False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(66)

I shake my head, which feels fuzzy. I eye the scented fog in suspicion—have they put something in it, like the way they release extra pheromones in the casinos? Was there something in that glass of champagne—real champagne!—I drank far too quickly?

I have to keep my wits about me.

I understand a lot more than I did before, but there are still so many gaps. Tila came into the Ratel from a different direction than Nazarin. She may have run errands briefly, but as soon as she proved that she could lucid dream, she worked her way in deeper without going through the official steps. Until now. She’s close enough that they want her to do something more important for them, if she just passes this Test. If I just pass the Test.

I force myself to stay calm, to smile at the guests as if nothing is bothering me.

What did the Ratel think, when Vuk disappeared? Do they think he went rogue, or do they know that something happened to him? Tila wasn’t supposed to be working that night, but surely someone at the club noticed her. Sal saw her. Did he change his colors and decide to turn her in to the Ratel? There is a chance that this is all an elaborate trap. Nazarin said that the hitman, that Adam-turned-Vuk, wasn’t after her. I’m not sure if I still believe that.

I look around for Nazarin again, my mouth dry. I drink more champagne to wet it, though the bubbles are going to my head already. It all just seems so very, very stupid. We’re here with essentially no backup because any type of surveillance would be instantly recognized by the scanners we passed at the gate. There’s plenty of cops seconds away if we can manage to call them, but the odds of that in here are next to nothing—all signals are blocked.

I’m beginning to panic, sweating beneath the silver fabric. Where is Nazarin? He wouldn’t leave me, would he? I keep saying hello to strangers, fudging conversations, my mind working in overtime not to step in the wrong place. Nobody mentions a thing about the Ratel. They comment on the decor, how amazing this building is, the champagne, the salty caviar blintzes. I want to scream.

Be Tila. She’d know how to react. None of this would faze her.

The party wears on. My cheeks ache from the effort of appearing cheerful and flirtatious, uncaring and unaware of the precariousness of my situation. I dance with people. I sip more champagne, nibble at the decadent treats. There’s still no Nazarin. I can’t help but feel he’s thrown me to the wolves. The shiny, silvery distraction.

Nazarin finally returns. He has a pretty man next to him, who’s flirting shamelessly, and he’s flirting in turn with considerable skill. I feel an unwelcome flare of annoyance at the display. With a start, I recognize the other person: he’s Leo, the young man Tila mentioned in her notes. The potential ally. I make my way toward them.

“Good evening. Great party, right?” I sound inane.

Nazarin gestures to me. “Leo, I believe you’ve met Tila.”

“How could I ever forget?” he says, taking my hand and kissing the back of it.

I wonder what sort of impression Tila made.

Leo seems composed, but his eyes keep darting about the room. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable with eye contact. He moves with the grace of someone who knows how to fight.

He meets my eyes. “The party’s only just getting started, isn’t it? Lots more entertainment to come, I’m sure.”

I smile, though something makes me uneasy. Nazarin narrows his eyes at Leo.

“Leo,” Nazarin says. “You’ll have to excuse us, but I want to steal Tila for a dance.”

Leo smiles. “Of course. I might have to steal her after, if you don’t mind that is,” he says to me. Smooth. Very smooth.

“That’d be lovely,” I say, thinking it would be no such thing. “Excuse me, I’m going to find another drink, first.” Nazarin reaches out to touch my elbow. He wants to tell me something, but there’s no way he can. The crowd is thicker than at the start of the evening. Too many ears to overhear a whisper. Ocular and auditory implants have been blocked by tech dampeners.

Nazarin’s eyes follow me as I take another flute of champagne I will not drink from a droid servant.

I turn around and a woman stands right before me, flanked by two guards. She looks me up and down, smiling in recognition. She knows me and has seen me before.

And I recognize her, though it takes me a moment to realize who she is, with her hair up.

It’s Malka. The Queen of the Ratel.

She has the tightness around her eyes that speaks of facelifts. Her brows are high and arched, her full lips curl at the edges. She has skin of a deep brown, her hair in a slick updo, with a web of metal and crystals holding the hair in place.

“Tila,” Malka says. She reeks of power. The two bodyguards at her sides are droids, their blank faces twisting from side to side for danger.

I smile blankly in return, my mind running in frantic circles. I glance at Nazarin and his eyes are wide, locked on me.

“The Khan of Xanadu is ready to see you now. It’s time to Test your mettle.”

I blink quickly, then put another inane grin on my face. “Wonderful. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

She laughs, low and throaty, rubbing the fingers of one hand against the fleshy base of her thumb. “I wouldn’t be, if I were you. Come along, little canary.”

Malka takes my arm and leads me through the crowd. She stops as people greet her, introducing me. I watch other people’s reactions, the awe and fear she inspires in them.