Oathbound (The Legendborn Cycle #3)

Chapter 30

30

FOUR MONTHS AND ONE WEEK

AFTER brIANA MATTHEWS DISAPPEARED

Bree

“ELIJAH THINKS WE can do this,” I say out loud, for both our sakes.

“Not true.” Zoe scrolls through her phone in the back seat of our human driver’s black SUV. “Elijah doesn’t think anyone can do anything right without him.”

Our driver is too busy nodding along to his music to be paying attention to us, but I keep my voice low anyway. “I don’t know why he’s so worried,” I mutter. “We’re gonna be fine.”

Zoe eyes me warily. “We’re gonna be something , Bree, but I don’t know if it’s fine.”

We arrive at Mikael’s Gilded Age mansion, the Penumbra Estate, in the early evening. By the time our car joins the line of vehicles waiting to get into Mikael’s, I’ve seen enough of the other guests at the mansion entrance to be extra grateful for Zoe’s efforts on my appearance in the bathroom at Erebus’s home.

Zoe’s full glam will help us fit in with the youngest attendees in formal wear exiting their limos and high-end black electric vehicles. The rest of the guests could be in their thirties or forties, and many are much older. Actual established wealthy people who own actual businesses and corporations, unlike us.

“?‘People are coming from all over the country,’?” Zoe quotes from Elijah’s texts. “?‘Make a good impression. Get in and out quick. Don’t get caught. I mean it, Z.’?” She rolls her eyes. “He’s so annoying.”

“You have the invitation?”

“You’re almost as bad as he is. You’ve already asked me that three times,” Zoe mutters. She digs around in her bag before handing me a heavy black paper envelope previously sealed by an embellished fleur-de-lis stamped into glowing green wax. I open the envelope to tug the heavy cardstock invitation into view, taking one more look at our names for the night.

Tonight, I’m Vivienne Keaton and Zoe is Tamar Keaton. Allegedly both women are real heiresses based somewhere in New York, and Daeza’s staff made sure to get their names on Mikael’s invite list. I hand the invitation back to Zoe, and she secures it in her small overnight bag along with her clothing, a change of shoes, and her medications.

We’d both protested bringing more than a cute clutch to tonight’s events, but Erebus insisted. When Zoe asked why, he’d only intoned, “Rules can change.”

My own overnight bag contains a skirt and a pair of slacks, one casual black dress, and a pair of low heels. When I nervously sift through it all again, I barely recognize my own hand—I’d borrowed one of Zoe’s burgundy nail polishes to match my dress.

I examine the rest of my appearance in the handheld mirror I stuffed into my purse. To fit the occasion, Zoe’s given me the most dramatic smoky eye I’ve ever seen outside of a magazine or social media. Full, deep red lips. Blush I don’t remember her applying. Brows brushed and arched.

“I look like I could walk a red carpet,” I murmur, still in shock.

She chuckles. “That was the point.” Then, she leans close to me, whispering, “Listen, girl, you look like a freshman in college on a good day. But tonight, you need to look worldly. Sorta evil, ridiculously rich, and like nobody, nobody can fuck with you.”

I grin slow. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Exactly.” She pats my shoulder and sits back in her seat. “Now think that about twenty times in the next five minutes so it actually shows up on your face, please. You’re good at lying. Don’t stop now.”

“Here okay?” The driver slows at the curb behind three other cars dropping off attendees.

“Yep, this is great,” Zoe confirms. As the driver rolls to a stop, Zoe pulls out a thin eye mask and hands it to me, then pulls out another for herself.

Mikael’s gala auctions aren’t very… legal. Politicians, celebrities, and public figures could be in attendance—and would lose their status if they were revealed to be attending something so unsavory. As such, masquerade masks are required for all gala guests before they can enter the building.

Our masks are both black lace filigree, delicate but snug. They cover the bridges of our noses, our eyebrows, and the very tops of our cheekbones, leaving our eyes, cheeks, and mouths exposed. The lace on my mask climbs to a pointed, flame-shaped crest in the center of my forehead, while Zoe’s design sprawls wide to curl and twist down her temples. When she finishes securing her mask in place, she harrumphs at the way its hidden band interferes with her carefully crafted two-strand twists.

When I look in my hand mirror again, a memory flares bright behind my eyes: checking my appearance in a dingy bar bathroom. The girl with reddish-gold root the color of a sunset. A reminder that we’re here to play a role so that we can return the King’s crown. Not because he deserves it, not because it was taken from him, but because when it’s back on his head, he’ll stop hunting. And maybe, just maybe, we can save the missing girl who tried to save me.

Zoe steps out first, then straightens her dress and adjusts her bag. Her golden gown looks absolutely stunning on her—long and fitting, flaring over her slim hips and shapely legs with a slit up the side showing off a long stretch of brown thigh. She looks like a model.

When I stand at the curb, I smooth my hands over the wine-red velvet and bead-and-lace detailing of my own gown. The dress dips into a low V neckline in the front while its straps expose my upper back beneath my partial updo and loose curls. Like Zoe’s, my gown has a high slit on one side that reveals the length of my right leg. The dress makes me feel powerful… but so does the dagger strapped to my left thigh and hidden under the heavy material.

Zoe holds a hand out, and I take it, grateful for her support as I walk in my new heels. Together, we start up the sidewalk, joining the flow and laughter of wealthy people attending a party at a demon’s estate.

Nobody can fuck with me.

Mikael’s mansion is gorgeous—and massive. The stone building extends wide on either side but it’s also four stories tall and topped by pointed spires. While we wait in line to be admitted by his security, I catch glimpses of the interior through the large windows over the double entry doors. A three-tiered chandelier hangs in the enormous two-story foyer, casting a sparkling glow over dark walls lined with gold crown molding and wainscoting.

The estate feels like something out of a European Gothic fantasy. It is extraordinary, ostentatious, and a show of not just money but of power. Over people, over the imagination, over the very idea of what “progress” should look like.

Nothing about the building feels like a warm home. Instead, everything is a declaration. A challenge. A dare to cross the ideals of its owner and, for some, an invitation to join his inner circle.

No wonder Mikael and his enterprises annoy Erebus. The Shadow King is power incarnate with very little need to show it, while Mikael, one of his Shades, plays with humanity’s ambitions by living loudly on riches they could never hope to attain in a single lifetime.

As the line inches forward, I assess the other auction attendees—and realize that I don’t feel any cambion or demon eyes on me at all.

In the end, goruchel align themselves with power, Elijah had said with a shrug during our prep session in Erebus’s living room last night. But Mikael is unusual, even for a Shade. He isn’t known for letting other demons close. In fact, he doesn’t keep goruchel on-site at all; he doesn’t trust them not to turn on him when they’re unsatisfied, like Regazel did with Daeza.

The only magical beings on Mikael’s staff are warlocks. Humans who offered their servitude to the broker in exchange for longer-term, more substantial demon abilities. Ones they wouldn’t have to give up right away.

“We’re up,” Zoe murmurs between the tight lips of her smile. Tonight, she has her most human face on. While a warlock couldn’t detect a balanced cambion on her best behavior, it’s better to play it safe. Brown eyes only, no superspeed, no hyperagility or strength. Just a normal, human young woman with her normal, human sister, playing dress-up for a night at an auction.

I step up to greet the two bulky men at the door, both in tuxes, both too wide and tall to be only human. Warlocks, for sure. Their faces are fully exposed. No masks in sight. I suppose Mikael’s staff have the Shade’s protection if their identities are ever exposed, but gala guests can’t guarantee the same.

“Invitation?” The pale-skinned, freckled warlock on my right holds out his hand, eyes skimming over Zoe’s face and down her dress to her exposed leg.

Ew, I think.

“Right here,” Zoe says, fishing the envelope out of her bag and handing it over for the both of us. The man examines the thick paper with eyes that flash green.

Elijah’s voice comes back to me: Mikael’s gala invitation is sealed by aether-infused wax stamped with an event-specific symbol. Like a temporary password, the aether glow will fade and the symbol will expire so that the invitation can’t be reused at next year’s gala. Mikael may prefer to spend his time with humans, but only a greater demon could apply this kind of seal and even then, they’d have to know this year’s design. Either he trusts some of his fellow demons, like Daeza, to send human guests his way… or Daeza’s spies are as good as she claims. What matters is that the identities Daeza gave you are far less important than the seal. The seal is the real ticket to entry, and someone with the Sight will have to verify it before they let you in.

The guards don’t know what the guests look like, and even if they did, everyone’s wearing masks. They don’t even bother checking our names against a list. The name isn’t critical—the seal is. And Mikael’s human guests will never be the wiser.

After a second of examination, the man approves the seal and hands the invite back to Zoe, eyes already over her shoulder to the next guest as he speaks. “Keep your invite on you at all times. Stay together at all times.”

“No problem,” Zoe says, and it feels to me that she’s more than caught up in her role as a rich human socialite. She’s on her tiptoes looking past the bouncer. “Is that a Mugler?” she asks, peering around the bicep of the guard.

“A what?” the guard asks.

She smirks back at him. “Designer, honey.”

He grunts, and waves us in. “Welcome to the Collectors’ Gala.”

Zoe links arms with me as we cross the threshold, shuddering against me in what looks like a show of excitement but is actually a genuine response to the rippling of a ward down our backs.

“Damn,” she mutters under her breath. “That feels nasty.”

“Mm-hmm.” We keep our eyes ahead, taking in the walls of the enormous foyer. Mikael has a taste for fine art; the burgundy walls are lined with paintings in gilded frames. Elijah guessed there’d be a ward. I keep my voice so quiet, barely a whisper of breath between my lips, so that only Zoe can hear. “Whatever it’s meant to catch, it didn’t stop us.”

We pause beside a painting. Her arm, pressed against mine, is covered with goose bumps. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, ’course.” She nods. “I don’t get nervous.”

“Right. ’Course.” I hide my smile as I look up. The painting we’ve stopped beneath depicts a pale woman being tempted to a bedroom by a red-eyed, horned beast.

As I turn, I catch a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror over a gray-streaked marble console table and barely recognize the person staring back at me—she looks older. Deadly, strong, and like she might be a monster herself. I give her a smile and turn back to Zoe to ask her if we should move to the ballroom with the other guests, but I never get the question out.

A rush of heat from the doorway hits us both where we stand while the humans around us continue to chat and mingle.

“Hey! Stop!” A man is being held in the tight grip of one of the security guards—because he tripped the ward.

Zoe and I watch as the iridescent shimmer of the ward jumps and dances around the doorway like a lake beneath a rain shower.

The shouting man catches the attention of several guests, but before anyone can do more than whisper with eyes wide, a pale white woman with hair the golden color of Zoe’s dress walks across the tile floor with swift steps, dispersing the crowd around the door with a glance.

“Step inside, please,” the woman orders. The guard who greeted us guides the struggling man into the foyer. The woman beckons them to follow her past the admitted guests and down a narrow hallway off to the side until the man’s raised voice is muffled from earshot.

Human earshot, anyway.

I glance at Zoe, and she narrows her eyes, listening. After a beat, she starts whispering for my ears only. “The man is saying he knows Mikael. That he’s an old friend.” She tilts her head again when the voices raise. “The woman who walked up is saying that he can take it up with Mikael himself?” She shrugs.

“She must be Bianca,” I murmur.

“Yes.”

Bianca is human—and Mikael’s second-in-command and captain of his warlock security team. A warlock herself, Bianca has been granted status from Mikael in return for her role in his empire. What powers she possesses seem to be a mystery to most; Elijah himself didn’t know.

“Let’s go,” I say. “When Bianca comes back, she’ll notice anyone who’s still standing around.”

Zoe nods, and we drift up the grand staircase to the massive ballroom on the second floor. Tonight’s event is both a gala and an auction, with bidding happening throughout and between schmoozing, dinner, and drinking. Dozens of small white cloth–covered tables take up most of the ballroom. Those tables are set up in a wide half circle around an open stretch of shining hardwood floors that create a sort of stage, with a raised podium in the middle. Larger round tables covered in black cloths with hurricane glass candles illuminate the empty corners of the room left dim by the chandelier overhead.

Those placing bids will sit at the white tables closest to the center stage, while other guests will sit at the back, watching the auction for entertainment. For now, the room is a loud, buzzy mixture of jazz music played over speakers and guests talking and mingling.

We pick up a few passed appetizers from staff in black and emerald, and look for a pair of empty seats close to the exit.

“There,” Zoe murmurs, spotting a large round table in a corner that will work for our mission. The table has four open seats and three older, well-dressed couples who seem very preoccupied chatting among themselves. “Save my seat while I get in position.” I nod silently and we split up. She moves toward the far wall while I stride to my own objective.

The room is so loud and the couples are so engrossed in their conversations—and what looks to be their second round of drinks—that they barely glance up when I approach. Perfect. I set my small bag down on an empty seat for Zoe while I drop quietly into my own chair.

The woman beside me is speaking with a gentleman in a tuxedo. Their masquerade masks match too—solid black satin covering their upper faces with wide holes for their eyes. I wonder what their “normal” day jobs are, or if they even have any. If buying and selling rare objects is just their very expensive hobby.

When the gentleman beside her excuses himself to head to the bar, the woman seems to notice me for the first time. Long earrings ending in pear-shaped rubies catch the light when she turns and smiles warmly beneath her mask. “Are you a new Collector?” she asks in a low voice.

“Yes.” I return her smile. Smooth and easy, not too eager. “This is my first gala.”

“Welcome.” She leans close, pressing thin fingers into the black cloth between us. “Have you heard about the finale?”

“S-sorry?” I stammer.

“The grand finale,” she says, raising her hand in the air to give the words an added flourish. “Allegedly, Mikael has something that is truly one of a kind. Unique in this world”—she leans closer—“and in the other world too.”

It’s just as Elijah said: Word on the street is that Mikael’s followers believe the supernatural exists, but they don’t know any of the real details. They think he’s a regular human being who just so happens to have access to the occasional magical object. Keeps them hungry to know more, collect more. Drives the prices of his auctions up too.

Still, as I consider this woman and her gentleman partner, I can’t help but think of Erebus’s words to me at the museum: Greedy men collect what they cannot understand.

I raise my brows high and widen my eyes beneath the mask. “I didn’t hear that, no…” I lower my voice to a purr to match hers. “You must be in the inner circle.”

She flushes pink below her mask. “Well, I can’t say exactly how I found out, but let’s just say that we often make it to the third round in auctions like these.” She waves her paper invite. “Mikael knows us by name.”

“Ah.” I nod but don’t truly know what she means. Grand finale? The Shadow King’s crown fits the description the woman shared, but what if it’s not the item she means? “Since this is my first gala, I’m not planning to bid on anything. I’ll just watch.”

The woman nods sagely. “Good for you. It’s best to get experience before you jump in the deep end.” She pats my hand and goes back to her drink.

I can’t help but wonder what this woman would say if I told her that the real reason I won’t be bidding on an artifact is because I’m here to steal one instead.

The lights overhead dim twice, signaling that the auction will begin soon. I find Zoe exactly where she’s supposed to be, chatting with a server near the exit that should be closest to the ballroom-level elevator. We make eye contact before she glances away, nodding without looking. That nod tells me what I need to know: that the elevator is indeed nearby and should be ready for me when the time is right. Just then, Bianca the warlock security captain strides in from the foyer with another warlock guard beside her, whispering something in his ear as they cross the room. The man caught by the ward is nowhere to be seen.

I check in with Zoe again, and again, she nods; she’s seen them too. Bianca and the other warlock are moving toward the same elevator, which goes down to the basement, where Elijah told us the auction items are held in secure storage. If they linger there, then our mission is over before it’s even begun.

A server stops by the table to offer us champagne in crystal flutes. His body and tray momentarily obstruct my view of both Zoe and Bianca, and I stifle a groan beneath a stiff smile.

I pass on the champagne he offers and as he moves on to the woman beside me, my sight line returns. I’m relieved to see that both Bianca and the warlock are gone, but I don’t know for certain whether the path to the elevator is clear. Zoe and her chatty server, however, are still near the far wall. She laughs at a joke the server makes and crosses her arms over her chest. After she makes a quick scan of the room, she taps her fingers twice on one elbow. All clear.

Ten minutes later, the first object is rolled out onstage from behind a curtain. It’s a shining, restored sextant from the early 1800s and the Napoleonic Wars, supposedly held by Napoleon himself.

The bidding starts at a half million dollars and quickly escalates—which is my cue to get moving. I start to excuse myself from the table, but it’s unnecessary. The other couples at the table are too engrossed in the swiftly moving bids popping up across the room.

Before I slip away from the ballroom, I glance over my shoulder to see Zoe still playing her part. Her gaze flicks to me, then to the rest of the room, then back. Go. I dip around the corner and walk swiftly to the elevator.

Everything is in motion.