The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(56)

But the loud shouts outside the door snapped his victory in half. The piranha solution spread quickly over the terrarium floor, stopping just short of the guards. A blue sheen crept over Tristan’s skin. Enrique patted down his jacket, his fingers shaking until he found what he was looking for: the candied violet.

Enrique shoved the candy into Tristan’s mouth, pinching his nose and forcing him to swallow. He had two unconscious guards, a thoroughly ruined mustache, and outside, the door shook from the sounds of the security team. Hope was a thin thread inside him, but Enrique reached for it anyway. It was all he had left.





16





LAILA


Laila fumbled in the dark, her breaths shallow and quick.

If you panic, you’ll lose even more.

The taste of metal filled her mouth. She winced. The sharp lock pick had scraped the inside of her cheek. She spat it into her hand, then started feeling around for the hinges.

In a way, this was her fault. Three weeks ago, she’d ruined a cake. Séverin, perhaps trying to console her, or more likely get her out of his study, had said, “It’s just cake. It’s not like there’s anything valuable inside it.”

“Oh really?” she had demanded.

She’d baked his favorite snake seal into a fruit tart, and left it on his desk with a note: You’re wrong.

So who was she to blame when Séverin had slid the note she’d written across her kitchen counter, told her about his plan, and grinningly said, “Prove it.”

And here she was.

Trapped in a cake.

Sneaking herself into the base had been easy once the whole thing had been assembled. The final task—locking it shut—required Zofia.

Her fingers fumbled until they finally found the clasp. Sweat slicked her palms. The metal needles were wet with spit and kept sliding from her hands. All she could hear was her heartbeat. And then the pick notched into something. She stilled. Listening. Listening for the slight gasp of metal, the muffled snick of things aligning …

Pop.

The hinges came undone, clanging to the bottom of the base. Laila grinned.

And then she pushed. But the compartment wouldn’t budge. She pushed harder, but there was something blocking her. Wedging the small metal piece between the edges, Laila pried. A gap opened, just enough for her to glimpse what was blocking her exit.

The servant who had wheeled her in must have placed the base of the cake against the bookshelf.

She was trapped.

Outside, the clock chimed eight in the evening. The sound of the nautch dancers’ anklet bells chimed through the halls. Her heart lurched as she heard the familiar straining of a sitar in the distance, the musicians tuning their instruments for the dancers. Any second now, and Séverin would be standing outside, waiting to help the lost dancer while she slipped him the key.

But there was no way she could get out in time.

Laila threw her weight against the metal board, but nothing gave way. Another bell chimed. Shoes shuffling outside the door. If Séverin had been waiting for her to slip him the key, he’d left by now.

Folded onto her side in the dark, Laila reached down to remove her slippers. The right slid off. Then the left. She shoved one slipper into the other, twisting them through the gap in the cake base. Her arms shook as she pushed all her weight into those interlocked shoes braced against the bookcase.

At first, nothing happened. The cart didn’t budge. And then an inch gave way. More light slid through the base. Laila pushed again, scraping open her elbow.

The wheels of the cart squeaked, rolling backward and giving just enough room for Laila to slide out one leg, then the next, before she finally uncrumpled onto the carpet. She let out a breath.

Laila checked the hollow base once more for any strands of her hair or scraps of cloth before making quick work of the locks. On the other side of the door, the sounds of the party reached her. She cast her gaze to the chaise cushion in the corner of the room where Hypnos had hidden her costume.

Laila pushed any tendrils of fear out of her thoughts. She would figure out how to get House Kore’s vault key to Séverin later. First, she needed the key itself.

The matriarch’s office looked like a sprawling, elaborate honeycomb. Hundreds of interlocking golden hexagons formed the walls, filled with books or plants or etchings of her late husband. The ceiling was a ribbon of gold shot through with crimson, a portrait of still flames. Far from the windows stood a nephrite desk, like Séverin’s. The bookcase behind it stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with as many strange objects as actual books: hollow skulls full of dried flowers, animal prints trapped in slick amber, jars upon jars of preserved things. If she wanted to, Laila could trail her fingers across the desk’s surface, reading for the image of a key that might have touched it. But instinct stopped her.

On the floor, Laila found a small paper clip and tossed it onto the jade surface. The desk glowed red in warning. Her mouth tightened.

Like Séverin’s, the desk was Forged.

She turned to the honeycomb walls, and threw another metal clip. The bookcase did not change color. Not Forged. But that didn’t help her get the key from the desk. If it was Forged to remember her touch—or hold her hand hostage—she needed something to counteract it …

Like a Forged creature, Séverin’s desk had a somno that turned off the warning mechanism. It was just a matter of finding out how to trigger it.