Chapter 23
The dress arrives three hours before we're supposed to leave.
For fuck’s sake. When is he going to stop dressing me up like his own personal Barbie?
I'm in the library, buried in research about the spaces between, trying to understand how Wren's cottage can exist in that gray nothingness, when Auric appears with a garment bag draped over his arm.
"From Croesus," he says, laying it across the back of a chair. "For tonight."
I don't look up from my book. "Tell him I have my own clothes."
"I'm sure you do. He wants you to wear this anyway." There's something almost sympathetic in Auric's voice. "He's very particular about presentation."
"He's very particular about control," I mutter, but I close the book. "What's tonight?"
"He'll brief you. Whatever he's asking you to do...be careful. Idris isn't like the others. He's..." He stops, shakes his head. "Just be careful."
He's gone before I can ask what he means and why he’s warning me about Idris.
I stare at the garment bag with suspicion.
Part of me wants to leave it there, show up to whatever this is in jeans and a t-shirt just to prove a point.
But I already know how that would go. Croesus would look at me with that patient, amused expression and explain, very reasonably, why I need to wear what he chose.
And I'd end up changing anyway.
So I might as well skip the fight.
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside is black. Silk again. Always impractical fucking sink. It's elegant, expensive, and clearly designed to help me disappear into shadows. Straps and slits all over. It’ll bare my skin and tattoos, so not sure what he’s thinking.
There's a note pinned to the hanger in Croesus's neat handwriting:
We're going somewhere we shouldn't be. Blend in. Don't draw attention. And for once, please don't argue with me about the wardrobe.
I crumple the note in my fist.
He's dressing me again. Choosing what I wear, how I present myself, turning me into whatever image serves his purposes. And the worst part is that I understand why. If we're infiltrating somewhere, I need to look the part. Need to fit in. Need to not get us both killed.
Understanding doesn't make me less angry about it.
I take the dress back to my room, lay it on the bed, and stare at it for several minutes while I wrestle with my irritation.
Through the binding, I can feel Croesus somewhere in the house. Not his thoughts, but his presence, steady, focused, preparing for whatever this is. There's anticipation there. Satisfaction. The particular edge of hunger that comes before he's about to acquire something he wants.
I touch the dress. The silk is cool, slippery under my fingers.
Fine. I'll wear his dress. I'll play his game. I'll be whatever weapon he needs tonight. But we're going to have a conversation about this. Soon.
I'm dressed and ready when Croesus knocks.
"Come in," I call, and he enters, looking like he walked out of a noir film, black suit perfectly tailored, black shirt underneath with no tie, dark mask in his hand. His hair is swept back, and even blind, he moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how devastating he looks.
He stops just inside the door, tilts his head in that listening way.
"You wore it," he says, and there's surprise in his voice. Genuine surprise.
"Don't get used to it." I turn so he can see the full effect, or sense it, or whatever he does. "I'm wearing it because it makes sense for whatever we're doing tonight. Not because I like being dressed like a doll."
"Noted." He crosses to me, and I feel the now-familiar pull of the binding, that awareness of him that's become constant background noise. "Though for what it's worth, you look stunning."
"You can't see me."
"I can sense you. The way you move, the way the fabric falls, the heat of your skin against the silk." He's close now, close enough that I can smell smoke and gold. "And stunning doesn't require sight."
Heat floods my face, and through the binding, I feel his satisfaction at getting that reaction.
"You're an ass," I inform him.
"Frequently." He holds out the mask. "We need to talk about tonight."
I take the mask, black lace, delicate, designed to cover the upper half of my face. "Auric said you'd brief me. And that I should be careful around Idris."
"Auric is wise." Croesus moves to the window, stares out at nothing. "We're going to the House of Regret. To a masquerade that Idris is hosting for his contracted souls and favored guests."
"We're crashing a party."
"We're infiltrating enemy territory." His voice sharpens. "This isn't a social call, Raven. This is theft. Strategic, calculated theft, designed to hurt Idris where it matters most, his reputation and his collection."
I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly very aware that this is different from the Barnes job. That was opportunistic, taking advantage of someone already in crisis. This is deliberate. Aggressive. An act of war.
"Tell me," I say.
Croesus turns from the window. "There's a woman who will be at the masquerade tonight. Helena Cortez. She's a prominent art collector, moves in the highest social circles, has connections to museums and galleries worldwide. Three months ago, she made a deal with Idris."
"What kind of deal?"
"She wanted a rival's collection. A private collector who had pieces she'd been trying to acquire for years, rare paintings, sculptures, artifacts. Idris offered to get them for her. All of them. In exchange, she signed over her ability to appreciate beauty."
I feel sick. "So she got the collection?"
"And can't enjoy it. Can't look at the paintings and feel anything.
Can't understand why she wanted them in the first place.
She's become obsessed with acquiring more, convinced that quantity will somehow restore what she's lost." He moves to the bed, sits beside me.
Not touching, but close. "Idris is using her.
She's his proxy in the art world, acquiring pieces for him while thinking she's collecting for herself.
In a year, maybe two, when the envy consumes her completely, he'll collect her soul and keep everything she's gathered. "
"That's..." I search for the right word. "Cruel doesn't even cover it."
"Idris is envy incarnate. Cruelty is his nature." Croesus's voice is matter-of-fact. "But he's also been cultivating Helena very carefully. She's influential, connected, valuable. Other collectors trust her. Museums seek her opinion. She's a perfect tool for building his collection."
Understanding clicks. "And you want to take her away from him."
"I want to steal his best asset. Break her contract, free her soul, and make it available for my collection instead.
" He turns toward me, and even without seeing his eyes, I feel the weight of his attention.
"This isn't about saving Helena, Raven. Don't mistake this for altruism.
This is about humiliating Idris. Proving I can walk into his house, take what's his, and walk out again.
This is territorial warfare. Strategic theft. Power."
The honesty is almost refreshing. At least he's not pretending this is noble.
"Helena still goes free," I point out.
"As a side effect. Not the goal." He leans forward slightly. "I need you to understand what you're participating in. This isn't breaking a contract to help someone. This is using you as a weapon to hurt a rival. The fact that Helena benefits is incidental."
"Why tell me this?" I ask. "Why not just let me think I'm doing a good deed?"
"Because I don't lie to you." His voice softens slightly. "You're bound to me now. Part of my house. You deserve to know when I'm using you, even if you can't refuse. You’ll feel it anyway."
Through the binding, I feel his sincerity. His hunger for what this represents, yes, but also something like respect. Like he's giving me the truth because I've earned it.
"Okay," I say. "So we crash Idris's masquerade, I break Helena's contract, and then what? I'll need to purge immediately."
"You'll come back here to purge. I've already stashed backup ritual supplies in a storage room, third floor, eastern wing, behind a tapestry of Narcissus, though. Just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
"In case I can't get to you right away after the contract breaks.
" He stands, offers me his hand. "Idris will feel it the moment you break Helena's contract.
He'll come looking, probably follow us back.
I'll need to stay visible, keep watch for him without drawing attention to where you actually are.
I won't be able to come to you immediately without leading him straight to you. "
I take his hand, let him pull me to my feet. "So I'm on my own for the purge."
"You have everything you need. And if something goes wrong, if he finds you anyway, use the binding. Call for me. I'll come."
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small pendant on a silver chain. It's made of black stone carved with symbols I don't recognize, and it pulses with subtle magic.
"This will dampen your angel-blood signature," he explains, fastening it around my neck.
His fingers are warm against my skin. "Idris is perceptive.
Unnaturally so. Even with the masquerade's wards, he'd sense your bloodline if you aren't protected.
This will hide you. Make you just another human at his party. "
"Until I break the contract."
"Until you break the contract," he agrees. "Then he'll know exactly what you are. But by then, you'll be gone."
The pendant settles against my chest, cool and heavy. I can feel its magic wrapping around me, muffling something I didn't even know was visible.
"How do we get there?" I ask.
"The same way we got to Wren's." He produces a small hand mirror from his pocket. "The spaces between connect all the houses. We just have to know the right path."
"And you know it."