3. Riggs
RIGGS
Well, that was easy.
Riggs walked through the castle gates with a swagger he was born to exude, grinning from ear to ear. I look damn good. The guards hadn’t even noticed him squeeze past the crowd.
No wonder the princess went missing.
His boots crunched along the glittering, rocky ground as he glanced toward the sandstone castle, and surveyed the many narrow stained-glass windows. His breath caught. “Beautiful.”
Planted beside the vibrant green hedges were hundreds of rose bushes. Riggs found it odd there was not a variety of colors along the petals, only one color dominating the garden. Pink.
He hugged the tapered sleeves of his satin suit, smoothing the fabric of his arms. He wouldn’t stand for awry wrinkles or stray lint.
He assessed the hundreds of people conversing outside.
He could play the part of a royal guest. Riggs adjusted the mask on his face, squinting to see through the holes.
He could barely see shit.
Riggs strode along the gravel path, threading through the crowd of people, scanning the array of masks.
Some were plain white and black, while others were extravagant, feathered monstrosities.
That peacock one in particular emanated wealth and importance, something Riggs knew he was not.
He’d like to think that he was, after all.
One day, he’d be declared the one who invented cures for all the sick, the one who saved thousands of lives.
The famous Riggs—he shook his thoughts away, reminding himself why he was here to begin with.
Who would I even question? The servants?
“Stop right there.” A deep voice sounded behind him.
Riggs' chest heaved. Shit. Turning, he flashed a charming smile. “Yes?”
He assessed the guard, who was in full armor, standing an inch taller than him. Riggs hummed. Interesting. Riggs was voted the tallest in his village. He’d only won a gold medal for it. He doubted the men in Dagon were taller, not when Dagon was home to dwarfs.
Riggs noted the name on the guard’s armor. Captain Rutherford.
“You didn’t stop at the gate.” The captain pointed at the parchment list. “Your name?”
What name was Conwell going with? Bob? Jim?
“Oh, well—” With sly movements, Riggs peeked at the paper, trying to make out the awful handwriting scribbled across the page.
Captain Rutherford has some fucked-up handwriting.
“Leonard Barvatti,” Riggs said, the words coming more assured than he felt.
“Oh, my apologies, sir. Enjoy the party.” Captain Rutherford offered a quick nod and marched away.
Thank the gods.
Riggs blew out a breath of relief, picking up the pace just in case Leonard Barvatti was in the line of guests behind him.
“Excuse me, thank you, yeah, yup.” Riggs squeezed through the crowd, straining to maintain a low profile. He stifled a smirk. Who was he kidding… He always stood out. Irresistible good looks had their perks, and well, complications.
He wasn’t the only beautiful thing in the vicinity. He couldn’t help but admire the castle’s sheer allure, with its towering claystone pillars, vaulted ceilings, black marble floors with white veins, and two lion statues on either side of the entrance.
Riggs strolled inside, choking on a cloud of perfume. He turned, attempting to hide his reddened face, pretending to admire the endless art pieces hanging along the cream walls.
“Marvelous,” Riggs murmured, still fighting his cough.
He had never been in a fancy establishment before, but had always imagined what a castle looked like. The beauty of the Dagon castle turned his imagination to shit. He’d dreamt of wild animals roaming the halls. If he were king, he would’ve had real lions, not statues of them.
He trudged through the dense crowd, supposing he should follow the moving mass of guests. His gaze snagged on a long, adjacent hall studded with ruby doors.
This place is enormous.
“Sir, the ballroom is just around the corner,” a woman servant mentioned, pointing down the hall.
He didn’t even see her tucked away in the corner, which meant he was distracted.
Riggs nodded his thanks, sliding his hands into his pockets, noting the staff wearing the same colored masks—milky white.
The distant music was growing louder with every step toward the gala. The song they were playing was oddly familiar. His brows bunched, heart racing at the similarity.
It was his mother’s favorite song.
Every note played drove him deeper into memory. He had attended an orchestra once with his father in Aldmoor at their small theater.
He could almost hear his father’s voice as he spoke of his mother's death during the performance. Riggs never knew her but often thought if the pain of losing her was worth the gift of knowing her. Often wondered if his brother and father blamed him for her death. He’d never say it aloud, but from all the wonderful things he’d learned about her from his father and Killian, he’d often envied their grief. Still did.
Riggs blew out a shaky breath, scanning the magnificent ballroom.
The massive chandelier in the center shone brightly, illuminating the many dancers who twirled and swayed in a practiced rhythm across the polished floors.
He straightened with resolve. This was Riggs' chance to prove himself to Killian.
He scanned the room, assessing who he could approach to question.
What’s that?
A marriage of fresh herbs and savory spices filled the air as a few servants walked by with silver platters, his focus crumbling.
Riggs' stomach groaned in answer. Artichoke tarts?
Chicken? Riggs was nothing if not adaptable, and he did his best work on a full belly anyway.
If he could get his hands on some food, that was.
Someone in the crowd lifted their finger, the servant rushing to them. The guest swiped one, smiling smugly.
That easy, huh?
Finger raised high, Riggs plastered the same smug smile. A servant halted, and Riggs snagged an artichoke tart. “Oh, well thank you.” He could get used to this—masquerade balls and exquisite food served on a silver platter.
Stuffing his face, he resumed his mission, scanning the room.
A group of men smoking cigars. No, not them.
The posse of women fanning themselves, and drinking wine.
Far too distracting. Riggs wiped loose crumbs off his lips.
There. He spied a woman dressed in blue, wearing a white mask.
She serves the kingdom. She walked toward the table with what looked like more tarts.
She stumbled, silver trays nearly falling from her hands.
Here’s my opening, for information…and more tarts. He made his way over to where she was fumbling with trays.
Riggs rushed to assist, steadying her trembling hands. “Here, let me help you with that.”
The woman glanced at him and blushed. Was it my touch that made her turn pink?
“Thank you.” She resumed rearranging food along the table.
Seeing her flustered in his presence, he chuckled. When she didn’t say anything, Riggs asked, “So…do you serve Their Majesties?”
The woman moved down the table, tossing him an uncanny look. “Yes, anything I can help you with?” Her voice was nothing more than a gentle whisper.
Serve Their Majesties? He bit his lip. Is that the correct term?
He forced a smile. “Yes, actually you can.” He approached closer, his eyes darting to the damn taunting tart.
“You see I’m here to…” Despite himself, Riggs bobbed his head to the music, the ruse faltering for a moment.
“What’s the special occasion for tonight?
” He huffed a lazy laugh, flashing a smile he knew drove women crazy.
The woman’s features fell. “It is their birthday today.” She scoffed, fixing her gaze on him, dumbfounded.
Sweat coated his palms, anxiety coursing through him. “Birthday, huh?” He awkwardly smirked. “Well damn, I forgot a gift.”
She cleared her throat. “Would you like a drink?” She glanced around the sea of people, her features weary and full of disgust. “There should be servants around here somewhere.”
Unsure why she made that face, Riggs slightly lifted his arm, smelling his armpit.
All good.
Riggs' gaze gravitated toward the ballroom. “Sure, I’d love one.” He was met with silence. He glanced back. The woman had vanished. “Well, that’s fucking nice…” He needed to gather concrete information before the guards realized he provided a fake name.
Already fucked up my first lead.
He needed something to take the edge off.
Wiping his slick brow, he spied a servant carrying a platter of wine glasses, his heart lifting. Snatching one and sipping slowly, Riggs fought the urge to spit the wine out. It was a bit too dry for his liking.
He forced another sip. If the wine were half as good as his mother’s, he’d have been on his second glass. He supposed it was a good thing Dagon’s wine was trash because he needed to keep his head clear. Drunk on a hunt—not the best idea.
Riggs moved through the ballroom, weaving through the dancing crowd, looking for another staff member to question. In the corner of his eye, something glimmered like a haunting star in the vastness of the universe. Slowly, he turned toward the dais, staggering.
Time seemed to stop.
A sweet, warm wave of dopamine flowed through him as he drank in the sight of her.
She trembled as she watched the crowd, like they were sirens in the Obsidian Sea calling her to her death.
Fear lingered behind her purple, feathered mask, yet something else, something he wasn’t sure of, simmered beneath the surface.
Her throat worked as she skimmed over him.
Did she see me looking? If she had, she gave nothing away, not as she turned toward the queen, speaking words he could not hear.
Must be the queen’s handmaiden.