The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(54)

Unlike the Order of Babel auction, hardly anyone here had darker skin or a lilting accent. And yet, he recognized the decoration. Lovely and monstrous things plucked from tales that grew on the other side of the world. There were Forged dragons out of myths from the Orient, Sirenas with heavy-lidded eyes, bhuts with backwards feet. And though they were not all his tales, he saw himself in them: pushed to the corners of the dark. He was just like them. As solid as smoke and just as powerless.

He didn’t even look like himself. Or like any man from China that he’d met in the past. He was hiding in a caricature, and it let him pass without comment. Maybe it was an ugly thing to hide behind, but that was why he was here … so that he wouldn’t have to hide any longer.

The greenhouse loomed ahead. In the dimness, he could make out the strange symbols carved around it. Examples of sacred geometry. Even the footpath beneath him was covered in distinct symbols, tessellated stars inside circles, fractals of stars hidden in the trees. The very eaves of House Kore’s mansions spoke of ancient symbology with their repeated nautilus coils.

Enrique was nearly at the greenhouse when he felt someone grab his shoulder. He yelped, almost jumping in the air. He spun around to see Laila hiding behind a tree.

“Glad I caught you,” she breathed. Laila slipped something in his hand. “I found these in the guards’ uniforms, but only for the ones guarding the greenhouse.”

When Enrique opened his hand, all he saw was a candied violet.

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth at the moment, but—”

“Turning down food?” Laila went wide-eyed. “You must be nervous. This isn’t candy. It’s an antidote.”

“For what?”

“For the venom,” she said, frowning. “Didn’t Tristan tell you?”

Faintly, he heard the snap of something underfoot. Laila turned her head sharply and groaned. “I have to go. I think I’m being followed.”

Enrique scowled. Laila dealt with this all the time at the Palais, but he thought she’d at least be free of it here for a change.

“Idiot drunks. You have a blade?”

“Multiple.”

Laila touched his cheek once, then melted into the night.

The air around the greenhouse sweltered. No revelers came this far, which made sense. Fifty guards with shining bayonets was not exactly what he would call inviting. The greenhouse itself was a massive, imposing structure. Frosted glass, with clear roofs. That earthen, wet smell seeped into the air around it. Along the walls, he saw a familiar pattern. The same one that had been on the gilded mirror of the Palais Garnier: a six-pointed star, or hexagram, intertwined with crescent moons and pointed thorns and a great snake biting its own tail. Symbols of all four original Houses. There was something about that star that jolted him, though. The star was the sign of the Fallen House, the House that had dared not to protect the Babel Fragment, but use it, all because they thought God wanted them to. The hairs on the back of Enrique’s neck prickled.

A guard stopped him outside the greenhouse. “And you are?”

Enrique considered a retort, then looked at the bayonet and thought better of it. Bullet or no, that was still a sharp and pointy end.

“Greetings,” he said, roughening his voice. He held out his access card. “I am here to assist Monsieur Tristan Maréchal.”

“At this hour?”

“Does beauty follow the hours of the day?” asked Enrique, lifting his voice. “Do the heavens simply say ‘no, thank you’ because it’s a bit after midnight? I think not! My occupation knows no time. I don’t even know what time it is. Or where I am. Who am I? Who are you—”

The guard raised his hands. “Yes, yes, very well, I will accept the card. But know that I am under orders only to answer to Monsieur Maréchal. Not you. And the matriarch has requested that no one spend longer than ten minutes in the greenhouse, save for Monsieur Maréchal.”

Only ten minutes? Séverin hadn’t seemed to know that. The guard held open the door. Enrique walked inside. Tristan was waiting for him, elbow-deep in some hideous bloom.

“Corpse flower!” said Tristan excitedly.

He looked happy enough, but there was that strange blue tinge around his eyes that spoke of sleeplessness. Nightmares, even.

“Not my favorite term of endearment, I must admit.”

“No, this is a corpse flower.”

“Is that why it smells like death?”

“Taxonomy is rarely creative with its names,” said Tristan, standing.

The lights of the greenhouse were far brighter than those in Séverin’s room. For the first time, Enrique noticed how sallow Tristan’s skin looked. Usually, his round cheeks were bright with color, always propped up in a grin. But though he was cheerful enough when he saw Enrique, he had the look of someone depleted.

“Are you well?” Enrique asked. He carefully laid down the walking stick. He wouldn’t need it here.

Tristan swallowed. “Well enough. Or, at least, I will be soon.”

Soon. When they had found the Horus Eye. When Séverin was named heir of House Vanth, and the world itself might be within reach.

Enrique squeezed his shoulder. “Just one day more.”

Tristan nodded.

“What is this place?” asked Enrique, taking off his jacket.