19. Nik
NIK
“Are you sure it’s taken care of?”
“Mhm.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will.”
“Elara.”
She tipped her head toward him, eyes vacant.
They’d been standing inside Souverain Tremblay’s gaudy chateau for the better part of an hour now, and all she could do was stare blankly at the ceiling.
A painted figure of a woman climbed a rocky cliff, her golden skin bright against the devouring darkness raining down from a man silhouetted in ash.
As she neared the precipice, he reached for her.
The moment they touched, black claws wrapped around the man’s shoulders and dragged him away into an oncoming storm.
The painting repeated once, twice, a dozen times as they waited.
“It’s fine,” she said.
“What if it’s not?”
“Then I lose.”
All he’d been able to drag out of her today were monosyllabic responses barely cobbled together while her attention was …
elsewhere. Even when the police had put her and the other chefs through rigorous tests to determine if they’d cheated, she had allowed them to poke and prod without cowering or fighting.
Blai swore the tattoo had blocked all worrying memories of her past—though they wouldn’t say which—and had encouraged Nik to leave her alone to practice. She’d whipped through recipe after recipe, and was still going when their midnight rendezvous came around.
“What was your favorite thing about your mother?” she’d asked.
He’d sifted through countless memories. “No matter how much she washed her hands, they forever smelled of soil,” he’d replied. “You?”
She’d turned back to her work and away from him. “It doesn’t matter. I need to practice.”
Practice was one thing. What she’d exhibited in the last few hours was mania.
This was not the same girl who’d held a butter knife to his throat, damning the risk of exposure to ensure she wasn’t taken advantage of. This was a docile creature, the doe-eyed ingénue Blai had suggested they find. The type of timid performer Nik had originally wanted.
This should’ve been a victory.
“Elouise!” a lofty voice called across the grand foyer.
Fiona Brady, the wretch who’d drugged Elara, sauntered away from the other three chefs.
“Patron, mind if we have a moment? Chef to chef?” She batted her lashes as if they would have any effect on him. Overly flirtatious had never worked for him. Well … almost never.
When he glanced at Elara, she nodded.
Stepping away was harder than it should’ve been. This was Elara’s realm, and he couldn’t interfere. The other Patrons didn’t. In fact, they were huddled together, awaiting the official summons into the ballroom.
Fiona stood with her back to him so he couldn’t even read her lips.
But he could read Elara’s face. Whatever Fiona said eventually broke her calm demeanor. Her face paled further, eyes flickering wide in a way that made Nik inch forward. Fiona tossed her copper braid as she smiled back at him, wriggling her fingers in a wave.
She whispered one last thing to Elara before skipping back to the other chefs, who dispersed immediately. At least they all felt the same about the insufferable girl.
Nik should’ve left well enough alone, but he needed to know what had frightened her. All night, he’d dreamed of her beneath his father’s knife, screaming in pain as her heart bled out.
Your chef cannot upset that balance.
Your chef.
She wasn’t his, but the idea of it made that terrifying feeling from earlier this week burn brighter. It had opened a cavity inside him, one that no amount of sketching could fill. This feeling hungered for something more, and he feared that feeding it even once would awake an insatiable appetite.
Nik took her arm. “What is it?”
“She’s been digging.”
Nik forced himself to remain still. “And what has she learned?”
“That I never apprenticed with Prevel.”
Shit. If they learned that, they’d know she was a fraud and demand to know more. There were ways of ripping the truth from someone, magie tattoo be damned.
“What does she plan to do about it?” he asked.
Elara stared at Fiona, who stood alone watching from across the glittering foyer. “If I don’t lose tonight, she’ll tell the Counseil.”
The girl was smart to use any angle to get ahead. She was likely under immense pressure to win and create a much-needed bridge between Cael and Anespérer. Enough to drug and blackmail the strongest competitor.
“Whatever happens tonight—”
The double doors to the ballroom opened a slice, letting in an Aspirant in Arts Visuels midnight blue.
“Patrons, in a moment, you and your chefs will enter the ballroom, where you will be guided to a specific location. You will be submerged in utter darkness, so do not move until Souverain Tremblay releases you.”
The words were unimportant. Elara was turning the small ring that concealed the tattoo beneath.
The others wouldn’t tell him where she got it nor who the artist was.
They’d simply had Elara demonstrate that the magie worked and told him to stay out of everything else.
Once again, Nik had been shoved on the outside to watch Elara float through her day, trusting everyone else but him.
Except he wasn’t jealous. Not anymore. Midnights still belonged to them.
He was afraid, though. What if the tattoo failed? What if the Counseil figured her out? The police would descend upon her, and he would never see her again.
The servant produced a lantern and guided them through the crack in the door.
They were, indeed, plunged into true darkness. Beside him, Elara shuffled close enough for her skirts to brush his legs.
One by one, the servant deposited each patron and chef pairing at seemingly random locations before moving a few hundred feet farther along whatever path they were on.
Nik and Elara were positioned last. Without the scuff of feet, it was easier to realize how cavernous the room was.
Small signs of life echoed from above: muffled giggling, stifled coughs, a murmur of conversation.
Nik sketched the blueprint in his mind: Tremblay’s ballroom was notoriously the largest of the Souverain chateaus, made to expand and change levels for her grand art shows.
Seating had somehow been constructed above them, leaving the ballroom floor as the stage.
He reached out a palm into what should’ve been open space, only to be met with the feel of an ice-cold wall. Strange.
Lights burst on.
After his eyes adjusted, it made sense.
The Souverains were gathered in a balcony two stories up and to their left. Golden light refracted off their alabaster attire, giving them an ethereal air.
Unlike the first contest, which had been more garden party than grueling competition, they were dressed for battle. Their outfits were made of sharp angles and material that resembled armor. Even Lafontaine wore what might’ve been a lab coat if it weren’t for the tapered sleeves and high collar.
Is Auclair a weakness?
“Nik.”
Her voice was small. So small.
She was pulling at the buttons of her coat.
“I can’t do this. I can’t…”
Instinct, he told himself, made him reach out and grab her hands. Instinct made him rub small circles across her fingers. And instinct made him step close enough so she could look into his eyes.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe with me.”
Chantal had taught him this trick back when he worked in the theatre and was terrified of resetting a broken ankle.
A deep inhale, a pause, then a slow exhale.
Repeat. Elara followed him until they were a vision of symmetry—two halves of the same painting, bent together, bathed in residual light from the Counseil, who now seemed so far away.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispered. “Together.”
He had no idea how, but he would work his hardest between now and the end of the round to figure out how to silence Fiona or wrap the Counseil around his version of the truth. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid. He would do anything to save her, to help her survive this.
Because there was only one Elara Rousseau.
Souverain Tremblay’s voice erupted around the room. “Patrons, if you would join us!”
Elara turned only to stop and look back with wide eyes.
Nik didn’t remember reaching for her, but he had a hold on her bicep, fingers pressed into the soft warmth of her arm, wishing he could feel beneath the chef’s coat to her skin.
His heart cracked against his ribs. What was he doing?
Elara didn’t have time for him and his messy emotions, and she certainly didn’t need him.
Except she looked at him as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded. No one had ever looked at him that way before, like he was the most important person in the room.
“Patrons!”
“I’ll be up there,” he whispered. If you need me. He didn’t dare risk the embarrassment of saying it and being rejected.
He released her, following the servant into the dark.
He looked back only once when a spotlight burst on as Tremblay called Elara’s name to the roaring welcome from a crowd that had also fallen for her.
Of course she would never need him. She belonged in the spotlight, waving and smiling upward as Blai and Chantal had taught her.