The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(8)

He couldn’t twist his body to turn.

“No, not at all,” said Enrique.

In front of him, the eagle tilted its head to one side. Enrique pulled more strongly on Séverin’s trapped wrist. Séverin groaned.

“Forget it,” he wheezed. “I’m stuck. We need to put it to sleep.”

Enrique agreed, but now the question was how. Because Forged creatures were too dangerous to go unchecked, all artisans were legally required to add a failsafe known as somno, which put the object to sleep. But even if he found it, the somno might be further encrypted. Worse, if he let go of the jaws, they’d only crush Séverin’s wrist faster. And if they didn’t get out by the eight-minute limit, the Forged creatures would be the least of their worries.

Séverin grunted. “By all means, take your time. I love a good slow, painful death.”

Enrique let go. Steadying himself, he circled the onyx bear, ignoring the ever-closer jumping of the emerald eagle. He ran his hands along the bear’s body, the black haunches and shaggy feet. Nothing.

“Enrique,” breathed Séverin.

Séverin fell to his knees. Rivulets of blood streamed, dripping down the creature’s jaws. Enrique swore under his breath. He closed his eyes. Sight wouldn’t help him here. With so little light in the room, he would have to feel for any words. He trailed his fingers across the bear’s haunches and belly until he caught something near its ankles: chipped-away depressions in the stone; evenly spaced and close together as if it were a line of writing. The letters and words came to life beneath his touch.

Fiduciam in domum



“Trust in the House,” translated Enrique. He whispered it again, running scenarios through his head. “I … I have an idea.”

“Do enlighten me,” managed Séverin.

The bear lifted one of its heavy, jet paws, casting a shadow over Séverin’s face.

“You have to … to trust it!” cried Enrique. “Don’t fight it! Push your wrist farther!”

Séverin didn’t hesitate. He stood and pushed. But his hand remained stuck. Séverin growled. He threw himself against the creature. His shoulder popped wetly. Every second felt like a blade pressed tight against Enrique’s skin. Just then, the eagle took off in the air. It circled the room, then swooped, talons out. Enrique ducked as the jewel claws grazed his neck. He wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. Once more, claws rasped at his neck. The eagle’s talons tugged him upward, his heels lifted off the ground. Enrique shut his eyes tight.

“Mind the hair—” he started.

Abruptly, he was dropped to the ground. He opened his eyes a crack. A bare ceiling met his gaze. Behind him, he heard the shuffling of talons on a podium. He raised himself up on his elbows.

The eagle had gone statue still.

Séverin heaved and rose to a stand. He clutched his wrist. Then, yanking his arm, he swung it forward. Enrique grimaced at the wet snick of joints popping back into place. Séverin wiped the blood on his pants and plucked out the Forged compass from the mouth of the still, onyx bear. He slid it into his jacket and smoothed back his hair.

“Well,” he said finally. “At least it wasn’t like Nisyros Island.”

“Are you serious?” croaked Enrique. He trudged after his friend to the door. “It’ll be ‘like dreaming,’ you said. As ‘easy as sleep’!”

“Nightmares are part of sleeping.”

“Is that a joke?” demanded Enrique. “You do realize your hand is mangled.”

“I am aware.”

“You almost got eaten by a bear.”

“Not a real one.”

“The dismemberment would’ve been real enough.”

Séverin only grinned. “See you in a bit,” he said, and slipped out the door.

Enrique lingered to give Séverin a head start.

In the dark, he felt the presence of the Order’s treasure like the eyes of the dead. Hate shivered through him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the looming, salvaged piles. He might help Séverin steal, but the greatest thief of all was the Order of Babel, for they stole more than just objects … They stole histories, swallowed cultures whole, smuggled evidence of illustrious antiquity onto large ships and spirited them into indifferent lands.

“Indifferent lands,” mused Enrique. “That’s a good line for later.”

He could use it in the next article he submitted to the Spanish newspaper dedicated to Filipino nationalism. So far he didn’t have the connections that made anyone think his thoughts were worth listening to. This acquisition could change that.

But first he had to finish the job.

Enrique counted down the thirty seconds. Then, he straightened the borrowed servant’s outfit, adjusted his mask, and stepped into the darkened hall. Between the gaps of the marble pillars, he could make out the flutter of fans stabbing the air.

Right on time for his meeting, the Vietnamese diplomat V? V?n ?inh rounded the corner. A falsified letter poked out of his sleeve. Though he had hated doing it, Tristan was exceptionally good at faking people’s handwriting. That of the diplomat’s mistress was no exception.

Last week, Enrique and the diplomat had shared a drink at L’Eden. While the diplomat was distracted, Laila had fished out the mistress’s letter from ?inh’s jacket, and Tristan had copied her penmanship to orchestrate this very meeting.