Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
T he next morning began mostly the same in the Cathedral of Bones, with a knock at the door—that human servant with the breakfast tray.
The part that was spectacularly different was where Mireille found herself when the knock woke her.
Warm and safe and protected within Ronin’s arms.
Dawn’s buttery light caressed the pines outside as she cracked her eyes open, greeting the morning with a smile.
She never did that.
Twisting around, she found Ronin awake as well, wearing a sleepy grin.
Mireille was pleasantly surprised by the lack of awkwardness between them, given everything that had transpired the night before.
“Good morning,” he purred.
She demurred, his gaze flicking to her mouth as she bit her bottom lip. “Good morning to you, too.”
An insistent hardness pressed against her stomach, and a devilish glint shone in his eyes. “Shower?”
She nodded, and he rose from the bed, scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom. Where he proceeded to massage her sore muscles, wash her hair, and clean her body. Then fucked her hard and fast against the shower wall, her ass smashed against the cool tiles. He let her come as soon as she wanted this time.
They were eating breakfast in front of the crackling fire, chatting about nothing particularly important, content to ignore the difficult day ahead when another knock interrupted them.
Ronin, dressed in the same outfit he’d worn during their dinner with Otto—the black shirt and trousers with the checkered suspenders, that, okay, fine, she’d admit she loved—went to open the door.
Mistress Klovia stood outside, a garment bag draped over her arm. “Master Otto sent this for you, Mistress Valette. Your costume for the performance today.”
Mireille, still wrapped up in a fluffy bathrobe, gestured toward the bed. “You can leave it there.”
Mistress Klovia spread the bag upon the bed, then exited the suite.
A pang of guilt gripped Mireille’s stomach. “Should we have warned her? About what’s going to happen?”
Ronin contemplated her question, sipping his tea. Such an amusing, contradictory sight, his tattooed fingers wrapped around the dainty cup. Who would have thought that a male who looked like that drank tea? And played chess. And cried at the opera.
And fucked like a God.
Though to be fair, that might be the only assumption she’d made about him that this whirlwind week hadn’t obliterated.
She tried to banish those thoughts from her mind. They’d do her no good today. She needed to be on top of her game. In more ways than one.
“Too risky,” Ronin said, his own face hardening. “Whatever influence Otto has over the humans here might compel her to tell him everything you said.”
Mireille chewed her lip again, determined to ensure Otto’s human staff wouldn’t suffer today. She crossed to the bed and unzipped the garment bag.
Inside was a perfect replica of her costume from the Grand Ethyrian—the stiff tutu, the bejeweled bodice, the crimson pointe shoes. Had Otto or one of his minions returned to the theater to take it from her dressing room? Icy dread prickled down her spine.
Ronin stepped up behind her and turned her to face him.
He speared a hand into her hair, massaging the base of her skull as he stared down at her, worry tightening his handsome features. “You don’t have to do this, Mireille. You can stay up here, locked safe away, and I can finish this on my own.”
She grasped his muscled forearm, smirking. “What about your little speech about not abandoning your partner, huh?”
“That was before…” he sucked in a breath, “…before I knew the thought of you being harmed would make me feel this crazy. Like I want to go find Otto right now and tear his fucking throat out before you even take a single dance step.”
She shook her head. “We need that flute. If he’s killed before revealing it, it could be lost forever. Or taken by someone worse than Otto.”
“Like the fucking Empire?” Ronin grumbled.
Indecision wracked through her. She certainly didn’t want to hand the artifact over to Skanisse, not now that she knew what it was capable of. But if they didn’t…
“Well, we need something to give to the IA or your wolf will remain caged.”
“I don’t fucking care about that anymore,” he growled, then tilted his head back and clenched his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining as his body went taut. Likely his wolf protesting violently. “I’d stay caged for the rest of my life if it meant keeping you safe.”
She leaned into his touch, his words bathing her heart in radiating warmth.
“We keep each other safe, remember? I’m doing this for you, too.” She rose onto her tiptoes and planted a sweet kiss on his lips. “Seems a little out of order after last night, but I am very much looking forward to our date once this is over.”
His hand tightened against her scalp. “As long as you bring a better list of questions this time.”
She laughed and kissed him again.
Then swept up the garment bag, strode into the bathroom, and changed into her armor.
The crypt looked even more sinister than Ronin remembered, lit torches flickering shadows across the fanged fireplace, roughly-hewn benches, and columns that arced like ribs—probably actual ribs, based on what Layla had shared—across the high ceiling.
The statues of Otto’s ancestors, half-hidden within the alcoves flanking the entrance, greeted the guests like serpentine gatekeepers.
Ronin slid his gaze to the statue on the right. Behind which, he hoped, were Bonecleaver and Mireille’s sword. Assuming Layla had done her part this morning.
Unlike his prior visit, there was no stripped and cleaned body laying atop the altar. Instead, it held a small pyramid of glowing anastasium stones.
Ronin shivered as he took a seat at the bench farthest from the altar. And closest to the alcove.
Layla sauntered up the aisle in her skin-tight leather uniform, her throwing knives a glittering corset around her waist and her white and black braids bouncing against her back. She threw him a quick glance as she passed, which he returned with a wink.
The plan was still on.
Yes, it was very much on. Even more so after last night. His chest ached. He didn’t want Mireille anywhere near Otto. Regardless of whether the Deathstalker had claimed he wasn’t going to harm her. Ronin didn’t trust a thing the slimy bastard said.
Layla had come to fetch Mireille soon after she’d changed into her costume this morning, to bring her to Otto as he made his final preparations.
That had been nearly an hour ago. Ronin had spent the time pacing around the suite, going through the plan over and over in his head.
As soon as Mireille took the stage, Layla would grab Nostrata at knifepoint, threaten the ancient Deathstalker’s life if Otto refused to reveal the flute. And as soon as he saw Layla move, Ronin would grab Bonecleaver and Mireille’s sword to take on Kosera.
But there were too many unknowns, too many factors that could go so poorly. What if they were rushed by the guests? What if Otto had some other trick up his sleeve?
Ronin tried to calm himself as hushed silence fell upon the room. Otto’s slow, measured footsteps echoed up the aisle, followed by the clack and hiss of Nostrata’s cane and feathered robe.
Ronin startled at the billionaire’s suit—simple, stark white. Not a hint of pattern or color to be found. A giant fucking red flag.
Otto surveyed the guests, offering subtle nods and bows as he approached the altar, now flanked by Layla and Kosera. He took a brief moment to run his fingers along the stones before turning to address the crowd.
Ronin swore he felt a chill breeze sweep through the room, quivering the torches.
Otto folded his hands at his waist, his black fingernails a stark contrast with his pale skin. “And so, friends, we have reached the pinnacle of our time together. At the very moment when the sun is at the pinnacle of the sky. The time of day when change comes upon the world. When the light slips away to begin its solemn march toward darkness.”
Nostrata huffed a cough behind him, leaning heavily on her snake-head cane with its fire opal. She appeared far weaker than she had the night of the seance. As if her life-force had been drained by the multitude of readings she’d performed over the past twenty-four hours.
“An appropriate time,” Otto continued. “One carefully chosen to mirror your own impending transformations.”
The guests tittered in hushed excitement, and Ronin wondered how he was the only one in the room to recognize the cold menace in Otto’s smile.
“But”—Otto raised a single finger—“before we seek our gifts from the Creator, we must first upend the story of our third and final false deity. Faurana the Mother, High Goddess of Land and Life.” Otto dipped his head, emitting a disdainful chuckle. “Land and life. The very things Adelphinae herself has provided to our world. Faurana’s stories are the most egregious, are they not?”
Otto took a long, pregnant pause, letting his words settle upon the crowd.
“The High Gods do not exist. And in denying our Creator, the Erabis family and their so-called Empire have stolen something from each and every one of you.”
Ronin flicked his gaze toward Layla, her expression carefully smug as she bobbed her head in agreement.
“After today’s performance, we will use a powerful artifact to call upon a weapon that Adelphinae herself has left in this world for us. A weapon that will bless you with the elemental power that has faded from your bloodlines. Should she deem you worthy, of course.”
“What happens if we’re not worthy?” Nero Beruglia piped up. Ronin was heartened by the biting edge in the male’s tone. Nervous, fearful whispers rippled across the guests, along with several audible remarks of hesitation.
“An impossibility, dear friends,” Otto preened. “The point of these performances has been to open your eyes, crumble any faith you may have had in the High Gods, allow the doubt to creep in. As long as Adelphinae can sense that you are open to accepting her into your heart, you will be fine. There is nothing to fear.” The crowd fell silent, but Ronin noticed many of them glancing toward the crypt’s exit. “But first! Please sit back and enjoy this final performance. A dance, performed by the prima ballerina of the Kheimos Company herself— Mireille Valette! ”
Ronin held his breath as Mireille glided into the room, her pointe shoes thudding against the stone. Her tutu rustled with every step, and the torchlight gleamed off the jewels scattered across her bodice. Her copper hair was piled atop her head in a tight bun, exposing the elegant lines of her neck and back.
Though her gait was fierce, Ronin couldn’t help thinking how small and fragile she looked in that costume. He fought the urge to dash out of his seat, scoop her up, and carry her far, far away from the monster holding court ahead of her.
Arriving at the altar, she turned to face the crowd, arms loose at her sides. Poised and ready to launch into her solo.
Otto’s viper eyes devoured her body with blatant covetousness, and Ronin’s wolf snarled.
Get her out of here , the beast whined.
Not yet, Ronin answered him. We need to stick to the plan .
You are a fool if you think that male has shared his full truth with anyone . End. This. Now.
Up at the altar, Otto positioned himself behind Mireille, his knobby fingers curling over her shoulders.
“Magnificent,” Otto whispered, though it carried through the silent crypt, prickling the hairs on Ronin’s neck. “We have learned something very interesting about Mistress Valette this weekend. Most of you have human heritage in your bloodlines that dates back many, many generations. But hers…”
An involuntary snarl ripped up Ronin’s throat as Otto wrapped an arm around Mireille’s waist and hauled her back against him. “Mireille is half-human.”
Shocked gasps exploded into the room, along with whispered speculations.
“…is she doing here?”
“Thought they were all sent to Tartarus…”
“…does that mean for her power…”
Otto pulled Mireille closer.
Her body was relaxed and her breathing appeared normal. Unafraid.
Ronin’s heart glowed with fierce pride, even as fear chilled his blood, icing his veins and agitating his wolf.
“Perhaps,” Otto said, his voice low and menacing, “we do not need her to perform today at all.”
Ronin tensed into preternatural stillness, flicking his eyes toward Layla, whose face was carefully neutral despite the fingers twitching at her sides, closing in on her knives.
Otto popped his fangs, and Ronin barely had time to burst out of his seat before the Deathstalker yanked Mireille’s head to the side.
And sank his teeth into her throat.