Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T he cocktail hour before the seance was a more animated affair than the previous two nights’ gatherings. As if the whispers of Otto’s return, performer in tow, had stirred the guests into an excited frenzy.
Ronin thought they were a bunch of short-sighted, power-hungry idiots.
He and Mireille had decided to mingle separately tonight, to probe the histories of the guests, see if they could figure out what those question marks on their family trees had signified.
They were also keeping their ears open for mentions of locations around the estate that could be where death feeds life and life feeds death .
Ronin hadn’t learned anything useful during the three hours of inane conversation he’d already subjected himself to, so he was taking a well-earned break.
The main ballroom spanned the entire length of the west wing. More a cave than a ballroom, the room was entirely black and lit only by flames dancing in marble braziers. Outside the few large windows, the first iridescent hints of the Scales of Nyctima swirled over the Blackspurs.
But the room’s most unnerving feature was its thick glass floor, so clear it gave the impression of walking on air. Many of the guests were keeping their eyes aimed upward, and he’d seen more than a few near stumbles, many hands grasping elbows.
Ronin thought it perhaps just another of Otto’s tactics to keep his guests off-kilter.
Mireille didn’t seem to have any trouble navigating, even in the ridiculously high heels she was wearing.
Not that Ronin was watching her like a creep from across the room or anything.
And even if he was, it was only in a professional and strictly platonic capacity as her protector, partner and recently-crowned friend.
No, he certainly wasn’t tucked between two blazing braziers, sipping at a tumbler of iced vodka and monitoring her every move. She flitted between groups of smartly-dressed Fae, most of whom had worn black for the High God of Death. Ronin wondered whether they’d selected their outfits before they knew the entire room was black. It was like looking into a sea of floating heads.
Mireille was wearing another skin-fucking-tight dress, on theme in black, with a high neckline. Her right arm was concealed beneath the sole long sleeve. He suspected it had been a purposeful choice, to hide her scar from their host, discourage any further inspection . The hem barely covered her ass, and her legs looked miles long, especially in those crimson heels.
He tracked multiple males—and several females—eying her legs with a hunger that surely mirrored his own. And every time he caught someone looking, his wolf growled a warning.
One he didn’t bother shushing. He just let the possessiveness sear through his veins. Hoping that maybe if he didn’t fight the feeling, it would go away.
It wasn’t fucking working.
Why are you standing here doing nothing? his wolf ground out. They should all have their eyes gouged out for staring at her like that.
Ronin snorted. You’ve got a lot to learn about modern ideals, my friend. You can’t just blind everyone who looks at your female.
So you are admitting she is our female? Finally.
That’s not what I ? —
Another female broke through his laser-focused line of sight to Mireille, slinking toward him in a dress with even less fabric. He thought he also caught the glint of a knife through the left slit in her dress. Then realized it was definitely a knife when he caught another glint through the right slit.
“Butcher,” Layla Fetar purred as she approached, lifting her amber drink in a toast. “I don’t believe we’ve yet had the pleasure.”
Ronin reluctantly tore his gaze from Mireille, who’d just let out a bubbling little laugh at some inanity being spewed by Nero Beruglia. It looked like she was about to place her hand on Nero’s shoulder, and Ronin silently thanked the High Gods for Layla’s distraction.
“Mistress Fetar.” He lifted his glass to return her salute. “Are you sure about that? Heard a rumor you were at my fight last weekend.”
Her black-painted lips curved into a coy smile. “Take a walk around the room with me?”
She extended her hand and he offered her an elbow.
“So, you and Mireille Valette. How long has that been a thing?” Layla dug her sharp fingernails into his forearm.
He was surprised at his wolf’s silence. Layla was undeniably beautiful. And smelled delicious. Exactly the type of female that would usually have his wolf salivating, but there wasn’t a hint of movement or even a peep from the creature.
Ronin didn’t dare think too long about why.
“A few months.” Ronin cut his gaze to the circular dais in the center of the room. Two human servants had entered carrying a hefty chair, a throne really, that looked suspiciously like it was stitched together with bones. Whether they were Fae or human, Ronin couldn’t tell from his vantage point. Though truthfully, there was no easy way to tell—human and Fae bones looked exactly the same. Some kind of point to be made there, surely, about the similarities between the two species once all the skin, muscle, blood and magic was stripped away.
“Quite an odd pairing, the two of you,” Layla muttered.
“Really? Why do you think so?”
Layla laughed, a harsh sound that held not a bit of genuine mirth. As cutting as the blades strapped to her thighs. “From what I’ve heard about you, she seems a bit vanilla for your tastes.”
“And what, precisely, would you know about my tastes , Mistress Fetar?”
“Layla, please. And certainly you must know how much the females of Kheimos enjoy their gossip.” She stopped him and tugged on his elbow, encouraging him to lean down. Her lips skimmed his earlobe. “Rumor has it you’re the best fuck in town. Though I’ve also heard you don’t often provide that service more than once.”
Layla gestured with her glass toward Mireille, who was still laughing with Nero. Lucky bastard.
“I’m wondering how that one finally tamed the notorious Butcher of Aethalia.” Layla wrapped her black lips around the edge of her glass and took a short sip.
Ronin couldn’t get a precise read on Layla. Was she jealous? Surely not. Otto had probably put her up to this, an attempt to seduce him away from Mireille so that the Deathstalker himself could close in.
“The heart wants what it wants.” Ronin shrugged. “I can no more explain that than I can explain why someone as skilled and ambitious as I’ve heard you are would want to work for a rich old billionaire up here on the edge of nowhere. You were a Shadow Maiden for Empress Mila, were you not?”
Layla’s kohl-lined eyes rounded, though only briefly. But enough for Ronin to tell he’d caught her off-guard.
She smoothed over her expression and emitted an amused little laugh. “You’ve been looking into my history? I’m flattered. And impressed. Let’s just say the post no longer suited me, and leave it at that.” Layla grasped his elbow and resumed their walk around the room. “What do you know of Mireille’s personal history?”
Ronin was careful with his answer. He didn’t know much, other than the few crumbs she’d offered him these past weeks. “A bit. Like I said, we’ve only been together for a few months.”
And though he knew he shouldn’t be asking Layla this question—if he wanted to know about Mireille’s history, he should ask her himself, give her the chance to answer in a way that wasn’t filtered through the mouths of their enemies—he couldn’t help himself.
“What do you know of her history?”
Layla paused their stroll and stood in front of him, holding her glass against her chest. “She keeping secrets from you, Butcher? Doesn’t sound like a love match to me.”
“Who said she’s keeping secrets from me? I’m just trying to discern how skillful your information mining is.”
Layla gave him a razor-sharp smile. “She is not what she appears to be.”
Ronin’s stomach dropped.
What the fuck did that mean?
He took a sip of his vodka, an effort to calm his pulse so that Layla wouldn’t be able to read how much she’d thrown him.
“Well, to me she appears to be the most beautiful wolf bi-form in the room. One who seems poised to charm the pants off of your master.” He pointed over Layla’s shoulder, who turned in time to see Otto—looking like a walking skeleton tonight in a black suit decorated with anatomically-correct bones—approach Mireille and pull her away from Nero.
A stab of fear pinched Ronin’s gut. Based on those family trees they’d found in Otto’s office, their host had to know Mireille had been lying at dinner the other night. Would the Deathstalker call her out on it?
Layla turned back to Ronin. “A wolf bi-form, you say?” Her dark eyes twinkled with merriment. And menace. “Are you so sure about that?”
What in Ethyrios was Layla talking about? Ronin knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Mireille was a wolf. Her scent alone was enough to verify the fact.
But then he remembered that other note in her scent. The one he couldn’t identify. The one that smelled like a flower poised for decay.
“What else would she be?” Ronin countered, hiding his racing heart behind a nonchalant smirk.
“Perhaps you should look a bit deeper before you tie yourself to her.”
Ronin couldn’t discern Layla’s angle. If there was some massive secret in Mireille’s heritage, why was it so important? And how was it different from the other guests? Perhaps Layla didn’t know herself, and was trying to fish an answer for Otto.
“Enjoy the seance, Ronin.” Layla sashayed away from him, joining a group that included Julius Kosera, several other Fae, and even a few humans who were being fed from. The tangy scent of mortal fear wafted through the room as they wept, paralyzed by their Fae predators.
Layla herself approached a stunning dark-haired woman who bowed her head in deference. Ronin turned away just as Layla whipped one of her knives out of her thigh-sheath and held it against the young woman’s throat as she fed.
Ronin took another bracing gulp of his drink, then laid it away on a side table. Though his need for a Delirium was damn-near unbearable, he refused to get that high through a live—and most certainly non-consensual—feeding. There were still a few boundaries he was unwilling to cross.
He surveyed the space for Mireille, his gaze catching on her unmistakable fiery red hair. She was standing atop the dais, Otto looming over her and gesturing toward the throne of bones. Mireille looked enraptured by whatever he was saying, and Ronin couldn’t tell if it was fake or not.
Knowing Mireille and her unquenchable thirst for knowledge, her interest was likely genuine.
Go rescue her , his wolf piped up, finally stirring back to life after that odd conversation with Layla.
Doesn’t look like she particularly wants or needs to be rescued , Ronin answered, turning away to seek another drink and a guest to interrogate.
Before he got the chance, a bell jingled, and the entire room turned their attention to Otto.
Mireille had stepped down onto the glass floor, glancing up at Otto just as expectantly as the other guests.
What secrets in her heritage had Layla been referring to? Surely it had something to do with that family tree they’d seen in Otto’s office yesterday. Had something to do with Mireille’s father.
He was about to rush to her side, warn her of what Layla had said, when Otto spoke up and the entire room went silent.
“Cherished guests,” he intoned.
“It is time to begin our seance.”
Mireille watched Otto from the side of the dais, her mind aflutter. He hadn’t uttered a word about her lies, those fabricated stories she’d spun about her parents. Her heart had been in her throat during their entire chat, waiting for him to drop some hint that she’d exposed herself. Instead, he’d regaled her with the incredible history of the piece at the center of the dais.
The Deathstalker had claimed the throne was stitched together with the bones of every Otto male going all the way back to Magnus Otto, the progenitor of the line. Otto had pointed out each bone, naming every male family member, and while Mireille had been fascinated, she also couldn’t help asking herself why they’d only included the males. Who wouldn’t have even existed without the females who’d birthed them. Then thought to herself, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible fate that the females hadn’t been forced to have their bones turned into a chair to house their male progeny’s ass for thousands of years.
“Now, the vast majority of you may think you know what to expect tonight,” Otto addressed the crowd, “but we can assure you that this particular seance will be unlike any you have ever experienced.”
The crowd burbled, exchanging excited whispers, and Mireille used the pause to scan the room for Ronin.
It wasn’t difficult to find him; other than Kosera, who was guarding the room’s sole entrance, Ronin was the tallest male in the room, his white hair standing out against the black walls.
He turned to her as soon as her eyes landed on him. As if he could sense her attention. She offered a smile, which he returned, flicking his eyes toward Otto then back to her again. Asking if she got any important intel.
She offered a slight shrug, trying to convey yes and no . In truth, other than regaling Mireille with the history of the throne, Otto hadn’t given her much.
The Deathstalker himself spoke up again. “And we have invited another very special guest to guide us in our transcendental quest.”
Otto signaled to Kosera, who opened the ballroom door to reveal an ancient Deathstalker female. Her coal-black pupils were lined in white, her ashen dreadlocks a grizzled nest around her head and shoulders. She was dressed in a sweeping, high-collared jacket woven with green-black feathers. Mireille had a ghastly suspicion they’d been pulled from a Windrider’s wings.
The crowd parted as the old female shuffled toward the dais, hunched over a knobby cane topped with a carved snake’s head, its fangs cradling a milky rock the size of a duck egg.
A fire opal.
The relic of the Fallen Goddess they’d been seeking?
With every strike of her cane, the female took a single step forward, and the long trail of her coat slid across the floor.
Clack, hiss.
Clack, hiss.
Clack, hiss.
The room was grave silent, the guests not daring to even breathe.
As the female reached the dais, Otto bent down to grasp her elbow and haul her up. He tucked her cane under his arm as he escorted her to the throne.
She wheezed as she sat, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back, her dreadlocks snagging in the rough bones.
Otto said nothing, merely stood beside her, surveying the guests with calm amusement.
The female sat so still that Mireille began to wonder if the short walk to the dais had too thoroughly exhausted her and she’d met True Death.
In a flash, the female’s drooping lids popped open and her milk-edged eyes bolted straight to Mireille, who had to fight the urge to flinch.
The old female muttered something to Otto in Aramaelish. Mireille was close enough to catch a few words.
Souls.
Anxious.
She dug her nails into her palms, the pain forcing her to stay present and not give in to her rising anxiety.
The Deathstalker female touched a wrinkled hand to Otto’s forearm, signaling him to proceed.
“Ladies and gentlemales, we have the extreme honor this evening of introducing you to a female who has been conversing with the souls of our dearly departed for longer than anyone in this room has been alive. Souls who are not, as you have been led to believe, living their eternal lives in the realm of Stygios, but are in a very different place altogether.” Otto paused, and the crowd strained forward. “They are in the Halfway.”
A Beastrunner near the dais piped up. “What’s the Halfway?”
“A sort of…repository. An area between worlds guarded by the Creator herself.” Otto’s eyes sparkled with gleeful menace. “You will see.”
The ancient Deathstalker female’s lips spread into a toothless grin, and she released a sound like a puff of dust escaping a dessicated corpse.
Otto touched her arm. “Our grandmother will lead you there tonight.” Delighted gasps bubbled through the crowd, along with a smattering of respectful applause as Otto bent down to press a reverent kiss to the old female’s cheek. “The most powerful chronomancer our world has ever known. Nostrata Otto, everyone!”
The applause grew louder, and Nostrata allowed it to continue for several moments before raising a wobbly hand.
“Ethyrians,” she croaked, her voice struggling up her ancient throat, “we come before you tonight as a conduit. When the Scales of Nyctima grace the sky, a path will open and we will travel to the Halfway in search of souls who have connections with each and every one of you in this room. You may encounter many different faces in the Halfway. Some are mere visions, spectral reflections conjured by the souls who reside there. But the souls themselves, those who have already passed, will emit a rainbow glow. Seek them. If you are lucky, they may bring you a message.”
A chill ran down Mireille’s spine, and she sought out Ronin, who had gone similarly pale.
Between the two of them, there were likely many, many departed souls in the Halfway who would have not-so-kind messages for them.
Nostrata began instructing the crowd. “Lie back on the floor and close your eyes.”
Mireille had been trying all evening not to glance at the floor. It was extremely unnerving to feel like one was walking on air. Especially since the drop underneath was many thousands of feet down, the rocky, pine-laden cliffs of the Blackspurs cascading to the valley floor.
She steeled herself, and looked down. The sight was very different now that night had fallen. Only blackness shown beneath her feet. As if she were floating in the middle of nowhere.
But she did as the ancient female had instructed, stretching out across the glass and closing her eyes.
A cool mist flowed into the room, kissing her ankles then wending its way up her body. It was thick and creamy, but light as air. Like being coated with dry foam.
She recognized what it was as soon as the smoky, licorice scent hit her nostrils.
Lethaphyll.
She tried not to panic as the hallucinogenic drug seeped into her lungs. The effects were instantaneous, her body melting into the glass floor.
The sounds in the room faded, leaving only her own heartbeat pounding a slow, mesmerizing rhythm. As if she’d returned to the womb.
She nearly burst into euphoric giggles at the thought. No one had memories of being in the womb.
Or did they? Perhaps every single memory she’d ever had was still within her, buried in the cobwebbed depths of her subconscious.
Nostrata’s raspy voice floated over, softened by the hazy smoke. Mireille cracked an eye open to watch the ancient female.
“Adelphinae, our Creator. We come before you, humble servants, to request passage for but a few hours into the Halfway.”
Nostrata cracked her cane upon the floor—the violent boom shaking Mireille’s bones—and the opal on top glowed even more fiercely. As if the light from the Scales of Nyctima outside the window were flowing through it.
Mireille’s wolf was calm, sitting back on her hind legs with head cocked, tail waving, and ears perked. Listening.
Nostrata’s voice rose again, softly, carried upon the mist itself into Mireille’s mind. “What messages do the wayward souls have for us this evening, Creator?”
The last syllable dissolved into a fading echo, then transformed into a susurration of hushed voices. They were faint at first, then grew louder, and louder, and louder still. So loud that Mireille was certain her vibrating brain was about to leak out her ears.
At the point where Mireille couldn’t take it anymore, ready to run screaming from the ballroom, the voices abruptly faded as a single one crystallized in her mind.
A feminine voice with a hard edge that Mireille hadn’t heard in nearly three hundred years.
A voice she’d never expected to hear again. At least not until she herself was but a mere shadow of a soul.
“Mireille,” the voice whispered.
“My girl.”