Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Luna
We stepped through an archway that rippled like water as we passed, emerging into a space that defied conventional architecture.
The ballroom stretched before us, impossibly vast for the building that contained it.
Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, supported by columns that looked like solidified moonlight.
That was the only way I could describe it.
And the guests… My throat tightened at the gathering before us.
Every faction of supernatural society seemed represented, many only partially concealing their true natures despite their elegant attire and masks.
A group of fae nobles glimmered by a fountain that flowed upward, their fingers elongated and their eyes shining with unnatural colors.
Vampire houses clustered near the chamber’s darker corners, beauty and danger radiating from their perfect stillness.
A couple of witches moved through the crowd in sync with each other, their formal wear shimmering with embedded spells.
And yes, wolf shifters too, standing in small packs. I breathed a small sigh of relief when I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Damien murmured. “Selene’s gatherings are one of the few places where all major factions meet under a truce.”
“It’s something,” I said.
Part of me—the part that had grown up as Alpha Rookwood’s daughter—recognized this world of supernatural politics and power. But another part—the tomb raider who’d scraped by on the fringes for three and a half years—felt like an imposter in fancy clothing.
I’d gone to about 1.3 of my dad’s important events. The rest I’d made up some excuse to explore caves with Jade or run our wolves through the woods. Literally anything other than this.
“Champagne, sir? Madam?” A server materialized beside us, offering a tray of flutes filled with pale golden liquid.
Damien selected two glasses and handed one to me, our fingers brushing in a gesture that appeared casual but allowed him to subtly tap the glass’s base—the signal we’d practiced to indicate the drink was safe.
He could tell by his vampiric sense of smell. If I still had my wolf shifter powers, I probably could tell as well.
“Thank you,” I told the server, who nodded and glided away with inhuman grace.
“We should circulate,” Damien said, his voice low and intimate as he leaned close to my ear, curling a pleasant shiver between my shoulder blades. “Establish our presence before approaching Selene.”
I nodded, taking a small sip of the champagne to ground myself. It tasted like ordinary expensive champagne with just a hint of something else. Honeysuckle maybe, and if sunshine had a taste, that too.
He took a sip of his as well. “It’s enhanced with fae magic to enrich the sensory experience.”
“So it’s drugged,” I deadpanned.
Damien opened and then closed his mouth, his brow furrowing. “It’s enhanced.”
I did my best not to snort. “It’s drugged, but tomato, to-mah-to, I suppose.”
For the next hour, we moved through the gathering like the couple we were pretending to be.
Damien introduced me to various supernatural dignitaries using our cover story.
I played my role with growing confidence, discussing artifact authentication techniques with a trio of witch historians and debating shifting cultural practices with a surprisingly progressive wolf pack representative.
Throughout it all, Damien remained close, his hand occasionally finding mine or resting at my waist. These small touches, practiced but seemingly natural, grew addicting. I found myself leaning into these contacts more than necessary, telling myself it was just good acting.
But really, I couldn’t deny what his touch ignited within me. A wildfire erupting from the smallest spark, about to consume everything.
“You’re a natural,” he murmured during a momentary lull between conversations. “That witch elder was completely charmed.”
“Well, it helps that I actually know what I’m talking about.” I scanned the room. “Any sign of Selene?”
“Not yet. From what I’ve researched, she makes a formal entrance once all guests have arrived.” His eyes tracked something across the room, his expression sharpening beneath his mask. “Marcel is here.”
I followed his gaze to where Marcel Deveraux, a fellow tomb raider, stood among a group of well-dressed supernaturals, his distinctive presence unmistakable despite the silver mask covering the upper half of his face.
Even as a human, he towered over most supernaturals and was ridiculously thin.
Only in his upper thirties, his hair had already turned silver.
“You know Marcel?” I asked, taking another sip of champagne to appear casual.
“I know of him,“ Damien corrected. “Let’s just say I didn’t hire him for our cause for a reason.”
“Because he’s a dick weasel?”
Damien choked on his next sip of champagne. When he recovered, he said, “Among other things, yes. His presence confirms that others are pursuing the Shadow Fang.”
“Or he could just be here for the canapés.” I pointed at the elaborate spread of supernatural delicacies adorning floating tables throughout the gallery. “These little glowing things are amazing, by the way. What are they?”
“Moonpeaches,” Damien said, his attention still on Marcel. “Grown in the fae realms. Careful, they’re addictive to shifters.”
“Addictive?” I hastily set down the half-eaten fruit on a nearby table. “You could have mentioned that before I took a bite.”
His lips quirked in a suppressed smile. “A few bites won’t harm you.
Besides, they’re excellent for enhancing sensory acuity, which could be useful tonight.
But back to Marcel. Someone from Atlas Security was staking out the Repository, and from what I’ve learned of Marcel, that’s exactly what he would do. ”
I turned to stare at Damien. “What? When?”
“Tonight. I got rid of them.”
Got rid of them. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.
“You think Marcel hired someone to watch me? But why?”
“Likely because he’s watching me too.”
“So he knows about our plan?”
The gallery lighting dimmed. A hush fell over the gathering as a melodic tone—not quite a bell, not quite a voice—resonated through the space. The massive doors at the far end of the gallery swung open without visible assistance, and a woman entered.
No, not a woman. A presence.
Madame Selene moved through the parting crowd with the grace of something not entirely bound by physical laws.
Tall and willowy, she wore a gown that seemed woven from the night sky itself, stars twinkling in its depths as she walked.
Her skin was pale as moonlight, her features elegant and ageless.
Her mask appeared to be made of pure silver that moved like liquid around her eyes, which shifted color with each blink—silver to blue to black to violet.
“What is she?” I whispered.
“No one knows for certain,” Damien said. “Some believe she’s one of the First Ones, the original supernaturals, beings that existed before the current supernatural factions emerged. Others think she’s a fusion of multiple magical bloodlines. Selene herself allows the speculation to continue.”
As she reached the center of the gallery, Selene raised her hands in a welcoming gesture. When she spoke, her voice carried effortlessly throughout the space, musical and hypnotic.
“Friends, old and new,” she said, “welcome to my home. The balance of day and night, light and shadow, offers us unique opportunities for exchange and discovery.”
Her gaze swept the gathering, and I could have sworn it lingered momentarily on Damien and me.
“As is tradition,” Selene continued, “my collection is open for your appreciation. New acquisitions await in the Eastern Gallery. Negotiations may commence at the stroke of midnight. Until then, please enjoy the offerings of my humble home.”
With that simple declaration, conversation resumed around us, though now with a more purposeful energy. Guests began drifting toward the indicated Eastern Gallery, where Selene’s newest treasures awaited.
“Should we head there now?” I asked Damien.
“Not immediately,” he cautioned. “Too obvious. We should allow the initial rush to subside before making our approach.” His hand found mine. “Besides, Selene herself will be receiving guests first. Better to meet her when she’s less surrounded.”
“So what now?” I gazed forlornly at the floating tables full of food. “More food?”
“No.” He surprised me by tugging me toward an open area where several couples danced to music played by an ensemble of musicians. “Now we dance.”
“Dance?” I repeated. “That wasn’t in the plan.”
“Adaptability is essential to a successful mission,” he said. “Besides, dancing is expected of an engaged couple at events like these.”
We reached the dance floor, and Damien’s hand settled at my waist while the other maintained its grip on mine. The music shifted to something slow and haunting, the strings and woodwinds creating a melody that seemed to bypass my ears and resonate directly in my chest.
“I should warn you,” I muttered as he guided me into the first steps of what was apparently a waltz, “my formal dance training ended when I was cast out of the pack. I’m more likely to step on your feet than impress anyone.”
“Follow my lead,” Damien said, his voice low and close to my ear. “I’ve had several centuries to perfect this particular skill.”
“Show-off,” I muttered.
I found myself moving in sync with him more easily than I expected.
His leading was subtle but confident, tiny pressures of his hand at my waist guiding me through the unfamiliar steps.
The moonpeach’s effects heightened my awareness of everything—the cool firmness of his hand against mine, the scent of spicy snow that clung to him, the precise control in every movement of his body.
“There,” he murmured, using our turn to indicate a far corner of the gallery. “The entrance to the Eastern Gallery. Security is heavier than expected.”