Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
R onin plodded down the snow-packed sidewalks of downtown Kheimos, weaving around very different groups of Fae than what he was used to due to the early hour.
A Windrider couple swung a rosy-cheeked toddler between them, laughing as the child fluttered his downy gray wings in an attempt at fledgling flight.
A pinched-face Beastrunner male in a sharply-tailored suit barked commands into his commstone, head bowed against the wind.
A line of tourists awaited entry into the city’s famous art museum, a mix of all three sub-species donning knit hats, puffy coats, and excited smiles.
They all shared something Ronin had been lacking for centuries—a compelling reason to get up in the morning and face the harsh daylight.
Ronin was a creature of the night, preferred the city’s seedy underbelly that only exposed itself under cover of darkness. Which there was plenty of this time of year this far north. One of the main reasons Ronin had chosen to come here after his caging rather than returning home.
As he trudged past the tourists, several heads swiveled in his direction. He pulled his hood down lower; the last thing he needed this morning was to be recognized. He was in no mood to entertain anyone’s morbid curiosity about his past deeds or his resulting punishment.
Before his caging, fame had been a delightful burden to bear. Infamy was much heavier. And far more barbed.
Head pounding—he’d definitely had too much Delirium after the fight last night—he barreled across the street, nearly side-swiping a deliverymale with an armful of packages, and strode up the steps of Imperial Affairs headquarters.
The sprawling complex reminded him of a honeycomb, with its hexagonal windows and all the drones buzzing around doing Skanisse’s bidding. All types of Fae in drab navy and charcoal milled about, sipping cups of steaming coffee or rushing into glass-walled conference rooms.
The clinical lobby contained no decorations other than a portrait of Emperor Leonin Erabis, his iridescent black wings and obsidian gaze on proud display, and two flags. The black one bore the Imperial sigil: a Typhon steel broadsword bracketed by feathered wings and radiating lines. The aqua flag beside it showcased the Northern Territories’ sigil: a double-headed axe, the favored weapon of Vestan, God of War, on top of a crescent moon.
Night and violence.
Fitting that this is the territory where Ronin ended up.
Adjusting his hood, Ronin offered a sarcastic salute to the stone-faced Beastrunner at the front desk, who boomed in a bass-deep voice, “You’re late. Meeting’s downstairs.” He nodded back toward the bank of elevators. “An escort is waiting for you on sub-level five.”
“Cloak-and-dagger shit this time, huh?” Ronin grimaced, earning a grunt as the male buzzed him through a waist-high gate.
The elevators were a recent addition. Though they’d been invented decades ago, Kheimos had been slow to adopt many of the technological advancements sweeping through the continent from Delos. Not as slow as the human colonies, granted, which enjoyed precisely none of the Fae’s innovations. Those nearly magic-less islands were practically primordial.
Ronin pressed a button on the wall and waited for the telltale ding. He hated riding in the small, windowless box, a claustrophobic cage that was all too familiar.
He stepped through the opening doors, then leaned on the back bar and massaged his temples, thanking the High Gods that no one had joined him. Glowing numbers ticked off the floors as he descended, clenching his fists against the inevitable stomach drop.
The elevator slowed, and Ronin burst out as soon as the doors parted, not wanting to spend an additional second within the six-by-six-foot death trap.
A Windrider male with tucked wings and a tight face was waiting for him. “You’re late.”
Ronin huffed a laugh, pushing his hood back. “So they keep telling me.”
“Follow me.”
The Windrider led Ronin on a circuitous route through narrow, tubular hallways. Jittery due to the elevator ride, his wolf paced and panted within him, sniffing at the dry, recycled air.
Easy buddy , Ronin soothed. Just a business meeting .
Fool , his wolf snarled back. Are you so certain they are not marching you toward True Death?
They haven’t killed us yet. They won’t today. Probably.
Ronin wished the creature would calm the fuck down. It would likely be hours until Ronin could get his hands on another Delirium.
The Windrider stopped before a large vault door, then pressed a palm against a black pad in the center. A series of clicks followed by a reverberating clank echoed, and the male twisted the circular handle before hauling the door open to reveal a cavernous space.
White lights flowed overhead and flecks of green glimmered along the curved concrete walls—a nessite treatment to suppress elemental wind magic. And the High Gods knew what other types of wards and spells were in place to deactivate opticorders or listening devices.
Cloak-and-dagger shit, indeed.
Metal scraped across the floor, and Ronin grunted as the Windrider shoved him into a chair across from Hugo Skanisse. The High Councilor’s sky-blue feathered wings drooped over his own chair, positioned in front of a tower of shipping containers. Skanisse had a round face, pink cheeks and slick blond hair with too much product in it. He looked like an overgrown baby angel wearing a plastic helmet.
“You’re late,” the High Councilor squeaked, completing the cherubic effect.
Ronin fought the urge to roll his eyes at his third scolding in less than ten minutes, then dragged his hands up the shaved sides of his head. “Apologies. I got caught up.”
Caught up in the moans of that Windrider waitress—fuck, he didn’t even remember her name—as she’d come apart beneath him mere hours ago.
Her name was Sharae , his wolf chuffed, and Ronin silently shushed the beast.
“I do hope you’ll be more punctual during this assignment.” Skanisse puffed his feathers.
“Where am I escorting you this time, boss?”
Lips pinched like a petulant toddler, Skanisse shook his head. “I’m not the one you’ll be watching over.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “She is.”
The female who stepped out from behind the shipping containers had the straightest posture Ronin had ever seen, her shoulders pushed back and her head floating above her long neck as if dangling from a taut string. Not a single strand escaped her coppery red bun, and underneath her jacket and duffel bag, white leg warmers peeked out over her boots.
Another wolf bi-form based on her scent, that unmistakable musk of fur and pheromones. But hers had something soft and cloyingly sweet underneath. Like a flower at peak maturity before decay kissed its petals.
Her silver eyes landed on him as she skidded to a halt, clenching her fists at her sides.
When she spoke, her voice was lovely and melodic, despite her cutting words. “Absolutely not.” She clutched the collar of her jacket, her gaze darting to the bunker door in search of a swift exit.
“Sit down, Agent Valette,” Skanisse barked. “We’ve already discussed this. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”
Ronin’s brows rose as recognition barreled through him. He’d seen that stunning face before, peering out at him from posters and bus stands and store windows throughout the city.
Mireille Valette. The prima ballerina of the Kheimos Company. She was an Imperial Affairs agent?
What the fuck kind of meeting was this?
She stiffened at Skanisse’s reprimand, then blew out an annoyed breath, dropped her bag, and peeled off her jacket. From across the room, Ronin’s Windrider escort ogled the miles-long, black-clad legs beneath her gauzy pink skirt. Not that Ronin could blame him.
The advertisements paled in comparison.
In person, she was all sharp lines and angles—a cold, aristocratic beauty that sliced like a knife. And he imagined many, many males would line up and beg to bleed.
She took a seat next to Skanisse, who said, “Mireille, this is?—”
“Ronin Matakos. The Butcher .”
Most of the Fae who referred to him by that nickname did so in some combination of fear or awe.
Neither were present in her greeting. In fact, he thought he noticed a twinge of disgust. She raked her ice-pale gaze across his disheveled attire. “I don’t need a fucking partner, Hugo. I’ve already?—”
Skanisse held up a hand, cutting her off, and turned to Ronin. “Mistress Valette is one of the IA’s most, if not our absolute most, skilled field agents.”
Ronin couldn’t help mirroring her obvious distaste. “What does she do, twirl her marks to death?”
Skanisse and Mireille shared a loaded look before the latter muttered, “Un-fucking-believeable.”
The High Councilor cleared his throat. “She has been attempting to lure a new mark, but has so far been unsuccessful.”
Mireille huffed, crossing her arms. “You haven’t even given me?—”
Again, Skanisse silenced her with a sharp look, then slid his gaze back to Ronin. “I assume you’ve heard of Jurgev Otto?”
Ronin nodded, smoothing over his shock.
Jurgev Otto was one of the oldest—and richest—Fae in Ethyrios. A Deathstalker with a taste for the extraordinary, over the centuries Otto had used his vast wealth to acquire a collection of fine art and religious relics that he kept hidden away in his macabre mansion up in the Blackspur Mountains.
“I’ve heard of him. Why’s the Empire siccing a deadly ballerina on him?”
Mireille shot Ronin a sharp glare, but he just grinned at her.
“The IA has been keeping tabs on him.” Skanisse leaned forward in his chair, clasping his pudgy hands in his lap. “We’ve gotten a number of reports over the years of Fae who have allegedly gone missing after visiting his estate. We informed the Empire, but they didn’t feel the need to actively probe into his affairs.”
“What’s the cause for intervention now?”
“You heard about what happened with the Imperial Prince?” Skanisse cocked an eyebrow.
“Who hasn’t heard about it?”
“Yes, well, the Empire is trying to minimize the fallout. Tamping down on any lingering sentiment for mortals that the Prince’s crime may have stirred up.”
“What’s that got to do with Otto?”
“The majority of Otto’s acquisitions these past decades have been illegal relics associated with the Fallen Goddess. You know the tenets of her faith, I assume? Those ridiculous notions that Fae and humans are somehow equal? The Empire fears Otto may have plans to use these relics to undermine the Erabis family’s authority. They’ve ordered us to sniff out his intentions. Infiltrate his estate, retrieve any powerful objects. And end him, if necessary.”
Ronin rubbed at his jaw. Of course the Empire didn’t care about a few missing Fae. But now that the threat may be aimed squarely in their own direction… Ronin knew exactly what happened to anyone whose interests no longer aligned with the Erabis family, was infinitely familiar with those consequences. He bit back his rising discomfort at the thought of working for them again.
“Why can’t you just go up there officially and question him yourself? Why all the subterfuge?”
“It’s a delicate political matter,” Skanisse sniffed, “as I’m sure you can appreciate. Otto has been very generous with his resources toward the Empire. It wouldn’t do for us to make an enemy of him if our suspicions prove to be unfounded.”
Fucking typical. Self-interested bastards. Ronin leaned an elbow on the back of his chair. “How are we supposed to infiltrate Otto’s estate? Heard he keeps it pretty well locked down.”
“He’s hosting a gathering at the end of the month and has invited a select number of guests from among the influential circles here in Kheimos. We were hoping Mireille could score an invite, but she has not been able to entice him with any of her disguises.” Ronin flicked his gaze toward Mireille, who was picking at her nails, pretending to ignore the conversation. Ronin guessed Skanisse had told her all this before he’d arrived. “Time to try a more forward approach.”
Mireille glowered at Skanisse. “It’s too much of a risk. My cover could be blown. And to pair me with a fucking amateur ? — ”
“Do you know what Otto enjoys more than anything?” Skanisse dodged Mireille’s outburst, aimed his question at Ronin. “The pursuit of the forbidden. We need to play his game. And what better illicit thrill could we offer than to steal the prima ballerina of the Kheimos company away from the infamous Butcher of Aethalia?”
The hairs on the back of Ronin’s neck prickled. He had a bad feeling about where Skanisse was headed with this. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Mireille’s disguises have not worked because she’s only been offering him beauty. But why would a male like that be interested in beauty with no substance? Her true persona is where her value lies. A persona which will become infinitely more enticing once Otto believes she has captured the interest of a powerful male with your level of notoriety.” Skanisse rustled his wings, enjoying a meaningful pause before he dropped his bomb. “We need you to pose as her lover.”
Mireille emitted a disgusted scoff as Ronin asked, “For how long?”
“For as long as it takes. Otto will be attending the final performance of The Curse of Faurana . We’ll seed a few well-placed rumors around town that you two have been together for months, a fact which you will confirm with a public outing this week. Hopefully, it will be enough for you both to score an invite to that event when you see Otto at the Grand Ethyrian on Friday.”
Ronin scrubbed a hand down his face. This was certainly not the meeting he’d expected. “Why both of us? If you’re just using me as bait, why do I need to attend Otto’s event?”
“ If you two attend, you’ll be able to offer Mireille some measure of protection while you’re up there.”
“Sounds like she’d be able to protect herself.”
Mireille’s eyes widened at the compliment. “Exactly what I’ve been telling him.”
“Plus, it will double our chances of success should something unfortunate befall one of you.” Skanisse offered Ronin a caustic smile.
“This is never going to work,” Mireille cut in. “There’s no way anyone’s going to believe that I would willingly attach myself to him .”
Ronin sat back and crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We don’t exactly run in the same circles.”
He reviewed what he’d heard of her. Current gossip around Kheimos was that Mireille Valette wasn’t dating anyone, and rarely showed her face outside of the theater. Had never attended any of the company’s parties or charity galas. She’d never even been seen out at dinner.
“From what I’ve heard, you don’t run in any circles at all,” Ronin shot at her.
“And from what I’ve heard, you run in too many,” Mireille sneered. “Bedroom’s practically got a revolving door.”
“You keeping tabs on my bedroom?” Ronin winked. “No wonder Skanisse chose me.”
Mireille blasted him with such a bloodthirsty look that his wolf’s ears perked up.
Ronin didn’t understand why she was so furious at the thought of working with a partner.
Or was it the thought of working with him specifically?
Holy High Gods.
The Butcher of Aethalia was Mireille’s new partner? It was worse than if she’d been shackled to some dimwitted neophyte.
The minute she’d rounded those shipping containers and seen him sitting there—that messy white hair, those sleek muscles, that cocky grin that any female would happily ruin her life for—all the blood had rushed from her body.
Of course she knew who he was. One would be hard-pressed to find a Fae on the continent who didn’t. He was exactly the type of arrogant, dominant male she’d always steered clear of. And despite his punishment, he was far too convinced of his own charm.
Many of her fellow dancers had fallen prey to that charm, only to be carelessly tossed aside once Ronin had gotten what he wanted.
On a purely physical level, she could understand why they continued to fawn over him despite the warnings being bandied about the theater.
Handsome didn’t even cover it.
Ronin Matakos was a special brand of devastating.
He continued to stare at her with those unnerving, uniquely beautiful golden-blue eyes. “Did I do something to piss you off?”
She pinned him in place with her own silver gaze. “I’m just wondering why the IA thinks a caged wolf will be of any use to me.”
He snarled, elongating his fingernails into sharp black points. A pathetic imitation of claws. “Oh, I can still slice. Don’t you worry about that.”
“Hmm. There’s quite a bit of shrinkage, if you ask me.”
His eyes blazed and he bared his teeth, his tattoos glowing in the dim light as if working to stop a transformation.
Mireille turned to Skanisse. “He’s not right for this. Surely, we can find someone else.”
Ronin turned to the High Councilor as well. “And she’s too uptight. Good luck finding anyone who wants to work with her.”
Skanisse pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “It’s you two or no one. None of the other operatives have as grand a reputation as Mireille. Nor one as infamous as yours, Ronin. Otto won’t be swayed by anything less. Emperor Erabis is, let’s just say, extremely keen to learn precisely what’s going on up at that estate. His Imperial Majesty is prepared to make it very worth your while.” He produced two small envelopes from his suit jacket and handed one to each of them.
Mireille turned away to open hers. The message written upon the card stole her breath.
We have learned the identity of your father. Upon the successful completion of your assignment, we will reveal it to you.
The backs of Mireille’s eyes prickled. As if she wasn’t already ruffled by the thought of working with Ronin fucking Matakos, the IA had to throw this at her as well?
She tucked a hand into her pocket, curling her fingers around the ballerina figurine as the memory of another note, one containing an unfulfilled promise, rose in her mind.
For my little pup. I’ll see you soon.
Mireille bit back her tears, refused to show them to these two frustrating males. There’d be plenty of time to indulge her feelings later. Alone.
“I’m in,” she pronounced to Skanisse, then tucked the card back into the envelope and placed it in her bag, darting a look at Ronin.
Unguarded devastation twisted his irritatingly perfect features as he clutched his own card. She wondered what they’d offered him, but didn’t bother asking. He’d probably lie about it anyway.
He swallowed, then composed himself before crushing the card in his fist. “I need some time to think about it.”
A burst of panic tore through her chest. Now that she knew how high her own personal stakes were, she needed this assignment. And she’d be damned if she let the smarmy asshole sitting across from her jeopardize that.
Skanisse pushed up from his chair, then snapped his fingers. “Piretti.” The black-winged Windrider bustled over to hand a file folder to Mireille. “Profiles of Otto and his associates, plus any information the IA has gathered about the inner workings of his estate. The Cathedral of Bones, they call it. Whatever you can’t learn from that file, you can research in the archives. Study up.”
The High Councilor strode for the vault door, Piretti hustling behind him, then called out over his shoulder. “Oh, and Matakos? You’ve got three days before that offer expires. Choose wisely. If you refuse, this mission will not launch. And if it goes poorly, there will be consequences. For all of us. Piretti will wait to escort you out of the building when you’re ready.”
Skanisse ushered Piretti through the door, then hauled it shut with an ominous thud.
Mireille and Ronin surveyed each other. A silent stand-off between two immovable, opposing forces, each a weapon in their own right. And both savvy enough to know that whoever spoke first would lose the upper-hand.
A vein jumped in his jaw, and his marbled eyes swirled with emotions she couldn’t decipher.
She held up the file folder. “You wanna look through this before you make your decision?”
He shook his head, cracking his knuckles with his thumbs. The popping sound set her teeth on edge, but she tried not to show it as she noted the phrase tattooed there in Aramaelish, the ancient language of the Fae.
Inom Than . Become Death.
The caging of a Beastrunner’s animal was a kind of death, she supposed, and a twinge of sympathy gripped her. Though it swiftly curdled at his refusal to accept the assignment.
“Don’t fuck this up for me, Matakos.” She stood from her chair. “I’ve tangled with enough entitled assholes to last a lifetime. I don’t particularly want one for a partner, but if that’s the hand I’ve been dealt, so be it. Be a good boy and play along.”
He drew himself out of his own chair and prowled toward her. Instinct had her stepping away until her back crashed against a shipping container. She squared her jaw as she stared up at him, her wolf whining quietly within her.
He slammed a hand against the metal, and the clang reverberated throughout her body. Elongating his canines, he bent down to sniff her neck where her pulse had grown frightened, fluttery wings. Even caged, those teeth could do major damage.
“Do you know what I’ve tangled with enough of to last a lifetime?” he growled as the edge of a fang coasted over her skin, inspiring an uncontrollable shiver. “Little she-wolves who think they can order me around. Though I do love how delicious they taste when they’re scared.” He lowered his voice. “My favorite fucking prey.”
He pushed away from the container and stalked toward the exit.
What a delightful barbarian , her wolf purred. I think I want to be his prey.
“Where are you going?” Mireille choked out, struggling to calm herself and ignore her wolf.
He didn’t answer, merely pounded on the bunker door then stalked out as soon as Piretti opened it.
She sagged against the shipping container, gulping stale air into her heaving lungs.
Fuck this. If having a partner meant dealing with the terrible, relentless uncertainty of depending on someone other than herself, then Mireille could do without one.
She gathered up the folder, left the bunker, and headed for the archives hall to begin her research.