The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(102)

“Presenting L’énigme!” exclaimed the announcer.

The ceiling spotlights spun toward her, and Laila turned without answering. Séverin cursed under his breath. What the hell was wrong with him? He hunched his shoulders and felt the sharp corner of the envelope in his jacket.

“What was that about?” asked Enrique.

“Nothing,” said Séverin brusquely.

He didn’t have to see Hypnos’s or Tristan’s eyes to know what kind of looks they were exchanging. His face burned as he pulled out the envelope and ripped open the letter. Better to look harried than humiliated, he thought.

L’énigme took the stage and the entire theatre burst into applause, rising to their feet and stamping the ground. In the din, he almost couldn’t process the letter, but then the words hit him:

ROUX-JOUBERT ESCAPED.

DO NOT LEAVE L’EDEN.



The letter dropped from his hands. Séverin felt like he was moving through water. He couldn’t stand up fast enough. Around him, the howls of the audience turned to shouts.

“Fire!” shouted someone beside him.

The curtains had caught in an instant. A wildfire clawed up toward the balconies, moving with unnatural speed.

Tristan clutched his arm. “Dear God—”

Séverin followed his gaze to the hall where Roux-Joubert stormed through the entrance. With every step, he threw sparks of fire onto the ground. More velvet curtains caught fire and smoke thickened the air. Overhead, the chandelier swung dangerously as the crowd stampeded. From the podium, the announcer yelled for the guards, for order—

But all Séverin heard was Roux-Joubert.

“It doesn’t work that way, dear boy,” said Roux-Joubert, smiling. “You cannot go without leaving something behind.”

Roux-Joubert’s gaze went to Laila. She had managed to clamber down from the stage, and now ran toward the table. She reached out, and Hypnos grabbed her hand. The blade-brimmed hat sailed toward them. Séverin launched out of his chair, throwing his body across hers until they both crashed to the ground—

Her heart beat furiously against his, and he wanted to bask in that cadence forever. All around him, footsteps pounded into the ground, shouts stamping the air. His eyes seamed shut, his whole body tensed for a blow that never came.

“Oh no, oh no—” cried Enrique.

Séverin opened his eyes, pushing himself off Laila and the ground. But she must have seen something before him because she let out a strangled cry. Séverin turned, and he thought the world had split.

He was wrong. Laila had never been the intended hit of the blade-brim hat. A metallic smell stamped into the air. Tristan swayed. He opened his mouth, as if he were going to speak. On the ground, the hat had fallen onto its top, the blade gleaming. A thin line of red stained the collar of Tristan’s shirt. The line widened. Blood spilled down the front of his jacket. Tristan crumpled to the floor. His head fell back, knocking against the stone.

Séverin didn’t remember rushing to him. He didn’t remember gathering Tristan’s body and holding it close. Around him, the others had crowded close. He knew they were shouting, running for help, moving so fast as if reality wouldn’t be able to catch up to them. But he knew the truth. He knew the moment he touched Tristan’s chin, turning it toward him. His gray eyes were still wide, but death had stolen their luster forever.





PART VII


From the archival records of the Order of Babel The Origins of Empire Mistress Hedvig Petrovna, House Da?bog of the Order’s Russian faction 1771, reign of Empress Yekaterine Alekseyevna It is said that when one among us dies, the memory of their blood lies in the Ring.

The Ring always knows who its true master or mistress is.





36





SéVERIN


Three weeks later …

Séverin sat in his office, waiting for his guests. On his desk, afternoon light spilled across the wood, thick and golden as yolk. It startled him sometimes. The audacity of the sun to rise after what had happened.

The door opened, and in stepped the matriarch of House Kore and Hypnos. Hypnos was dressed in black, his pale eyes rimmed red.

“You missed the funeral,” he said.

Séverin said nothing. He didn’t want to mourn. He wanted to avenge. He wanted to find the Fallen House and open their throats.

The matriarch startled when she looked at him, recognition flitting across her face. He hoped her hand still hurt.

“You…” she started, raising her hand. But then she caught sight of her Ring and folded her hands across her lap.

“The French government and the Order of Babel is indebted to you and your friends for your service in restoring my Ring and preventing what might well have been the end of civilization,” said the matriarch stiffly.

Hypnos clasped his hands in front of him. “There is no reason to delay this any longer. House Vanth will be restored. You’ll be a patriarch.”

He pulled his Ring from his finger and set it on the desk. Then he glared at the matriarch until she did the same. From the inside of his breast pocket, Hypnos withdrew a small blade.

“It will only hurt for a moment,” said Hypnos gently. “But then you can reclaim what is yours. You can be a patriarch in time for the Winter Conclave in Russia. The whole Order will recognize you then.”