The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(53)

“Hypnos?”

“Yes?”

“Are you Laila?”

Hypnos hung his head. “… No.”

“Laila?”

Laila pointed at Hypnos. “What he said.”

“Are we clear?” asked Séverin. “Laila gets the key. Zofia makes the copy. Me and Hypnos take the library route, meet you in the underground vault. We get the Horus Eye, and we’re out no later than an hour after midnight when our transport comes.”

Hypnos, Enrique, Zofia, and Laila nodded as one. Tristan, who had silently been curled up on the bed, was the last to nod.

Enrique left first, escaping down the laundry chute armed with Forged bells that muffled his sounds. Next went Hypnos and Zofia, their heads bent close. Which left Tristan and Laila.

“Stay a moment, Laila?” asked Séverin.

She frowned, but nodded.

Tristan shuffled to him. Séverin shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at him.

“Listen—” started Tristan.

At the same time Séverin 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.”

Séverin groaned. “Not this again.”

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

“Tristan.” Séverin 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. Séverin 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 Séverin 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.”

Séverin 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, Séverin 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, Séverin 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.