Chapter 17
Nell
The night we're supposed to rob Voronov arrives way before I feel ready.
I adjust the dress Kaelisar sent while I study my reflection in the mirror.
The reddish wig transforms my appearance completely, and the elven makeup elaborated by Sylara and carefully applied to my face even more so.
I'm no longer Nell, the slippery street thief; I'm Caroline Spencer, heiress to a Texas oil fortune, newly married to Natasha Petrova, daughter of a Russian millionaire.
“I can't believe I have to pretend to be a waitress,” Althea grumbles, adjusting the ridiculous bow tie. “Next time, I'm asking Kaelisar to let me be a diplomat from some small country, and you,” she points her index finger at Sylara, “can carry trays around.”
Sylara, impeccably dressed, simply arches an eyebrow.
“I don't quite see you as a diplomat,” she responds in a measured tone.
“In any case, I liked the original plan of pretending to be these two's bodyguard better. They look like they need protection. And the fact that they're now a newly married couple I like even less,” she replies, pointing at Sabina and me now.
I can't help smiling while I roll my eyes. We've explained to her a ton of times that the party rules explicitly prohibit private security personnel since Voronov considers it an insult that guests don't trust the security he provides at his mansion.
“They'll end up firing you before you even start if you don't calm down,” Sabina jokes. “Relax. At least you don't have to go arm in arm with the half-Fae pretending you're madly in love.”
I roll my eyes and try to ignore the comment. It's not the time to have an argument.
“Well, it's time,” Sylara cuts in, checking her watch. “Althea, you first; enter through the service door. Then you two go,” she adds, pointing at Sabina and me. “Remember, Caroline, flirty but not too much. And Natasha, control your accent when you speak.”
Althea nods, throwing me a last look before disappearing toward the service entrance. When we're alone, Sabina offers me her arm.
“Are you ready, my wife?” she jokes with that tone that both fascinates and irritates me.
“As ready as you can be to voluntarily enter a psychopath's house,” I respond, forcing a smile.
Her fingers intertwine with mine as we walk toward the main entrance.
“If something goes wrong,” she whispers, “if they discover us, let me talk.”
“It's not my first party with criminals,” I reply. “I know how to behave.”
Voronov's mansion is so lit up it looks like a Christmas tree.
He must think he's some kind of Hollywood star, because he's even placed a red carpet that extends from the door to the entrance of the driveway.
Several security guards check invitations, and a real army of waiters with trays of champagne and canapés circulate among the guests.
Sabina leans toward me until her lips graze my ear.
“Smile, Caroline. We're supposed to be madly in love,” she murmurs with a perfectly simulated Russian accent.
I force myself to relax, though every atom of my body screams that I shouldn't enter.
“Natasha Petrova and Caroline Spencer,” she announces, handing the invitations to one of the security guards in an almost aristocratic tone. “My wife and I are delighted to attend this marvelous evening,” she adds, squeezing my hand.
The guard checks his list, looks us up and down, and nods, allowing us to enter. Sabina guides me toward the interior, resting a hand on the small of my back and making me way too nervous.
“Althea's already in position,” she whispers, listening to something through the earpiece she's wearing. “Sylara is near the main entrance.”
“Good,” I respond in a low voice. “How long should we wait before heading to the room?”
“Voronov will give a toast in approximately twenty minutes. That will be our moment. Be patient.”
We move through the party as if we belonged to this world, smiling at strangers, accepting glasses of champagne we don't drink and maintaining trivial conversations with guests who mistake us for people in their social circle.
At one point, Althea passes by us with a tray of canapés.
“The guy with the mustache by the fireplace won't stop staring at Nell,” she murmurs discreetly, leaning toward us as if offering us food.
We turn slightly and my blood freezes. Grigore Voronov, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, watches me with intensity. His brow is furrowed, as if trying to remember where he's seen me before.
“Shit,” I whisper. “I think he's recognized me.”
Without warning, Sabina places her hands on my waist and turns me toward her. Her face is so close to mine I can count the tiny golden flecks in her eyes.
“Follow my lead,” she whispers against my lips before kissing me.
The small moan I let escape is absolutely embarrassing, but time stops. Literally. I immediately forget where we are or why we came here. The world shrinks to the sensation of the impossible softness of those lips, to her tongue exploring mine or the brush of our breasts.
It's not just a kiss. It's like diving into deep waters, where the pressure changes everything: the sounds, the sensations, even the rhythm of my heartbeat.
It's a perfect kiss for lack of a better word to describe it.
So perfect that my body reacts in ways it shouldn't and the new moan that escapes me is nothing compared to what I feel between my legs.
“Can you stop and focus on the mission?” Sylara growls through the earpieces. “Voronov's about to give his speech.”
We separate slowly, and for an instant, I see in Sabina's eyes the same confusion that must reflect in mine. What just happened? Was it just part of the role for her or was there something more? Because my knees are still shaking.
“I think he's not looking at you anymore,” she whispers, smoothing her dress with the palm of her hand.
Indeed, Voronov heads to the center of the room, where a waiter hands him a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, his Russian accent more pronounced than the last time I heard him. “I want to thank you all for your presence in my humble abode.”
“Humble?” I murmur with sarcasm. “This place is bigger than a football field.”
Sabina gives me a slight elbow in the ribs, though she smiles.
While Voronov continues with his speech, full of self-promotion and references to his political connections, we move slowly toward the perimeter of the room. When all the guests raise their glasses in a toast, we take advantage to slip away down a side hallway.
The contrast between the bustle of the party and the silence of the hallway is immediate. We advance quickly, the sound of our heels muffled by the thick carpet. And when we turn a corner, we come face to face with a security guard.
Before he can react, Sabina extends her hand toward him. A thin bluish mist emerges from her fingers and wraps around the man's head and his gaze loses focus.
“Sleep,” she orders in a whisper.
The guard collapses like a rag doll and between the two of us, we drag him to a nearby closet and lock him inside.
“Wow, that was impressive,” I admit as we continue toward Voronov's bedroom. “What exactly did you do to him? Can I do that too?”
“Mental fog,” the siren explains. “A useful trick for occasions like this. He'll wake up in half an hour with a terrible headache, but with no memory of having seen us.”
When we reach the hallway leading to the master bedroom, we find another security guard stationed in front of the door, but this one with a visible weapon on his belt.
“More mental fog?”
Sabina shakes her head.
“Too far away for it to be effective. We need another plan.”
Suddenly, our earpieces come to life.
“I have an idea,” Sylara's voice announces. “Stay hidden.”
A few minutes later, Sylara appears walking confidently down the hallway. She approaches the guard and says something in his ear, pointing toward Voronov's bedroom.
The guard hesitates for an instant, looks at her again and smiles, shaking his head.
“I'll be back in half an hour,” he announces, walking away with a grin from ear to ear.
As soon as he disappears, Sylara signals us to approach.
“What the hell did you tell him?” I ask, confused.
“That I was waiting for Voronov to fuck,” she responds, shrugging, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Now I understand the guard's silly smile.
The master bedroom brings back very bad memories of that massage session that could have ended very badly. Opulent, overdone with terrible taste, with a giant bed in the middle.
Sylara heads straight to the wall where the safe is hidden. With precision, she presses the exact spot and the panel slides open, revealing the metal box.
“It's your turn,” she tells me, stepping aside.
I approach, trying to visualize Cherie's instructions. It's a high-security model, with triple biometric lock and rotating numeric code. With trembling fingers, I insert the sequence we memorized and place the bypass device on the fingerprint scanner.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I murmur as the numbers flash on the small screen.
The first lock disengages with a soft click. Then the second. But when I get to the third, something goes wrong. The mechanism jams, refusing to complete the sequence.
“Shit,” I groan, trying again. “It's not working.”
“What's happening?” Sabina asks, looking nervously toward the door.
“The last bolt is stuck. It must have some kind of additional security mechanism that Cherie hadn't counted on. We're screwed.”
Sylara approaches to examine the problem, but after several failed attempts, she also gives up.
“Five minutes,” she warns, checking her watch.
I close my eyes, trying to concentrate. I remember the words from the book about air elementals: "don't control the element; collaborate with it.” Maybe I don't need to force the mechanism physically. Maybe...
I gently rest my fingers on the metal surface and visualize the interior. Small air currents exist even inside sealed systems. I search for those microscopic spaces, those air particles trapped between the mechanisms, and I encourage them to move, to push, to flow in the right direction.
I feel initial resistance, but then, as if the air itself understands my intentions, the molecules begin to stir, pressing against the stuck metal. With an almost imperceptible click, the last tumbler slides into position and the safe opens. Sabina grabs me by the elbow.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I lie. My head is spinning, but there's no time to stop.
Inside, jewels, fake documents, stacks of bills in all kinds of currencies and, in the center, a golden arrow that seems to capture and reflect light in an impossible way.
“You did it,” the siren whispers. “I don't know how you did it, but you pulled it off.”
“I simply... collaborated with the air. Like the book said.”
“That's the foundation of all elemental magic,” Sylara nods. “We don't dominate the elements; we collaborate with them.”
“Well, I prefer more direct methods,” a voice interrupts from the doorway.
Althea enters with a smile, carrying what looks like a case.
“The damn chef kept me busy serving appetizers, I had to knock him out with a punch,” she complains, opening the case. “Quick, put the arrow in here.”
Carefully, Sylara takes the golden arrow and places it inside the case, securing it well. Meanwhile, Sabina and I rush to close the safe and return the panel to its original position, making sure everything is exactly as it was.
“Two minutes,” Sylara warns, checking her watch again. “Althea, take this immediately. Sabina and Nell, you need to return to the party as if nothing happened. I'll make sure the guard doesn't suspect anything.”
Althea nods and leaves, taking the case with the arrow. Sylara signals us to wait while she goes out first to check the hallway.
“Clear,” she announces after a few seconds.
“Let's get out of here,” Sabina proposes in whispers, intertwining her fingers with mine. “I don't want to be in this place for one more minute. Screw the party and pretending. We already have what we want.”
We move naturally among groups of guests, smiling and greeting, feigning interest in conversations we barely hear. The main door is getting closer and closer.
And then, as if materialized from nothing, Grigore Voronov appears in front of us and blocks our path.
“Miss Spencer, or should I say...” with a quick movement, he reaches out and rips off my wig, exposing my blonde hair. “Amanda, the masseuse. I knew I'd seen you before.”
The nearby guests turn to look, some letting out exclamations of surprise and the security guards surround us.
“Don't make a scene,” Sabina whispers, squeezing my hand. “We can't use magic in front of all these witnesses.”
“And what do you suggest we do?” I mutter through my teeth.
“Cooperate, for now,” she explains, slowly releasing my hand and raising hers in a gesture of surrender. “We'll find a way out.”