The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(34)

“You don’t know what you’re stopping,” the man wheezed. “This is the start of something new. A true revolution.”

He stalked toward her. The dark shape of him choked off the light. Zofia staggered, crawling backward as she reached for the Forged tape concealed on the underside of her collar. She peeled it off, throwing it between her and the man. As she threw it, she willed it: Ignite.

Flames spurted up from the ground and heat shimmered in the air. Just through the flames, she saw the man’s face. Livid and red in the glow.

Enrique helped her stand, his voice sounding faraway as he rallied her: “Move, move!” The exit was within reach. One step, then another, then running. The glass doors flung back. Footsteps slapped the pavement. The scent of fire stung her nose. Her mouth tasted like iron and salt from accidentally biting her tongue, and her ears rang out with the man’s last word: “Revolution.”





10





LAILA


Laila couldn’t find enough breath to pull into her lungs.

Hypnos had sent her head spinning.

Tristan and Séverin will be dead within the hour.

“What do you want me to do?”

Hypnos clapped his hands. “I adore when people ask me that.”

Laila narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you—” she started.

But Hypnos ignored her, crossing the room to Laila’s large, gilt mirror propped up on her vanity.

“Allow me to show you the scene I just left behind on the floor of the Palais.”

Hypnos pressed his hand to the mirror, and the image rippled. The reflection changed from Laila’s dressing room to an eye-level perspective of the audience facing the stage. In the mirror’s reflection, men lit up their cigars. Waitresses weaved through the audience wearing wings made of newsleaf, each sheet covered in the words of the French constitution: Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité. Laila eyed Hypnos suspiciously. Only the courtesans and dancers of the Palais knew the mirror’s abilities.

He met her gaze and shrugged.

“Please, ma chère, this room is not the first dancer’s room I’ve been invited to.”

A flicker of movement in the mirror stole Laila’s response. A Sphinx.

“We anticipated one Sphinx in the crowd,” said Laila uneasily. “That’s nothing new—”

Hypnos pointed at the mirror. From the eastern hall, a second Sphinx. It paced back and forth. At the table nearest it sat the House Kore courier. At first, Laila’s heart lightened. Maybe Séverin and Tristan had gotten there earlier than she expected. Maybe Tristan had just put the decoy on the House Kore courier.

“That must be Séverin—” she started.

Just then, right on schedule, a third Sphinx stepped through the doors of the western hall. Beside it walked a S?reté officer in plain uniform. Séverin and Tristan.

Tristan spotted the House Kore courier on the other side of the room.

“Don’t!” Laila yelled.

She knew even as she yelled that it was useless. The mirror relayed only images. Not sound. No one could hear her.

If he walked forward, she wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. The mirror only allowed a look at a strict width of the audience. Tristan looked as if he was about to take a step forward when something yanked him backward. Abruptly, a group of men stood from their table, cutting Tristan and Séverin from view. When the men cleared, Laila caught a glimpse of Tristan and Séverin hiding behind a wide, marble column. Any moment now, the two genuine Sphinxes would recognize the imposter. A violent image flashed before her eyes. Séverin and Tristan facedown in a pool of blood.

Laila whirled to face Hypnos. “Get a message to them! Besides, you’re a patriarch of the Order. Can’t you call off the Sphinx?”

“The moment I step outside my home, my every action is recorded and submitted to the Order at the end of every month,” said Hypnos, tapping his lapel where a mnemo bug in the shape of a moth was pinned. No wonder he’d come here. All dressing rooms were Forged to nullify any recording devices.

Outside her door, someone began to beat drums, her cue to enter the stage. Laila eyed Hypnos’s fancy clothes, from the watch and the mnemo bug to the crescent-moon cuff links of his sleeves.

“Are all your accessories House-marked?”

Hypnos’s gaze turned haughty. He stroked his matching crescent-moon brooch. “Of course. Far too pretty to be on commoners.”

Laila had an idea. She unclasped her dress, candlelight catching on her Night and Stars costume.

Hypnos’s eyebrows skated up his forehead. “Oh, heavens,” he said. “I don’t blame you in the least. But I can’t have the death of my hired associates on the conscience of my irresistibility.”

“Your virtue is safe with me.” Laila winked. “How would you like to cause some drama?” she asked, shrugging off the rest of her gown. Her Forged peacock headdress tickled her skin.

Hypnos’s teeth flashed in the candlelight. “I live for it, lovely.”



* * *



L’éNIGME DID NOT take the stage as planned.

She did not take the stage at all.

Laila descended the main staircase instead of the stairwell that led directly to the stage. She told no one—not the stage manager, musicians, or even her fellow dancers. Which was just as well. When the grand courtesan had trained her, she had told her the only rules to follow were instincts and color palettes. Tonight, Laila followed both.