Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I n their suite the next morning, Mireille brewed a special batch of tea—Ronin sipping his own—as they awaited the silver-haired servant’s return to gather their breakfast tray.
After their discovery in the gallery yesterday, the rest of the day had been rather uneventful. Dinner with the other guests had been a whirlwind of speculation about what, exactly, tonight’s performance would entail. Guesses ranged from the mundane (another opera performance) to the fantastical (silk aerialists in the bioluminescent section of the greenhouse) to the violent (a fight to the death among the human servants). Mireille and Ronin had played their parts, offering up their own suggestions.
Given that Otto had said the opening performance was intended to dishonor Anaemos, Mireille suspected tonight’s theme would involve another of the High Gods. Stygios, if she had to guess based on what she and Ronin had overheard Otto and Layla discussing. Something about the Scales of Nyctima and opening pathways. But she didn’t offer up that little tidbit of information to the other guests.
Otto had not yet returned from his journey to fetch tonight’s performer from Listhima. Mireille wondered if the female—Otto and Layla had been referring to a “she”—would suffer the same fate as Diva Carmina. She shuddered at the thought, wondered if she might be able to warn the performer beforehand.
She tried to banish that worry, focus on her task this morning—infiltrating Otto’s office to see if they could find anything that might help them weave together these odd threads of his plans.
She and Ronin ran through what they’d learned while she waited for the dried Bleeding Heart petals and Lethaphyll leaves to steep.
“So,” she began, “let’s go over what we know.” She held up a finger as she listed off the facts. “One: Otto has been luring Fae with elemental magic in their ancestry to his estate. And they’re all from either the Akti territory or the Desolation. Which borders Akti. But we don’t know what those locations signify.”
Ronin nodded, drinking from his tea cup. He hadn’t had a Delirium in three days. He was managing well enough without it, though he seemed more tense than usual, his fuse much shorter. Especially when he’d almost shredded that servant who’d interrupted their kiss. And she’d noticed him gazing longingly at the bottles during last night’s dinner. She was incredibly proud of his restraint, had told him so at the table, but he’d waved her off like it was nothing.
“Two”—she held up a second finger—“he’s using the anastasium stones to capture souls. But, we don’t know what he’s using the activated stones for. Nor where he’s hiding them.”
“Three,” Ronin held up three tattooed fingers, “he’s a fucking crazy psychopath who wears weird fucking suits, doesn’t eat meat, and has a strange obsession with the High Gods and the Fallen Goddess, but is rich and influential enough to have lured a bunch of power hungry Fae who haven’t run away from him even though he murdered someone right in front of them. Oh, and they don’t seem to have noticed that he’s warded us all in here. Or, if they have, they don’t care. And he’s got a household full of spellbound human servants and even though he invited you here to get into your pants, he left to fetch some other mysterious she after you answered his questions about your heritage with lies.”
Mireille lifted the lid of the tea pot, sniffing at the contents within to see if they had been steeping long enough. Nearly there. “That was way more than three things.”
Ronin barked a sharp laugh. “Am I wrong?”
“No, but none of it answers any of our questions. And what about the illegal relics of the Fallen Goddess that he’s supposedly been gathering? We didn’t find any here in the main house, nor in the galleries. He must be hiding them somewhere else.”
Ronin slumped down in his chair, thunking his teacup onto the table. “How do you deal with this?”
She cocked her head. “With what?”
“Gathering all this information, keeping it straight, figuring out which parts are pertinent and which are dead-ends. It’s fucking confusing.” He raked his fingers up the shaved sides of his head.
She leaned back in her chair, caressing the buttery leather armrests. Picturing her fingers in place of Ronin’s on those soft sides of his head. “It always comes together in the end. Like a puzzle full of missing pieces. We find more, we fit them into place, and the picture suddenly becomes crystal clear.”
“Frustrating to be in the middle of it.”
“Welcome to the life of an IA agent,” she snickered. “And don’t lose hope. Imagine what we might find in Otto’s office this morning. Maybe even the one piece that makes sense of all this.”
“Doubtful,” he grumbled.
A knock rang out across the hall, followed by murmured voices—the servant making his rounds to collect the breakfast trays.
Mireille checked the teapot once more, the liquid now a deep fuschia and wafting that unmistakable licorice scent. She poured out a steaming cup, grinning. “Showtime.”
Ronin sauntered over to the door to await the servant’s knock.
It came mere seconds later, and when Mireille called out for the man to enter, he swung open the door and Ronin was upon him.
The old, silver-haired man didn’t struggle or scream as Mireille stalked over, leveling what she hoped was a non-threatening look. “We’re not going to hurt you. I need you to drink this for me.”
The man pressed his lips together, but Ronin cupped his chin and squeezed his cheeks, forcing his mouth open.
An image flashed through Mireille’s mind: Ronin performing the same hold on Dimi. Something hot and prickly snaked through Mireille’s lower belly, a heady mixture of lust and jealousy. She shook it away before Ronin could sense anything, but the knowing gleam in his golden-blue eyes told her she hadn’t quite succeeded.
She tipped the cup to the man’s mouth, pouring half the liquid down his throat. Ronin’s massive hand covered the man’s entire lower face as he pinched his nose. The man had no choice but to swallow.
The tea took effect instantly, the man’s pupils blowing so wide his hazel irises nearly disappeared.
Ronin released him, and the man swayed on his feet, his eyes glued to Mireille. His new master, according to the extract of Bleeding Heart flower coursing through his system.
“I need you to do something for me,” she whispered.
“Anything,” the man groaned.
So Mireille led him out of the suite, through the quiet halls, and over to the west wing.
The curved walls of Otto’s office were lined with shelves crammed with books, small sculptures, masks, and carvings. The space was neat and tidy, not a single element out of place.
Outside the door, the servant stood sentry, instructed to whistle if anyone approached.
“So,” Ronin began, rounding the large black desk in the center of the room and poking through the drawers, “what exactly are we looking for?”
Mireille shrugged, stepping over to one of the bookshelves. “Anything of interest.”
“Helpful,” he grumbled as Mireille examined the titles.
Two entire shelves were taken up by a collection of encyclopedias, the recorded history of Ethyrios dating back several centuries before the war. There were also travelogues, collections of the mythologies of the High and Lesser Gods, plus an entire shelf full of folk stories and fiction.
Based on the state of the spines, many cracked and worn, she had no trouble believing Otto had read every one.
She pulled one of the mythology collections from the shelf, stories of the High Gods. Entire paragraphs had been highlighted, sections crossed out in violent, ink-black strokes. Scratched notes and odd symbols decorated the margins—the scrawlings of a mad, obsessed mind.
She returned the book, her gaze snagging on a thick folio on the bottom shelf. It contained an assortment of maps, including an ancient one that showed the continent several centuries before the war. Before the Empire had come into power, and before the land had been divided into its current territories.
Mireille hauled the folio over to the desk and spread it open. Ronin came up behind her, placing a palm on the surface and curving over her back.
She dragged a finger across the symbols littering areas that were now portions of present day Akti and the Desolation.
“What do those symbols mean?” Ronin’s breath kissed the back of her neck and she fought to suppress a shiver.
She pointed to an upright triangle. “This one must mean fire. It’s the same symbol that was etched onto the wall beside the fireplace in the crypt.”
Ronin nodded, his chin grazing her shoulder. “And the others?”
“Safe assumption that this one”—she pointed to an upside-down triangle—“means water. And this one?—”
“Lightning,” Ronin finished as she gestured to the tiny bolt. “They’re concentrated in the areas where the guests are from.”
“Not all the guests. Neither you nor I are from there.”
Sympathy softened Ronin’s eyes. “You don’t know that for sure though, do you? Your father could be from one of those towns.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Mireille muttered, that familiar, empty ache hollowing out her stomach as she closed the folio and returned it to the shelves. She continued to peruse them as Ronin resumed rifling through Otto’s desk.
“Come look at this,” Ronin called a few moments later. He’d opened a thick leather ledger.
Mireille stepped up beside him. “What is that?”
Ronin flipped through the yellowed pages, hundreds of them, with handwritten names scrawled beneath branching lines.
“Looks like family trees,” Ronin murmured.
“Did Otto compile all of these himself ?”
“It’s all in the same hand-writing. It must have taken him years to record all this.” Ronin flipped the ledger over, scrolling through the pages then stabbing his finger on one at the back. “Here.”
Mireille leaned in, reading the bottom of the page.
Larissa Bisere.
Above her name, her lineage was scrolled out in lines of black ink, dating back at least five generations. At the top, what would have been Larissa’s great-great-grandfather’s name had a star next to it.
Mireille traced a finger over it. “What does the star mean?”
Ronin scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Perhaps they were the last of their family members to possess elemental magic?”
“If that were the case, why is he labeling them with stars instead of the elemental symbols?”
He shrugged, flipping through several other pages. There were stars on many of the other trees, always more than three or four generations up.
“Are the names of any of the current guests in here?” she asked. “See if you can find Nero’s.”
Ronin expelled a tiny huff at the Beastrunner’s name as he searched the back of the ledger. “Here.” Similar to Larissa’s, Nero’s chart went up several generations, but there were no stars. Though there was a question mark next to one. They studied several more entries, finding them similar to Nero’s, with question marks instead of stars.
Frustrated, Mireille returned to the shelves. Perhaps there was some kind of legend or index that would reveal the meaning of those stars and question marks.
“Mireille.” Ronin’s voice was thick with dread. “Come back and look at this.”
His pale face froze the blood in her veins and her limbs grew heavy. Crossing to the desk felt like walking through syrup.
She glimpsed the final entry in Otto’s ledger, and her mouth went dry, her throat closing.
Her own family tree.
Though only one side of the page was filled, four generations tracing up from her mother’s name.
The space where her father’s name should have been was empty, save for a question mark.
“What does that mean?” She could barely get the words out.
“Have you…” Ronin hesitated, as if he didn’t want to dredge up her pain. “Have you ever felt stirrings of elemental magic? Like what we saw Mattias demonstrate?”
“Never,” she choked out as Ronin gripped her shoulder, the gesture calming her, slowing the rapid pounding in her chest.
As she examined the names on her mother’s side, she realized she’d never heard a single one. Vivienne had never shared any of them. It rankled that Otto , of all people, had more information about her own family than she did. And when had he collected this information? It must have been before she’d even arrived at the estate. Before she’d told him all those lies at dinner. The names on the tree were Valois, not Valette. Dread trailed icy fingers down her spine.
“Valois,” Ronin whispered. “Is that your real last name?”
She nodded. “My mother’s. I changed it before I came to Kheimos. But kept the first three letters the same, just in case he…”
She pushed the fear down, tucked it alongside that long-buried grief that had been prodded far too often by this assignment.
Had her father wielded elemental magic? She supposed that could be the reason her mother had fled from him and her pack, not wanting her and her daughter to be hunted down by the Empire because of it.
Her father’s words from that night floated into her mind.
… needs to understand who she is…
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, searching through herself for any hint of hidden magic. Nothing called back.
“Are you alright?” Ronin asked.
She smoothed over her expression, burying her pain and confusion and readjusting her armor. “Yes. Just put it away and let’s keep looking.”
They searched through every drawer, every box, every hidden corner of Otto’s office but found no signs of any relics of the Fallen Goddess, nor even the box with the glowing anastasium stone containing the diva’s soul.
Ronin flopped into a chair. “This is pointless. I don’t think we’re going to find anything else. We should leave before someone finds us in here.”
“You sure you don’t want to spend a few more hours reading through an encyclopedia on the history of Ethyrios?”
“That sounds more like your idea of a good time.”
She smirked at him. “I’d ask what yours is, but I think I can guess.”
A low whistle trilled from outside the door and Ronin shot her a panicked look.
But there was no one except the servant in the hallway when Mireille whipped open the door.
“He has returned,” the man said, his pupils still blown wide and his eyes glazed. “I can sense him.”
Mireille glanced down the staircase. “Come with us.”
The trio hustled back to the guest wing, and as soon as Mireille shut the door to their suite, Ronin asked, “Why did we bring him back here?”
Mireille guided the servant into an armchair, then perched on the table before him. “Seeing if we can get any additional information before we set him loose.” The servant merely sat there, waiting expectantly, his eyes glued to Mireille. “Where is Otto hiding the Fallen Goddess relics? And what are they?”
“I don’t know.”
Mireille vented a frustrated grunt while Ronin merely crossed his arms, leaning against the mantel and observing the interrogation. “Did Otto know who I was before he invited me here?”
“Who are you?” The servant cocked his head. Mireille didn’t answer.
“Worth a try,” Ronin murmured. “Ask him about the stones. He was in the crypt two nights ago.”
“The anastasium stone that you took from the diva’s ashes. Why was it glowing?”
“Her soul was captured within it.”
Mireille nodded, encouraging him. One theory confirmed, at least. “And what is he doing with the glowing stones?”
“I don’t know.” The servant shook his head, frowning. As if it pained him to not have the answers Mireille sought. Then he perked up slightly. “But I do know where he’s keeping them.”
“Where?”
“Where the souls will be contained. Where death feeds life and life feeds death.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Ronin muttered.
Mireille grasped the man’s shoulders. “Can you be a little more specific?”
“I…” The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, exposing whites, and his body began to shudder.
Ronin leaned over the back of the chair. “What’s happening to him?”
“The Bleeding Heart is wearing off.” She swept the old man out of the chair and pushed him toward the door. “Go back to your quarters. Tell no one what happened.”
The man’s features slackened, confusion and obedience warring on his face as he slipped out of the room.
Ronin shut the door behind him. “You are fucking ruthless , Valette. Remind me never to cross you.”
Mireille slumped into a chair and Ronin sank into the one across from her. “Where the souls will be contained. Where death feeds life and life feeds death… what do you think that means?”
Ronin leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Sounds like the crypt. But we saw him taking the stone out of there…”
Mireille’s mind swirled with possibilities, eddying around the edges of something she couldn’t firmly grasp. Their discovery in Otto’s office, half her family history laid bare, hogged her attention.
They sat in silence, both in quiet contemplation of the servant’s words, when something swished underneath the door.
Mireille rose to pick up the card, then turned to Ronin, reading it: “The second performance will take place this evening at sunset in the Main Ballroom. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres will be served until precisely two minutes before midnight, at which time a revered visitor will guide us in a seance in dishonor of Stygios the Reaper, High God of Death and Destruction.” Mireille snorted. “That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.”
Ronin slumped further into his chair. “This is officially the weirdest fucking job I’ve ever worked. Company’s not too bad though.” He slid his eyes to her, gauging her reaction. Bracing himself for a barbed retort.
This male had already saved her life twice. Both times after she’d stubbornly refused to accept his help. He’d cajoled her into eating and sleeping, made sure she took care of herself even as her mind roared at her to ignore her bodily needs and keep working. Kindnesses no one had ever bestowed upon her.
Kindnesses she’d never let anyone bestow upon her.
So she clawed back her instincts to push him away again, to retreat into her safe solitude, and answered him.
“Not too bad at all, Matakos.”