Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
MORGANA
Another artifact to steal. Another night pretending this is normal.
I still can’t believe this is my life right now.
Today is the supernatural auction. I don’t really know what that means, but I do have expectations. So, imagine my disappointment when the entrance to the biggest supernatural auction of the year turns out to be a janitor’s closet in Grand Central Terminal.
I’m not joking.
“Seriously?” I snort.
Azrael does not even glance at me. He leads me through the terminal like he owns the entire place.
Tourists pause to take photos of the celestial ceiling, oblivious to the fact that something far stranger is moving right beside them.
At the information booth, a tired employee explains train schedules to a confused family as if it is the most important thing in the world.
Then Azrael steers us straight toward a maintenance door marked STAFF ONLY.
He doesn’t knock. He simply places his palm against the wood.
The door swings inwards into a space that shouldn’t exist, revealing a staircase that descends into darkness beneath one of the busiest places in Manhattan.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
“Would you prefer a dramatic entrance through the main terminal?” Azrael asks. His hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me forward without pressure but without room for argument. “I could arrange spotlights. Perhaps even a fog machine.”
I shake my head. “Your sense of humor is still awful.”
“And yet you keep responding to it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t have a reply for that, so I let it die in my throat.
The stairs spiral downward.
And downward.
And still downward.
Above us, trains groan through the bones of the city, distant and muffled, like thunder trapped behind stone.
The air changes as we continue to descend.
I feel the world above folding away with every step as my ears pop from the change in pressure.
We’re going far deeper than subway tunnels should ever allow.
Magic thickens around us. It’s not subtle. It presses into my skin, raising every fine hair on my arms. It hums like a living thing, responding to our presence.
“How many times have you been here?” I ask quietly.
“Enough to know the layout,” he says. “Not enough to be recognized as a regular.”
He is dressed in all black tonight. Expensive fabric, but understated. Nothing that screams royalty.
“We are anonymous buyers,” he continues. “Wealthy collectors interested in rare artifacts. Nothing more.”
“And me?”
“My companion. My investment adviser. My lover who enjoys watching me spend obscene amounts of money.” His voice lowers slightly. “Pick whichever role feels easiest to wear.”
All of them, apparently. Because my traitorous brain immediately supplies images of him spending obscene money while I?—
I force the thought down.
We have a job to do.
The stairs finally end at a massive iron door.
Azrael knocks. Three quick raps. A pause. Two more.
A slot slides open. Eyes appear behind it.
Not human eyes. Vertical pupils, sharp and predatory.
“Password,” a voice rasps.
“Umbra mercatus,” Azrael replies without hesitation.
The eyes linger on us for a beat too long. Then the slot shuts. Heavy locks disengage one by one with metallic finality.
So far, I am not impressed.
The door opens.
I step through, and everything in me stills.
The space is enormous. Cathedral-sized, carved into bedrock that feels older than the city above it, older than anything that should still exist beneath New York.
Chandeliers made of crystalline structures I don’t recognize scatter violet light across the room.
Velvet partitions divide the space into sections, some open, some closed, hiding whatever deals are being made behind them.
And the people.
No. Not people.
Beings. Others.
A woman whose skin shimmers between scales and flesh. A man whose shadow moves independently of him, reaching as though it has its own curiosity. A figure that is more mist than solid form, drifting between clusters like it doesn’t need a body at all.
My entire education in high society suddenly feels useless.
I take it back.
I’m thoroughly impressed.
“Do not stare,” Azrael murmurs near my ear. “Act like you have seen this before.”
Right.
Of course.
I arrange my expression into something bored and composed. I’m a jaded collector who attends supernatural auctions regularly. This is Tuesday for me.
Azrael guides me deeper into the cavernous space.
The outfit he chose for me tonight is tactical disguised as seduction. Black leather pants that move like a second skin. A silk top that drapes off my shoulders and dips low in the back, exposing the faint shadow markings along my spine instead of hiding them. Heels sharp enough to be weapons.
I look like I belong to someone powerful.
I look like I belong to him.
Every supernatural in the room seems to sense it. The markings on my skin feel like they are being watched, not just seen. Eyes track us as we move through the crowd, measuring, calculating, deciding whether we are danger or opportunity.
“They’re staring,” I say through a smile that does not reach my eyes.
“You are marked as mine,” Azrael replies calmly. His hand slides from my back to my hip, firm and possessive. “Of course they are staring. It means they won’t touch you without risking my wrath.”
“And if someone is stupid enough to try?”
“Then they will learn why people fear the Shadow King.”
A server approaches. Human, or close enough that I can’t immediately tell otherwise. She offers champagne in crystal flutes.
Azrael takes two and hands one to me.
I don’t drink it. I simply hold it. A prop. Part of the performance.
“The auction begins in twenty minutes,” he says quietly. “The mirror piece is lot seventeen.”
“Caruso’s piece,” I say.
Azrael nods. “Being sold through intermediaries. Either he wants money, leverage, or a buyer foolish enough to expose themselves. We’ll need to bid aggressively.”
“How much are we talking?”
“However much it takes.” He takes a slow sip of champagne, perfectly composed. “Money is irrelevant. Getting that piece before anyone else does is what matters.”
A ripple moves through the crowd.
The atmosphere shifts instantly. Beings part as someone enters the room.
Whoever it is, the reaction is immediate.
I see her before I understand why everyone else reacts.
She’s stunning in a way that makes my teeth ache. Tall, impossibly composed. Skin like porcelain touched with something unearthly. Hair like spun gold that catches the violet light as if it belongs to it. Her eyes shift between blue and silver, changing with every step she takes.
Not human.
Not diluted.
Not anything like me.
A pure Other.
And she is looking directly at Azrael.
“Well,” she purrs, her voice like honey poured over glass. “The Shadow King graces us with his presence. How unexpected.”
Azrael’s expression does not change. “Lady Ara. Still slumming in illegal markets, I see.”
Whoever she is, she matters. Important enough to be here. Beautiful enough to make people look twice. And she is staring at Azrael as if she already knows him.
I narrow my eyes at her.
Her smile sharpens when she notices me. “And you have brought your pet human. How quaint.”
Pet human.
If I scratched her face off, would anyone actually blame me, or would they just call it a part of the atmosphere?
“Careful,” Azrael says. His voice has gone cold now. Dangerous in a way that makes the air feel thinner. “I will not take that insult to my companion.”
“Companion.” Ara circles us slowly, a predator studying something it has not killed yet. “Is that what we are calling slaves bound by magic now? How progressive.”
My hand tightens around the champagne flute until the crystal gives a faint warning creak.
“She is not a slave,” Azrael says flatly.
“No?” Ara tilts her head. “Then she is free to leave. To walk away from you whenever she chooses?”
She stops in front of me. Her eyes shift in ways that don’t feel natural, like something behind them is constantly moving.
“Can you, little human?” she asks softly. “Can you leave him?”
I hold her gaze. I don’t look away.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
The lie tastes almost real. Worse than that, it tastes like something I could believe if I said it enough times.
Ara laughs. Light. Musical. Cruel. “How adorable. She has convinced herself it’s real.”
“Enough.” Azrael steps between us. “Do you have business here, or are you just making social calls?”
“Business,” she says easily, as if nothing about this exchange matters to her at all. “The same business as you, I suspect. Lot seventeen?”
Damn it.
“May the best bidder win,” Azrael says.
“Oh, I intend to.” Her gaze flicks to me one last time. “Enjoy your pet while she lasts, Shadow King. Bindings break. Humans die. And you will be alone again soon enough. When that happens, you know where to find me.”
Then she glides away into the crowd as if she were never here at all.
That was not jealousy. Not entirely. That was reconnaissance.
I realize I am shaking.
Not just anger. Not just fear. Something tangled between both that makes my hands feel unreliable.
I want to tear her face open. Ugly and beautiful at the same time, like it deserves to be destroyed just for existing.
“Ignore her,” Azrael says quietly.
“Who is she?”
“She is nobody.”
I stiffen. “That isn’t nobody. Do you think I’m a fool?”
Azrael studies me for a long moment. So long I think he might simply refuse to answer.
Then he exhales and drags a hand through his hair.
“She is Frost Court royalty who left for Earth decades ago,” he says finally. “We had sex once.”
I let out a short, disbelieving sound.
Of course.
Of course it’s like this.
Of course he has history everywhere I don’t belong.
“Again,” he adds, voice steadying, “ignore her. She is trying to provoke you.”
“It’s working.”
“I know.” His fingers find mine and squeeze once, grounding me. “But we need you focused. Can you do that?”
I take a breath. Then another. I force the anger down where it can’t get in the way.