The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(83)

“Just trust me.”

“Maybe I could stay behind,” said Hypnos. “I could be a point of contact on the street or—”

“What happened to being excited about teamwork?” asked Séverin.

“That was before I realized how little regard you hold for mortality.”

“If you follow the plan, your mortality will stay intact.”

Hypnos looked highly suspicious. “What is this plan of yours, mon cher?”

Before Séverin could answer, Zofia struck a match against her tooth. “Crocodile teeth.”

The four of them turned to her. Séverin laughed. Zofia had guessed exactly what they were going to do.

“Great minds think alike.”

Zofia frowned. “No, they don’t. Otherwise every idea would be uniform.”



* * *



BY NOW, SéVERIN’S mouth burned, but he still reached for another clove. He wasn’t sure where he had first heard that the aromatic herb helped preserve memory. A hotel guest, perhaps, leaving a present for him on the eve of his or her departure. Now, he couldn’t stop the habit. Memories unsettled him. He hated the thought that he might have missed something, and he didn’t want time warping how he remembered things because he didn’t trust himself to remember without bias. And he needed to. Because only then, only with absolute impartiality, could he detect where he had gone wrong. As he made his way to the grand lobby of L’Eden, he combed through—for the thousandth time—his last moments with Tristan. Tristan had been trying to warn him of something, and Séverin had turned him away. Was it then? Did Tristan step outside and get trapped by the Fallen House? Did he try to knock himself unconscious when they showed him the Phobus Helmet, the way he used to when they stayed in the home of Wrath? Roux-Joubert’s words found their way back to him with perfect clarity and for a moment, Séverin wished the cloves he chewed didn’t work half as well: “His love and his fear and his own cracked mind made it easy to convince him that betraying you was saving you…”

Guilt curdled in his stomach. He should have listened.

Séverin stood at the base of the grand staircase that opened into the lobby, surveying L’Eden. Except Tristan wasn’t here, and Séverin was alone. Then, from behind him, came a thin and reedy sound.

“Mama?”

Séverin’s spine stiffened.

He turned and saw a young boy clutching a ragged teddy bear. Children rarely stayed at L’Eden with their parents. He had expressly forbidden any “family-friendly” allure and had succeeded up until now. For a moment, Séverin was riveted by the sight of the child. Where he went, he rarely saw young children. And he forgot that he had ever been so small, barely hip-height and utterly lost.

“Mama?” called the little voice again.

What had happened to the boy’s parents? Had they actually presumed to abandon him … here?

Fat tears slid down the child’s face, and Séverin fought down the urge to yell at him.

Why mourn those who didn’t want you? he wanted to scream. You’ll be fine without them.

But then a woman rushed past him, gathering the boy in her arms and laughing. “Darling, did you not hear me say I was only going to check with the concierge for a moment?”

The boy shook his head, sobbing, and his mother held him close. Right then, his jealousy was a living thing, settling into his heart, pulsing through his veins. Of course, the boy hadn’t been abandoned. Of course, he had only been temporarily misplaced.

“What is wrong with me?” he murmured, turning away from the sight of the boy and his mother.

Across the sea of guests, his factotum caught his eye and waved. Séverin waited at the end of the staircase, occasionally nodding his head in acknowledgment to various guests until his factotum appeared. In one hand, he carried a small box that he held at arm’s length. Distaste rippled across his features.

“Sir, we can easily find someone else to perform this … task.”

Séverin took the box. Inside, a handful of brown crickets chirped and jumped. “I would prefer to see to it myself.”

“Very well, sir.”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw a sleek cheetah bound across the lobby. “And please inform the Marchessa de Castiglione that if Imhotep eats someone’s poodle again, the hotel is not responsible.”

His factotum sighed. “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

Séverin closed his hands into a fist. “The guests with the child … tell them their room is under construction. Find them comparable lodgings elsewhere. The Savoy perhaps.”

His factotum eyed him suspiciously. “Very well, sir.”



* * *



AT THE ENTRANCE to Tristan’s workshop, Séverin pinched the gilded ivy leaf of the Tezcat door only to stop short.

He wasn’t alone.

Silhouetted by candlelight and bent over a glass terrarium was Laila. She was singing a lullaby, though not particularly well, and dropping crickets into Goliath’s cage. Now he wished he’d let someone else come. He hated seeing her like this … going through routines, settling herself into a life she couldn’t wait to leave behind.

He took a step toward the table. Around her gleamed the miniature worlds that Tristan crafted. Minuscule spires lording over a painted sky. Gardens where porcelain petals gathered dust. Amidst it, Laila looked like an icon. Her hair was pulled over one shoulder, and he imagined he could smell the sugar and rosewater sprayed at the hollow of her throat.