Chapter 9
Getting to Thorne’s compound was easy. We traveled deserted roads, save for a checkpoint of Dusters who didn’t question the stolen van we arrived in.
Mason, disguised as a Duster in one of their upturned-collar trench coats, chatted amiably with checkpoint guards out the driver’s window, while Taylor and I hid in the back under tarps like confiscated goods.
Getting inside was also surprisingly easy.
Mason dropped us off in an empty alley populated only by rats and aggressive raccoons, and a functioning fire escape led us directly to the unguarded window.
However, the rest of our night will not be going as smoothly.
Below us, an unexpected party carries on, attended by a hefty number of guests and protection.
Taylor sits on the bed of Thorne’s late wife, elbows on her knees, deep in thought. I pad around the finely appointed death room, squinting at the various owl-shaped baubles adorning Mrs. Thorne’s furniture.
When my mother died, Papa tried to have her library sealed off.
Not only to protect the illicit pre-Rift materials she collected, but because it so deeply reminded him of her.
In grief and in petulance, I staged a protest and locked myself in the library for two weeks until he agreed to leave it open.
He never stepped foot inside it again. Leader Thorne looks to have done the same.
The room is musty and dark, frozen in time.
“It’s like an ancient Egyptian tomb in here,” I whisper, trying not to disturb any potential spirits.
Taylor remains unmoved, her eyes doing that thing where she looks like she’s staring through walls, her breaths silent. I can only imagine she’s working every possibility of our scenario.
Atop a dark fireplace, a shelf clock with looming owl eyes leers at me. “Geez, she really liked owls.”
Taylor abruptly gets up and swings open the door to the closet.
She flips on the light and illuminates the generous walk-in.
Dozens of dresses line one wall, shoes on another, in a full spectrum of color and material.
A mirror stretches from floor to ceiling in the back next to equally tall dressers, which I imagine hold a lot more clothing.
The assassin gives the room an intense inspection, fingers gliding along the fabric of the dresses.
The dim bulb in my brain flickers on and I take her shoulder and whirl her around. “Let me go to the party.”
“What?” She inspects my expression, perhaps wondering if I somehow sustained a head injury. “Absolutely not.”
“What’s the alternative? Put you in a dress and hope you’re about thirty times more charming than you were at the ball?”
“You weren’t complaining,” she grumbles, mostly under her breath.
“Look at these dresses. They’re like two feet too long for you. I’m clearly the right size and I speak Thorne’s language. I can get him alone, I’m sure of it.” She frowns at me. “We both have our skills, Tay, and one of mine is charming atrocious men. Let me help.”
Her mouth twitches at the nickname, but she appears thoughtful, considering the pros and cons of my offer. Before she can protest again, I brush past her and swiftly undress down to my undergarments.
“I do not want to put you in unnecessary dang—oh geez.” I crane my head over my shoulder and Taylor suddenly does an about-face toward the bedroom. “You’re naked.” She wrangles the words from her mouth in a hilariously high-pitched whisper.
“How traumatizing for a cold-blooded assassin who summers in a brothel.”
I’m sure I’m not the first person she’s seen in their undergarments, considering I currently have more clothes on than everyone in that brothel combined. I snatch a dress off a hanger for inspection. It’s a golden yellow satin, with no shoulder straps and a faux belt around the center.
Leaning into her ear from behind, I purr, “Hold this a second.”
She obliges me as I gleefully force her to hold my unmentionables. “You are enjoying this too much.”
Once I’m in the dress and wearing a suitable set of heels, I clear my throat. “If I haven’t irreparably offended your delicate sensibilities, could you zip me?”
With one hand on the small of my back, she slowly pulls the zipper up to the top of the hem. It’s unexpectedly intimate, made more so by her fingers delicately tracing down the length of the zipper, and her breath puffing against the exposed skin of my back.
Once I’ve gathered the courage to turn around, she takes a step back. Breaking the heavy tension, I present myself with a tiny curtsy. “So? How do I look?”
“Yes.”
“I look…yes?”
Big eyes blink back their focus, and she clears her throat and says, “You look appropriate for the occasion.”
“Geez, don’t flatter me too much, I might swoon.
” But actually, I might swoon, as Taylor beholds me like I’m a work of art.
I’m not sure she realizes it, but warmth spreads through my body under her stare.
“Feels like a lifetime ago when I wore a dress this nice. I thought that night was going to go differently.”
“Oh? How did you see it going?” Her infuriating innocence burns the tops of my cheeks. Before I can comment on her possibly teasing me, worry engulfs her expression. “Are you sure you want to do this? There are a thousand ways this can go wrong. He may recognize you.”
“I doubt it. Plus, you’ve already done the math in your head, haven’t you?” I ask, and she tilts her head to the side. “You know this is the only way. You knew these dresses would fit me. The minute we got here you knew what we’d have to do. What I would have to do.”
“You wanted the choice.”
“And I made my choice, hero.” I’m honestly touched by her concern, but this is no time for sentiment. I need to be pragmatic and calm, like she usually is.
Her chest rises and falls thrice in succession. “I have a lot of reservations.”
“No, you? Look, I realize it’s not one of your intricate, best-laid plans, but it will work. If he doesn’t recognize me, it’ll go perfectly fine. If he does, he isn’t going to disrupt his party to out me. He’ll want to know what I want, or what he can get for me. Besides, you’re here.”
“You need to get him up to me. Or, at the very least, alone. I need you to make sure I can get a clear shot at him, away from you.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
She rolls her eyes at me and steps aside, giving my hand one final squeeze before letting me go.
“Miss Piccolo,” she calls as I get to the door.
I assume she’s going to tell me to be careful or give me another chance to back out.
However, she looks resolute, and maybe also proud. “Get our mark, princess.”
Manufactured heat creeps up the stairs as I creep down, and with it, the smell of perfume and sweat.
Unable to thwart the urge to compare wealth, I appraise Thorne’s home.
Our ballroom is larger and grander, with skylights for easy kidnapping access, and Greek-style columns.
Other displays of wealth remain the same—gilded oil paintings and the sound of violins and cellos bouncing off the walls.
The chatter of well-to-do citizens and music is a cacophony familiar to me, but uncomfortable.
Like a well-worn shoe on the wrong foot.
Cornelius Thorne sticks out like Papa does; there is permanence to his presence, an unignorable importance.
It signals to me like a lighthouse, or, less flatteringly, like one bird of a feather to another.
He’s a timid-looking man with birdlike features, including an oversized, sharply slanted nose, and quick black eyes that never entirely focus.
The wiry, white-haired tyrant stands in the corner of the room, flanked by one burly CO.
Considering the vast number of Upperclass people in attendance, I note an unusually low number of uniformed COs. Ballsy, and stupid.
I stick to the perimeter of the room and try to bring forth the information I have on Cornelius Thorne from the file in my brain.
Made a widower many years ago and subsequently childless, he is a ruthless man with a lifetime of loneliness and an absolutely wretched reputation for abusing his inferiors.
What kind of woman interests a man like that?
With each footstep toward the leader, I craft that woman inside me.
She needs to be convincing. My life depends on it.
“Leader Thorne,” I drawl, approaching him with a steady stride and holding out my hand. “Leader Thorne, my name is Aurore Dupin. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
The man’s white mustache flicks. “Have we met before, miss?”
“Oh, certainly. My father, Pierre Dupin, worked for you in Chicago.”
His sloped nose twitches in thought, like an oversized rabbit. “I don’t remember a Dupin.”
“You wouldn’t. He died when I was only five, all those years ago.
” I feign a mournful sigh at my imaginary dead father.
Not as hard to imagine as I’d like. “You sent us a wonderful bouquet of flowers. And, as luck would have it, when we went to Father’s office to collect his belongings, you were there.
Mama and I were thrilled. We rode the elevator with you.
So, we haven’t met properly, you see, but I’ve never forgotten you.
You never forget meeting the most powerful man in all the regions. ”
“Oh.” He grunts, confused and jittery, but preening. I place my hand on his arm and rub it soothingly. “I’m sorry for your loss, young lady.”
“Thank you. Father was quite proud to work for you. I remember him saying you were not only a brilliant businessman and a great leader, but that you had impeccable taste. He spent years trying to acquire a Degas like the beautiful one you have over there.”
Cornelius’s black eyes flit to one of the paintings on the wall, and then back to me. “He was interested in the arts?”