The Gilded Wolves (31 page)

S
é
verin hooked his walking stick around the carriage’s velvet curtains, scanning the damp streets. The Palais des R
ê
ves stood in the distance, casting curves of amber light that feathered into the night like wings. If Laila were here, she would say the lights looked like a blessing of angel feathers. He grinned. If that were true, it was no blessing. It was a declaration. Only
Paris would rip out seraph wings and string them onto its buildings as if to say one thing:

This was no place for angels.

He rapped the top of the hansom with his cane.
“Arr
ê
tez!”

Beside him, Tristan jerked awake.

“We’re here already?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Tristan hadn’t been sleeping well in the past week. Sometimes, S
é
verin found him curled up in the greenhouse, a
pair of pliers in his hand, surrounded by unfinished terrariums … including one creation where an array of crimped jasmine petals looked unnervingly like milky bones set into the earth.

“Where are the others?” asked Tristan.

“Probably inside,” said S
é
verin.

Enrique had been giddy to attend the full moon party at the infamous Palais, and S
é
verin would’ve bet money he’d try to get there early
just for the desserts.

“Don’t forget the mask,” said S
é
verin.

“Oh, right.”

Each of them had been given a wolf mask. He’d wear it, but he drew the line at baying at the full moon or whatever festivity the Palais had planned.

Tristan jumped out of the hansom, then paused, patting one of his jacket pockets.

“Forgot I had this,” he said, drawing out an envelope. “The factotum asked me to give
it to you. He said it’s urgent.”

S
é
verin took the letter. “Who’s it from?”

“Matriarch of House Kore,” said Tristan, his mouth twisting.

He hadn’t quite warmed to the idea of S
é
verin regaining his House after the inheritance test was reissued tomorrow. Every day, Tristan had to be assured that nothing would change … and every day S
é
verin reassured him. He wasn’t going to ignore him like last
time.

S
é
verin stuffed the letter in his pocket. “She marks
everything
urgent.”

It was beginning to get annoying. Invitations to tea? Urgent. Queries about his marital status? Urgent. Thoughts on the weather? Urgent.

TONIGHT, THE PALAIS
felt like a devil’s dream of heaven, full of golden wolves and gleaming teeth and stars white as milk. Inside, the Palais had been redecorated for the full
moon festivities. Waitresses darted between tables, trailing burning seraph wings. The
obsidian floor looked like a void flecked with stars. Patrons in wolf masks sat in velvet chairs, tossing back their liquor and howling with laughter.

Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by gilded wolves. And for whatever reason, it made him feel perfectly at home. Wolves were everywhere. In politics, on
thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war. Not that S
é
verin was complaining. It was just that, like other wolves, he wanted his share.

Tomorrow, he would have it.

At the center of the room near the stage, Enrique and Hypnos waved them down. S
é
verin made his way over and sank into the armchair.

“Where’s Zofia?”

“She decided not to come for some reason,” said Hypnos.

The corner of Enrique’s mouth tugged down for an instant, but he quickly hid it in a smile.

“More strawberries for me,” he said, reaching for the silver bowl full of sweets. “Also.
You’re late
. You’re lucky L’
É
nigme’s performance got moved to a later slot.”

“What?” snapped S
é
verin.

He’d timed their arrival precisely so they
would
miss her performance. When Laila danced, he felt like everyone
else in the room when they watched her. As if his soul’s salvation balanced on the turn of her wrist, the lift of her chin. He couldn’t go through that again.

“Why?” he asked.

Enrique shrugged. Even behind his mask, S
é
verin thought his gaze was a little too knowing. “Ask her yourself.”

Too late, he saw her walking toward them. Unlike the others, she wore no wolf mask but a white headdress fixed
with several white peacock feathers. A dress the color of moonlight clung to her. Heads turned when she walked. She smiled radiantly, and for good reason.
According to Hypnos, they might have a lead on the ancient book she’d been searching for these past two years. She might finally have a way out of Paris.

Laila didn’t greet anyone, but walked straight for him. She braced her hands on either
side of his chair and leaned close. “Laugh,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “Now.”

“Why?” he murmured.

“Because the proprietor of L’Eden has never stepped foot inside the Palais, and now you’ve caused quite a stir. More than one of the dancers wants to know whether you’re spoken for, and while I love them, I don’t want them running around the hotel trying to get your attention.”

Heat zipped up his spine. She wanted it to seem like he was hers.

“Jealousy looks good on you, Laila,” he said, smiling.

Laila scoffed, but her grip on his chair tightened a fraction. “I’ve got a reputation to protect. So do you. It’ll draw too much attention. So laugh.”

“Make it worth my while.”

Maybe it was the smoke in the air, or the dimming lights and eyeless wolves, but the words—meant
only to tease—slipped out wrong. Laila drew back an inch, her eyes dropping to his lips. Everyone else in this room could have vanished on the spot, and he wouldn’t have noticed. In her eyes, he saw an answering …
something
. A flash of radiance. And for the first time, he wondered whether she thought about that stolen night the way he did. If it haunted her too.

But then the performance cymbal
was struck, and she pulled back from him. He let out a delayed laugh, hoping it would be enough.

“
Presenting L’
É
nigme!
” exclaimed the announcer.

The ceiling spotlights spun toward her, and Laila turned without answering. S
é
verin cursed under his breath. What the hell was
wrong with him? He hunched his shoulders and felt the sharp corner of the envelope in his jacket.

“What was
that
about?”
asked Enrique.

“Nothing,” said S
é
verin brusquely.

He didn’t have to see Hypnos’s or Tristan’s eyes to know what kind of looks they were exchanging. His face burned as he pulled out the envelope and ripped open the letter. Better to look harried than humiliated, he thought.

L’
É
nigme took the stage and the entire theatre burst into applause, rising to their feet and stamping the ground. In the
din, he almost couldn’t process the letter, but then the words hit him:

ROUX-JOUBERT ESCAPED.

DO NOT LEAVE L’EDEN.

The letter dropped from his hands. S
é
verin felt like he was moving through water. He couldn’t stand up fast enough. Around him, the howls of the audience turned to shouts.

“Fire!” shouted someone beside him.

The curtains had caught in an instant. A wildfire clawed up toward
the balconies, moving with unnatural speed.

Tristan clutched his arm. “Dear God—”

S
é
verin followed his gaze to the hall where Roux-Joubert stormed through the entrance. With every step, he threw sparks of fire onto the ground. More velvet curtains caught fire and smoke thickened the air. Overhead, the chandelier swung dangerously as the crowd stampeded. From the podium, the announcer yelled
for the guards, for
order
—

But all S
é
verin heard was Roux-Joubert.

“It doesn’t work that way, dear boy,” said Roux-Joubert, smiling. “You cannot go without leaving something behind.”

Roux-Joubert’s gaze went to Laila. She had managed to clamber down from the stage, and now ran toward the table. She reached out, and Hypnos grabbed her hand. The blade-brimmed hat sailed toward them. Séverin launched
out of his chair, throwing his body across hers until they both crashed to the ground—

Her heart beat furiously against his, and he wanted to bask in that cadence forever. All around him, footsteps pounded into the ground, shouts stamping the air. His eyes seamed shut, his whole body tensed for a blow that never came.

“Oh no, oh no—” cried Enrique.

S
é
verin opened his eyes, pushing himself off
Laila and the ground. But she must have seen something before him because she let out a strangled cry. S
é
verin turned, and he thought the world had split.

He was wrong. Laila had never been the intended hit of the blade-brim hat. A metallic smell stamped into the air. Tristan swayed. He opened his mouth, as if he were going to speak. On the ground, the hat had fallen onto its top, the blade gleaming.
A thin line of red stained the collar of Tristan’s shirt. The line widened. Blood spilled down the front of his jacket. Tristan crumpled to the floor. His head fell back, knocking against the stone.

S
é
verin didn’t remember rushing to him. He didn’t remember gathering Tristan’s body and holding it close. Around him, the others had crowded close. He knew they were shouting, running for help, moving
so fast as if reality wouldn’t be able to catch up to them. But he knew the truth. He knew the moment he touched Tristan’s chin, turning it toward him. His gray eyes were still wide, but death had stolen their luster forever.

From the archival records of the Order of Babel
The Origins of Empire

Mistress Hedvig Petrovna, House Da
ž
bog of the Order’s Russian faction 1771, reign of Empress Yekaterine Alekseyevna

I
t is said that when one among us dies, the memory of their blood lies in the Ring.

The Ring always knows who its true master or mistress is.

Three weeks later …

S
é
verin sat in his office, waiting for his guests. On his desk, afternoon light spilled across the wood, thick and golden as yolk. It startled him sometimes. The audacity of the sun to rise after what had happened.

The door opened, and in stepped the matriarch of House Kore and Hypnos. Hypnos was dressed in black, his pale eyes rimmed red.

“You missed the
funeral,” he said.

S
é
verin said nothing. He didn’t want to mourn. He wanted to avenge. He wanted to find the Fallen House and open their throats.

The matriarch startled when she looked at him, recognition flitting across her face. He hoped her hand still hurt.

“You…” she started, raising her hand. But then she caught sight of her Ring and folded her hands across her lap.

“The French government
and the Order of Babel is indebted to you and your friends for your service in restoring my Ring and
preventing what might well have been the end of civilization,” said the matriarch stiffly.

Hypnos clasped his hands in front of him. “There is no reason to delay this any longer. House Vanth will be restored. You’ll be a patriarch.”

He pulled his Ring from his finger and set it on the desk. Then
he glared at the matriarch until she did the same. From the inside of his breast pocket, Hypnos withdrew a small blade.

“It will only hurt for a moment,” said Hypnos gently. “But then you can reclaim what is yours. You can be a patriarch in time for the Winter Conclave in Russia. The whole Order will recognize you then.”

The matriarch did not look at S
é
verin; her lips were clamped in a tight
line. S
é
verin stared at his desk. Here it was, the moment that he had worked for … a repeat of the two Rings test. He had imagined this moment a thousand times. His blood—the same blood denied and deemed false—smeared on their Rings, the blue light that would spiral up his arms, sink through his skin. He imagined it would feel like deliverance. Like wings shaking loose from his skin. The impossible
made possible—the world turned edible, the sky a cloth he could drag down and wrap around his fists. He had not imagined it would feel like this. Hollow.

“What’s a little more bloodshed,” he said, pushing the Rings across his desk.

Hypnos stared at him oddly. “I thought you wanted this.”

S
é
verin watched the Rings roll across the wood. He blinked, and no blue light swam behind his eyes. He saw
fair hair, nails with crescents of dirt. Downcast gray eyes.

Why can’t this be enough? Sometimes I wished you didn’t even want to
be
a patriarch.

A memory came to him, unbidden, of the day Hypnos had tricked
him into an oath. S
é
verin remembered looking at Zofia, Tristan, Enrique, and Laila through the glass door. They had been drinking tea and cocoa and eating cookies. He remembered wishing
to grab that moment and press it beneath glass. And look at where it had gotten him. He had sworn to protect Tristan, and now Tristan was dead. He had promised to look out for the others … and now the Fallen House, who had seen
each
of their faces, was still out there. Waiting. Without them by his side, they’d never find the Fallen House. And with them at his side, they walked with death ever
at their shadow. He couldn’t let them get hurt. But he couldn’t let them get too close either. When he blinked, he remembered Laila’s body beneath his, the cadence of her heart. A siren song. Guilt snapped his thoughts. For the song of her heartbeats, he’d never wash Tristan’s blood from his hands.

The matriarch’s eyes widened.

“Do you?” she asked. “Do you want this?”

“No.” He stood abruptly
and walked to the door, ushering them out. “Not anymore.”