Chapter 48
COSMETICS
Poppy
The Old Main of St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts is a sight of majestic grandeur unlike any I’ve ever seen.
The ancient behemoth is a harmonious blend of architectural styles: Norman, Arab, Byzantine, Gothic.
Lush gardens surround the building, flourishing in the first yawns of spring.
Dew coats petals like liquid diamonds. Grand statues of angels and warriors upon chariots and soaring pegasuses balance the pops of color with somber notes of gray.
It reminds me of Morgenstern Manor, and I’m even more curious about my ancestor who supposedly attended this academy.
Ahead, ushers and security guards linger around the grand arched doors open to guests pouring in from their parade of Jaguars and Teslas.
Someone was pompous enough to bring a horse-drawn carriage.
Buttery firelight spills from inside, Victorian music along with it.
I doff my helmet and suck down a lungful of spring’s balmy breath, idling at the line’s rear.
This is it. No more waiting, no more planning. No more chasing dead ends.
I have one shot to right my worst wrong.
The line moves, and I don my half Leviathan mask.
Ushers take the Ninja before I’m escorted inside, where mosaic floors and walls painted in breathtaking frescoes greet me.
The artistry is charming yet haunting: fallen angels weeping into their hands; demons looming over mortals cowering in fear.
Many pieces are incomplete. As if whoever started them died before they could finish.
I’m led through the maze of corridors with the other masked guests to a grand courtyard open to the night.
A string quartet plays Bach from a shadowy corner.
Tables carved into the shape of crescent moons line the walls, set for a feast that could feed an entire army.
Snatching a sparkling drink from a passing tray, I pace the perimeter and scan the crowd for any familiar faces.
I lock gazes with a woman in a black, crushed velvet gown whose wild cinnamon curls and big blue eyes I instantly recognize.
What the fuck is Quinn doing here?
“Poppy?” She approaches with a bemused smile. “I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“Touché.”
“Oh, Christ, this probably looks like it’s something it isn’t. I got an invitation when Shane was still…” She clears her throat, her lashes glistening. “I wasn’t going to come, but then Bronte left work sick, and I figured instead of wasting this one chance, I’d see if maybe Shane would be here.”
Too many questions war for my tongue. The first is: “Bronte is sick?”
“Anyone would be after mixing coffee with pizza.”
My nose scrunches. “Gross.”
“No kidding.”
Not willing to lower my guard, I check my phone. “Ah, he did try calling. Along with texting me your number. You called, too…?”
“We were talking boys.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I haven’t seen Shane. Have you?”
“Nope.” Technically, it’s not a lie.
Quinn nods, sipping her drink and casting her attention to the sea of masked guests around us. “Maybe he’s running late.”
“Sure, possibly.”
I crane my neck to watch the people funneling in. There’s hundreds in attendance. All filthy rich, judging by the couture and gold and general posturing as if someone shoved sticks up their asses.
An itch forms beneath my skin the longer I study the guests.
Many know each other, exchanging hugs and familiar smiles.
Which is a worrisome level of odd, considering Leviathan’s members are blind to one another’s identities.
These people seem more like those you’d see at a church or community event.
Followers, perhaps? If so, how is that possible? Leviathan is a ghost.
I peer at a nearby trio of women huddled closely, sniggering amongst themselves, and I swear on every star in the cosmos I see fangs flashing—
A tall figure slinks through the courtyard, derailing my thoughts. Broad shoulders, generous muscles, dark hair. For a moment, I imagine Bronte beneath the mask.
But then I see his eyes, and my own widen.
They’re mismatched: the right is pale ivy, the other white as death. Four brutal scars slash from his left temple to the edge of his opposite cheek. They look like they were made by an animal. Something big and pissed.
Whoever he is, he easily spies me gawking. He recognizes me instantly, jerking forward. Silver metal flickers in his hand.
I reach for my gun.
Then he sees someone behind me and freezes mid-step.
Quinn suddenly latches onto my arm, startling me. “I think I see Shane! Come on. This way.”
Too shellshocked, I let her drag me through the crowd. We stumble past the strange man. A musk of citrus and cigarette smoke clings to him like a shadow. My elbow grazes his knuckles as Quinn tows me behind her.
That’s when I see it: the lighter clenched in his fist.
Whoever they are, they’re a smoker.
By the fucking stars. He’s who I spoke to, the ringleader Scull took orders from. The one at the top of Leviathan’s food chain.
I dig my heels in. “Quinn, wait.”
“I can’t do this without you.” When she turns to me, tears leaking mascara down her cheeks, guilt tips a rusty blade into my ribs. “Please, Poppy. You’re the only person here I know and trust. If it’s not him, I’ll leave. Promise.”
How am I supposed to deny a heartbroken woman? “All right, Henriette. Let’s find Casanova.”
I throw a final glance over my shoulder, but the man is nowhere in sight. He’s watching, though. I can feel those harrowing eyes on the back of my head.
Quinn rushes to the entry hall, politely shoving through oncoming traffic. When we reach the entrance with no Scull in sight, she visibly deflates and sobs into her palms like the fallen angels on the walls.
“I-I swear I thought I saw him.”
“I know.” I wince sympathetically and steer her toward the restroom before she has a humiliating public meltdown. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Quinn rips off her mask, panting at her reflection above the sink as I wipe her bleeding cosmetics with a damp towelette. “I’m so fucking tired of always seeing him. Every day, he’s just around the corner or in someone’s face. I miss him, and I hate it.”
My lips roll into a line. “I’m sorry, Quinn. You deserve better.”
It’s all I can give her without revealing the truth.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
Quinn snorts. “Bronte is rubbing off on you.”
“And I’m not complaining.” I smile at her small laugh. “What’s your question?”
“Did you burn or bury the love of my life after Bronte skinned him alive?”
I stiffen. Stare.
Quinn’s teary gaze slides to me. She’s unnervingly still, the calm before the storm. Then she grins like a cat with a canary trapped under its paw.
And it all makes perfect, agonizing sense.
Quinn wasn’t Scull’s little, unsuspecting lamb like we’d thought. No, she’s a lion—just like he’d been.
“You,” I breathe.
She leans in and breathes back, “Me.”
I grab my gun, but she fists my hair and shoves my head into the mirror so hard, my mask crumples. Before I can right myself, something thin and metallic and sharp pricks my neck—a needle.
I gasp, stumbling back and tripping over my own feet. I topple to the floor, my limbs too heavy. Quinn’s sneer blurs as darkness envelopes my vision. She paws through my pockets, stomping on my phone and stealing my weapons. Then she lifts a small device I’ve never seen before.
A tracker.
“Aw, look at this. Your boyfriend has been stalking you.” She crushes the tech beneath her stiletto. “We don’t need him crashing our girls’ night, do we?”
I try clawing her face, but my fingernails graze her skin as harmlessly as feathers.
As my eyes drift shut, Quinn croons, “Sweet dreams, princess. Your reckoning is about to begin.”