with our sight, old man.”

“Are you sure?” asked Enrique.

He lifted the walking stick high above his head, then slammed it
down, flinging his arm across his eyes. A white light burst from the wood, followed by an ear-shattering sound. Afterward
he saw two guards lying facedown and unconscious. Enrique stepped over them gingerly, leaned down and whispered, “How are your eyes now?”

But the loud shouts outside the door snapped his victory in half. The piranha solution spread quickly over the terrarium floor, stopping just short of the guards. A blue sheen crept over Tristan’s skin. Enrique patted down his jacket, his fingers shaking until
he found what he was looking for: the candied violet.

Enrique shoved the candy into Tristan’s mouth, pinching his nose and forcing him to swallow. He had two unconscious guards, a thoroughly ruined mustache, and outside, the door shook from the sounds of the security team. Hope was a thin thread inside him, but Enrique reached for it anyway. It was all he had left.

BOOK: The Gilded Wolves
6.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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