The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(55)

“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 violet 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 Maréchal. 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 wondered 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 Maréchal! 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?”