Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
On most jobs, Tolliver is stuck in the Beforedeath while the rest of us are traipsing around the Afterlife. His skills—and interests—are limited to alchemy and alchemy-adjacent pursuits. This isn’t most jobs, though.
There were limited options for how Tolliver could be involved, given that the most important thing about running a con—or a heist—is the ability to lie, and Tolliver’s face is basically a billboard advertising his thoughts and feelings at any given moment.
But the idea of sitting this one out did not sit well with him.
“If Rook is going, I’m going too.” Tolliver had sulked, arms crossed, sinking into my living room couch.
“We don’t need Miracle Max for this part of the job,” I argued.
Tolliver rolled his eyes. “I can make more than just Miracle Max.”
I stiffened. “I don’t think Juliet—”
“I’m not talking about Juliet,” he snapped. “I’m an alchemist. Tell me we don’t need potions for this job.”
“We don’t need potions for this job,” I said. “You’re helping Poppy with the book—”
“Codex,” Poppy said.
“—and you’ll be integral to Part Two. The less people we—”
“Fewer.”
“—bring into the gala, the better.”
“Well, wait a minute,” Poppy said. “We still haven’t figured out how to neutralize security. Is there something he can brew up for that?”
Tolliver scoffed. “Is there something I can—” He started counting on his fingers. “Olfactory Overload, Mirage Mist, Synesthesia Spritz, Vertigo—”
“That’s more alliteration than a comic book,” CJ muttered.
I crossed my arms. “We’re not going through all the trouble of sneaking you in to do a ten-second job. We just need someone tech savvy. Maybe New Guy—”
“Dude!” Tolliver said, pointing to himself.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one learning new skills during our time apart. In addition to brewing Miracle Max, Tolliver was doing other odd jobs at Styx. One of those jobs was setting up the security system—one immune to illusion and other magic. The same system being used at the gala.
My stomach sank. It’s not that I wanted Tolliver to sit this one out. It’s just that Tolliver is different from the rest of us. He’s kind and trusting and, yeah, if I’m honest, would make a perfect mark. But Poppy had a point. Tolliver’s skills were useful.
Rule #13: Use every asset available.
The plan became for Tolliver to arrive as a guest dressed in a tux, much to his dismay. We had, however, packed a janitorial uniform for him in the same crate as the fake grimoire, which had been snuck into that day’s supply delivery and labeled Mannequin Repair Kit.
If everything went as planned, Tolliver would find the crate in storage, change his clothes, then head to the central security room.
He would pump in a compound he calls Whispering Willow, which makes the target suggestible to whispered words.
Tolliver could then whisper to the lead security officer suggesting he take a nap and imprinting the memory of a perfectly secure gala.
With the head of security out of play, Tolliver could take over the monitors and commands, keeping guards out of our way.
If everything goes as planned, which it appears, so far, it has.
CJ and Poppy were supposed to be inside the venue by the time Tolliver was in place, but it looks like they’re behind schedule. My guess is the red carpet took longer than necessary. Poppy loves an audience.
She’s dressed in 1920s glam—a shimmery cocoon dress that looks black but flashes gold in the light.
It has a deep V-neck that culminates in a bone bow at her navel.
The sleeves are wide with fur cuffs. Around her head, she wears a gold velvet turban over a bobbed wig, her baby hairs laid in romantic swoops.
Around her neck hangs a long necklace made of vertebrae.
CJ stands next to her, eyes narrowed, hands held out to keep the onlookers at bay.
Over their standard gray suit, they wear a knee-length overcoat with velvet lapels.
A dark red silk scarf wraps around their throat, and a fedora covers their hair, revealing only the shaved sides.
Their cuff links are knucklebones, and they carry a cane made out of a femur and tibia.
Because I know them both so well, I can tell Poppy is having the time of her life, while CJ is in the ninth circle of hell, figuratively speaking. But to the rest of the gala, they appear the perfect aloof starlet and stressed-out bodyguard.
I’ll be honest, Poppy carries more than her fair share of the load in the crew, but only because she brings a lot to the table.
She can craft anything, is a pro at runic magic, and can seduce anyone to spill their secrets.
The thing that makes her perfect for this role, though, is that she’s distractingly beautiful.
Poppy has the invitation intended for Laurie Love, some fashion designer’s assistant, but the person she is impersonating—the Dead person whose soul Laurie was supposed to be hosting—is old Hollywood starlet Dot Parker.
The fact that Poppy was to take the place of someone so well known was a point of contention during the planning phase.
“You’re asking to get made,” CJ said, pinching the bridge of their nose from the director’s chair in my living room. “Dot Parker is too recognizable.”
I shrugged. “I mean, yeah, if she were attending in her actual body, but Poppy doesn’t have to look like her, just act like her. And Dot Parker was notorious for arriving fashionably late.”
CJ sighed in a way that reminded me of the noise a predator makes before it pounces.
Poppy gave CJ a demure glance. “I can be Dot for an hour. No one would expect someone to be brazen enough to impersonate her. Besides, it sounds fun.”
“Dude,” Tolliver said. “She’ll have to skip the red carpet.” He pretended to take a picture with his fingers.
“Not a chance,” Poppy retorted, hands on hips. “I can spell a necklace with a rune to change my face. Doesn’t last long, but we don’t need it to. Once we’re inside, the only cameras will be the ones Tolliver controls.”
I grimaced. “Actually. No face-changing, Pop. You’re going to be the pig cadaver.”
Poppy’s growing smile fell. “You can’t be serious.”
“Sorry, babe.”
“I’m always the pig cadaver,” she whined. “Make CJ do it.”
“Oh, they are. Dot Parker always appeared with a bodyguard.”
I gave CJ a pointed look. Their eyes narrowed, and they made a weird grunting noise that I took for reluctant agreement.
If CJ were to practice their telempathy more, they would have a larger role in the job, but because their stupid moral code won’t allow them to learn how to emotionally manipulate people, they’re always stuck playing bodyguard or some other kind of muscle.
If they won’t let me use their brains, I’ll have to settle for their brawn.
They pressed their thumb in the spot between their eyes. “I need some aspirin.”
By the look on CJ’s face, the aspirin didn’t help.
Most of the attendees have made their way to circle around Poppy, the perfect distraction. Rook and I are supposed to head into the museum at this point, but with Hecate looking down on us…
I turn to find her no longer on the balcony. Somehow that’s worse.
There’s still time to back out, and part of me knows it’s the smart call. It’s the call Dante would have made.
But a much larger part of me wants to keep going. How much cooler would it be for us to steal the grimoire right out from under Hecate’s nose? Besides, we’re already here. When are we going to get this opportunity again?
“Let’s go,” I say to Rook, and head toward the museum before he can argue.
We walk through a set of double doors and down a stone corridor to another courtyard, where there are a few entrances to various exhibits.
As we wander from room to room, we act as though we’re perusing the artifacts.
I’m not sure what’s usually here, but for the gala, the Coven has brought out all of their relics to display.
The Skeleton Key. The Veil of Mist. Cerberus’s Collar.
We finally find the codex in the Temple of Hercules, a circular room with a mosaic-tile floor. A statue of Hercules stands in an alcove across from us, but in the very center of the room, a case displays what we came for. The Voynich manuscript. I step forward to examine it.
The pages have a yellowed, weathered look that makes me imagine them as crisp and brittle beneath my fingers. It’s open to a page with a circular drawing not unlike the pattern on the floor. An unknown language is scribbled around the edge.
“It looks…old,” I say.
“Imagine that,” Rook says under his breath, even though we’re alone in the room.
The codex is behind glass on top of a display stand that isn’t built into the room but is no doubt weighted down.
I study the glass case to look for the seams but find none.
No hinges for a removable panel. No keyhole to unlock it.
The only way in would be to smash the glass, but I imagine it’s magically reinforced, so the only way to break it would be to drop something heavy on it from a great height.
What I’m wondering is how the codex got inside.
They could have fused the glass closed after the book was already there, but the codex looks like it’s one sunny day away from bursting into flames.
No way it would have withstood the heat required to melt the glass together.
Perhaps some kind of transmutation magic, but the Coven specializes in illusion.
Perhaps the glass…
I tap my finger against it. It feels real, but illusion wouldn’t be as powerful as it is if you could tell it was fake. I could have Poppy take a look at this—she’s excellent at sensing all kinds of magic and finding the cracks—but she’s busy at the moment.
I bend to take a closer look at the codex, as though that will suddenly make the answer appear. It doesn’t, but it does give me a thought.
I wonder…
I search the room for cameras. I find one angled down from the ceiling and wave. Then I point two fingers to my eyes, then open my hands like a book. After a second, the camera moves up and down like it’s nodding.
I give a thumbs-up and take in the rest of the room. Tile floors, painted drywall, domed ceiling, one exit that leads to a small vestibule. In contrast to the dome, there’s a vaulted ceiling over the column-flanked alcove hosting the statue of Hercules. I move closer to get a better look.
“What’s Hercules holding?” I ask Rook.
He turns to the statue, then turns back to give me a flat expression. “It looks like a club.”
I angle my head to get a better look at the long, phallic-shaped…thing in Hercules’s hand. I raise my eyebrows. “That does not look like a club. It looks…fleshy.”
“Oh god,” Rook mutters. “Can we get on with this?”
“No, look at its—”
The lights shut off, replaced by the red glow of egress-pathway LEDs. Across the museum, the sound of doors shutting and locking echoes.
“What’s happening?” Rook whispers, his features stark in the low light.
“It’s really important that you don’t freak out.”
He glares at me, little glimmers of red in his pupils. “Why? Is there something about which for me to freak out?”
“I told you not to freak out, and now it kind of seems like you’re freaking out.”
“I wouldn’t be freaking out if you hadn’t told me not to freak out!” His whispers grow panicked.
I frown. “That makes no sense. Why would you do the opposite of what I told you to do?”
We’re still hissing at each other when a woman in a guard’s uniform appears in the doorway. Her walkie beeps.
“Two in the temple,” a garbled voice says.
The guard doesn’t break eye contact as she speaks into the walkie. “Got ’em.”
Rook looks like he’s about to make a break for it, but I circle my fingers around his wrist.
“Let’s go,” the guard says.
After a brief shared look, Rook and I follow.