Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
M ireille Valette disentangled herself from the scratchy sheets and glanced toward the clock on the nightstand.
Shit. She was due at the theater in less than an hour.
Get on with it, a low, sly voice sighed into her mind. We’ve spent far too much time with this disgusting specimen already.
Mireille snickered, ignoring her wolf. Though she didn’t disagree with the assessment.
Her current mark, the Deathstalker male she’d spent the afternoon with, was still sleeping soundly next to her, face down on the pillow with his pale arms circled above his head.
She rose from the bed as quietly as possible, trying not to wake him, then padded into the tiny bathroom to ensure the veiling potion she’d dosed herself with earlier hadn’t yet worn off. Though her facial features were still unrecognizable in the mirror, strands of copper now wove through the black hair she’d donned for this assignment.
She and her wolf would have to work quickly.
The Deathstalker’s back steadily rose and fell as she crept back into the bedroom, plucked up her discarded clothes, and dressed.
Slinking into the cramped living area, she asked her wolf, Where is it?
The creature sniffed at the shack’s stale air, retching. This place smells like a dumpster . But I’m getting a hint of something behind the couch .
Mireille padded over and eased the lopsided lump of torn cushions away from the wall. A bundle of dust-streaked cloth lay nestled against the trim. She reached down to grab it, then slid the couch back into place.
Crossing to the kitchenette, she unwrapped the bundle atop a crusty table and let out a satisfied grunt.
The scepter—a relic of the Fallen Goddess and one of many that Mireille had acquired in her work for the Empire over the years—was topped with a fire opal that glistened in the early evening sunlight.
How this male had gotten his hands on the scepter was completely beyond Mireille. She knew he wasn’t keeping it for himself. He was one of many links in a chain that would lead to the scepter’s delivery into the hands of someone far more powerful. And wealthy.
There were a number of buyers throughout the continent willing to pay hefty sums for these relics, and one buyer in particular here in the Northern Territories who Mireille was almost certain was the intended recipient. Most of these pieces were useless, their power having faded just as much as the Goddess who’d inspired their creation.
But every so often, about one in fifty jobs, she’d come across a functioning relic, one imbued with a power that could threaten the Empire’s dominance.
Which is exactly why they employed Fae like Mireille to hunt them down and ensure they didn’t fall into the hands of their enemies. Enemies who hadn’t counted on their errand boy being so easily undone by a pretty face.
All Mireille, or Merina as she had dubbed herself today, had to do when she’d met him at the bar was bat her eyelashes and ask what he did for work. A few probing questions—to which she already knew the answers since she’d been tracking him for weeks—and he’d all but admitted he had the scepter. Couldn’t help bragging about how much he was going to earn as soon as he delivered it.
She’d gifted him a little gasp, running her fingers through his cornsilk hair and saying how much it turned her on that he was defying the Empire by trafficking illegal relics.
The idiot had dragged her out of the bar and brought her to this crumpled shack in the Southlake district on the outskirts of Kheimos. Three hours of drunken, unsatisfying fucking later—an attempt to allay his suspicions and wear him out so she could perform her search and sneak away without the mess of killing him—and her assignment was nearly complete.
Thank the High Gods for stupid, easily manipulated males. They made these jobs so much easier.
She shrugged on her jacket, patting the pocket over her left breast where she kept her standard-issue Typhon steel dagger, then unzipped her bag.
A sleep-worn voice rasped from the bedroom doorway. “Merina? Why are you dressed?”
Fuck , Mireille thought, her shoulders dipping.
Her wolf licked her chops, delighted. Looks like we’re going to have to make a mess after all.
The Deathstalker wore a confused smile and a sheet around his waist. “Come back to bed.”
Mireille angled herself in front of her bag and the unwrapped scepter. “I can’t. I’ve got plans tonight that I can’t cancel.” She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her and not the bounty behind her. “I’d love to see you again, though. Maybe tomorrow?”
Her wolf chuckled. He’ll be dead by then.
“Mmmm.” He leaned down, his mouth inches from hers. “So eager to see us again? We must not have worn you out enough this afternoon.”
Mireille had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. He had worn her out, and not in a good way. He’d been a sloppy, greedy lover, only interested in his own needs. She’d faked every single climax, and the cretin about to kiss her hadn’t even noticed. Not that she cared; she never sought pleasure with her marks.
He crashed his mouth down onto hers with too much force, too much tongue and teeth, and she fought the urge to retch.
She pushed him back into the bedroom, releasing soft whimpers that only served to make him kiss her harder. She unlatched her lips, and he crawled up the bed. Straddling his waist, she shivered with disgust as he dragged his hands up her thighs, pushing his cold fingers up under her shirt.
“You wanna go again?” he asked. “We’ll be fast.”
Sweetheart, you’ve been fast every single time, her wolf crooned and Mireille nearly snorted.
He cocked his head, reaching for her hair. “Hey, what happened to your?—”
She whipped out her dagger and pointed the tip at his heart.
His eyebrows crashed together as his fangs popped down. “What is this?”
He tensed, poised to strike, and she pushed the dagger down further. “Don’t even think about it.”
He snarled, then turned his head, nearly slicing her wrist with a venom-filled fang.
She called upon the strength of her wolf, putting her full weight upon the dagger and plunging it into his heart. A bubble of green blood burst from his mouth as his limp limbs fell to the bed.
Typhon steel to the heart was one of the quickest, most effective ways to deliver True Death to a Fae.
Mireille crawled off the Deathstalker’s body then covered it with a sheet and wiped the blood off her hands and dagger. She slipped the weapon into her jacket as she returned to the kitchenette, then rewrapped the scepter and placed it in her bag. She wouldn’t have time to deliver it to Imperial Affairs tonight; she’d barely have time to make it to the theater.
She glanced back into the bedroom. Patches of bright green blood seeped through the sheet and tiny rivulets snaked across the stripped mattress, dripping onto the floor.
Let me out , her wolf whined. I can clean up your tracks. And I haven’t had a proper snack in days.
We don’t have time for that , Mireille snarled back.
You’re no fun.
Mireille rushed through the shack, massaging her cheeks—Sweet Amatu, all those fucking smiles she’d given the male over the past few hours made them ache.
A blast of icy wind greeted her as she opened the door, setting her bag upon the snow-dusted sidewalk.
There’s only one way we’re going to make it , she coaxed her wolf. Fancy a run instead of a snack?
You know how much I hate shifting when you’ve taken a veiling potion. This color looks terrible on us, the creature huffed, but obeyed.
Mireille’s limbs lengthened, muscles stretching and bones popping, her clothes transforming into sable fur streaked through with hints of copper. She reached down, cradling the bag gently in her thick fangs, then sprinted around a corner onto the main avenue and headed for the Grand Ethyrian Theater.
Toward her second performance of the day.
The audience exploded into thunderous applause following Mireille’s final solo.
She could barely see beyond the edge of the stage, blinded by the lights beaming down from the rafters.
Her false lashes fluttered in her peripheral vision and her pancake make-up cracked as she held yet another broad, aching smile.
She knew she’d been perfect. Flawless. As always. She practiced longer and more often than any other dancer in the company, even with her other job taking up so much of her time.
But one didn’t become the prima ballerina of the Kheimos Company, the most revered in Ethyrios outside of the Imperial Ballet in Delos, without a rigorous and unwavering dedication to the craft.
She flicked her gaze up to the front box at the right of the stage. It was dark and empty. As it had been for every single one of her thousands of performances.
She sighed, shaking off her disappointment and waving to her adoring fans. The burgundy curtain lowered, the clapping and shouting muffled beyond the heavy velvet.
“Brilliant, as always.” Juliet, a sly-faced Windrider with butter-yellow wings, sauntered up to grip Mireille’s hand. “You bitch.”
Mireille snorted a laugh.
“No show again?” The young chorus member’s voice softened.
She didn’t bother answering Juliet, who read the truth in Mireille’s silence.
“He’ll show up one of these days, Mireille. Don’t lose hope.”
The kindness and sympathy lacing Juliet’s normally sarcastic tone had Mireille on the verge of tears. So she did what any normal, well-adjusted individual would do in that situation.
She turned and fled.
Juliet followed. “What are you going to do after next week when the run is over?”
Other company members and stagehands offered salutes and claps. Mireille acknowledged them with curt nods, but her smile never reappeared. That rare sight was reserved for the audience—and her marks.
“I have plans.” Mireille added enough bite to offer Juliet a hint, but as she turned the corner to her dressing room, the young dancer followed.
“Liar,” Juliet smirked. “I thought maybe you’d finally deign to practice with me. Maybe even take me out to lunch on your superstar salary.”
Mireille paused before her door, and Juliet took the opening.
“There’s this new restaurant that just opened a few blocks away. Rishi’s? Yogi’s? Rogie’s?” Juliet snickered. “I can never remember what it’s called. The chef came to Kheimos from some coastal village in Brachos. She serves these bold uncooked fish dishes I’ve been dying to try. Figured if anyone in this company would enjoy eating raw flesh, it would be you.”
Mireille laughed despite herself. And a small, shriveled part of her wanted nothing more than to take Juliet up on her offer. Out of all the dancers, she felt a kinship with Juliet. The Windrider’s snark rivaled even that of Mireille’s wolf. And Juliet took less shit from anyone other than Mireille herself.
But Mireille didn’t do friends .
She attempted to will Juliet away with a glare. She was sweaty, her make-up itched, and her hair was too tight against her scalp; she’d been hurried when she’d pinned it up earlier. All she wanted to do was strip off her costume, return to her apartment, and take a long, hot bath.
“I’ll think about it.”
Juliet shook her head. “You’ve been giving me that answer for nearly as long as that box has been empty.” Mireille stiffened. “Not everyone you let in is going to abandon you.”
“Goodnight, Juliet,” Mireille snapped as she whipped open the door, then slammed it on Juliet’s frustrated sigh.
In her dressing room, the largest in the theater, Mireille plopped into the tufted chair before her vanity table and sank her head into her hands.
She didn’t know why she bothered to keep that box for her father. He’d never once shown up to claim it. But to open it up to another patron… She wasn’t ready to give up that hope yet.
The hope that she’d one day meet the male who’d sired her.
The hope that she might one day learn his name.
She tucked the pain of his centuries-long absence away, her eyes darting to a small ballerina figurine leaning between the mirror’s spherical bulbs, and began her post-show routine—a series of steps as carefully choreographed as those she’d just performed.
She removed her shoes, then her costume. Peeled off her tights. Wiped away her make-up. Brushed out her hair—fifty strokes on the right, then the left. And finally, changed into charcoal leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
Atop the vanity, her commstone began to glow.
She tucked the violet stone underneath her ear and High Councilor Skanisse’s squeaky voice flowed into her mind. “You’ve retrieved the scepter.”
It wasn’t even a question. The Deathstalker’s body must have been discovered in that shack in Southlake.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Mireille purred, burying her grief behind a professional mask—her go-to tactic.
“Did anyone see you?” Skanisse asked in a tight voice.
“You mean other than the dead Deathstalker?”
Skanisse huffed. “You find any evidence that tied him to Otto?”
Mireille bit back a frustrated grunt. Jurgev Otto, the biggest of the big fish in the trade for the Fallen Goddess’s relics, had proven to be Mireille’s most elusive mark yet. Though she had little doubt that the eccentric Fae billionaire was the intended recipient of that scepter, she’d found nothing that proved it. The only smart move that dead Deathstalker had made earlier today was not revealing the name of his buyer.
Mireille had been trying to get an in with Otto for months. He was a constant presence throughout Kheimos’s many clubs and restaurants, often surrounded by a rotating entourage of the snowy city’s glitterati. Ancient religious relics weren’t the only things he collected.
Mireille had put herself in his path, using veiling potions to alter her appearance with different body types, hair colors, faces, and even genders, each more alluring than the last. Nothing had worked to capture his attention; she’d never even gotten close enough to be rebuffed.
Skanisse was growing impatient with her lack of progress.
“No,” Mireille grumbled. “But I?—”
“Be here tomorrow morning at eight. I have another matter to discuss with you.”
“What other matter?”
“Eight o’clock,” Skanisse spat. “And don’t forget the scepter.”
The connection went dead and Mireille ripped the commstone away from her ear, tossing it onto the vanity.
Fury burned through her veins. She hated having to answer to Skanisse. Preening bastard who sat behind a desk all day, had no idea of the dangers and drudgery of the field work Mireille performed for him and his precious Empire. She’d never once failed to deliver in the nearly three centuries she’d worked for the High Councilor, had done everything he’d ever asked of her with her trademark ruthless efficiency, completing every single assignment on time and without getting caught.
And still, she couldn’t get a word of praise from the male. She didn’t know why she craved it so badly. Still, she supposed she should be grateful that he allowed her to pursue her true passion, to continue to dance as long as it didn’t interfere with her other… duties .
She pushed up from her chair, trying not to dwell on the lack of information. She preferred to know exactly what she was getting into before a trip to Imperial Affairs headquarters downtown.
Preparation was a singular obsession for Mireille.
And she did not appreciate surprises.
Shouldering her bag, she left her dressing room. The theater was empty as she strode to the back entrance. Even Juliet, who sometimes hovered around waiting for her, had given up.
Good.
Mireille preferred being alone. She had neither the time nor the inclination to worry about anyone but herself.
Snow fell as she exited the theater, the flakes catching in her hair, restored to copper now that the veiling potion had fully worn off.
She wondered if any of the other dancers or audience members had noticed that her facial features looked slightly off this evening—her long nose not quite as sharp and her lips thinner than usual, her silver eyes ringed in dark blue.
She doubted it. No one, aside from her wolf, knew the real Mireille Valette.
And she was determined to keep it that way.