Chapter 17
Marcus spotted us before we spotted him.
He stood near one of the marble pillars at the edge of the crowd, a glass of amber liquid in hand, posture relaxed in a way that said he belonged here.
His suit was a shade lighter than Con’s, tailored just as perfectly, with a silk pocket square that probably cost more than some people’s rent.
The moment his gaze landed on me, his expression brightened.
He lifted his glass slightly, then moved through the clusters of buyers with practiced ease. By the time he reached us, the mask of charming host was fully in place.
“Cassara,” he greeted, taking my hand as if we had arrived at a legitimate charity gala. “You clean up nicely.”
His fingers were warm and smooth, grip firm but not possessive. He brushed his lips close to my knuckles without actually touching them, the perfect imitation of old-world manners.
“Marcus,” I replied. “I see criminal enterprise suits you.”
“It keeps me in good whiskey,” he said. His gaze flicked to Con. “Constantine, I hear you conquered the eastern plains back in the day.” I knew he was playing a part. Making sure those around us heard our conversation.
Con’s eyes cooled by a degree. “All lies.”
“Those are the most interesting kind,” Marcus replied lightly.
He shook Con’s hand as well. He did it like a man unbothered by the fact he was touching a predator. No flinch. No hesitation. Only a subtle awareness in his eyes that told me he knew very well what sort of man he dealt with.
“You both arrived on time,” he said. “The organizers appreciate punctuality.”
“As do we,” I said.
Marcus took a sip of his drink, studying the room with a sidelong glance. “You are not the only ones here for the artifact.”
“The Pentacoris piece,” I said.
“The fragment,” he corrected. “The hosts insist it is just another relic, but their security around its movement suggests otherwise.”
“You saw it?”
“I saw the case,” he said. “And the way they handled it. Not like something fragile. Like something dangerous.”
His attention flicked to the far side of the room, where a pair of guards moved with just enough extra focus to mark them as responsible for more than simple crowd control.
“And the serum,” I said.
He lowered his voice a fraction. “That is why most of them came.”
His gaze drifted over my shoulder. I did not need to look to know buyers watched us, curious about the woman Marcus greeted as if she were an equal.
“You should take your seats,” he said. “The hosts will begin soon. They like their guests arranged and quiet before starting.”
“Where are you sitting?” I asked.
“Second row,” he said. “Left of center. Close enough to evaluate merchandise, far enough to leave quickly if someone loses their temper.”
“That seems wise.”
He tilted his head toward a set of tiered seats arranged before the raised stage. “They placed you third row. Position five. It means they expect you to bid seriously.”
“They are correct,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “Try not to buy anything you do not need on the way, though. There are items on tonight’s list that are reputed to be cursed.”
“I will control myself,” I said.
“Hardly,” Con muttered.
Marcus watched our exchange with amusement. “You have more of a sense of humor than Rene.”
“Low bar,” I replied.
He bowed slightly. “Take your seat, Cassara. I will do what I can from here.”
“You already have,” I said.
His expression shifted for a moment, something like regret passing through his eyes. Then it vanished, replaced once again by the charming broker mask.
He melted back into the crowd and settled in his own section, near enough that I could keep him in sight if I angled my head slightly.
Con and I moved toward the seating area. Chairs lined in dark leather faced a raised platform where a simple podium stood. Behind it, a velvet curtain stretched across the wall, hiding whatever storage and staging area lay behind.
The room’s hum lowered by degrees as people began to sit.
I claimed my assigned seat. Con stood just behind my shoulder. He did not take a chair. His role tonight was security, not buyer.
One of the enhanced guards took a position near the aisle. His gaze moved over us without lingering. Another guard mirrored him on the opposite side.
The lights dimmed slightly. A subtle shift in the air followed, like the intake of a collective breath.
“Welcome,” a voice said.
A man stepped onto the stage. He was not tall, but he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who knew everyone in the room had paid dearly for this access.
His tuxedo fit perfectly, his hair silver at the temples, his face unremarkable in that careful way that made it hard to recall his features later.
“No names,” he said. “No introductions. You all know what you are here for.”
Soft, polite laughter moved through the audience.
“Items will appear in order,” the host continued. “You will see enough to satisfy you. You will bid as you see fit. You will not touch anything unless invited to do so.”
His gaze swept the room.
“Security is present. You already know this. Behave and you leave with your purchases. Misbehave and you leave in a bag.”
His tone never shifted from courteous.
I smiled.
The first item was a grimoire. The host introduced it with a few enticing details, then allowed a masked assistant to carry the book along the front row so buyers could see the fading sigils etched into the cover.
Bidding started at a high number and climbed quickly.
I did not raise my hand.
Con’s attention never left the room. He watched entrances, exits, guards, potential threats. His focus moved like a searchlight.
The second item was a dark warlock bone fragment. The host spoke about its purported ability to amplify spellwork. A sorcerer three rows ahead of me snapped it up at a price that would have funded a small fortress.
I still did not bid.
My heart sat stubbornly in my throat, waiting for the only thing in this room that truly mattered.
Valerian’s presence pressed against my senses. Just out of reach. Just shy of sight. Like smoke coiled behind curtain fabric.
The fourth item was an Egyptian relic from some forsaken crypt. The host handled it with tongs. I paid attention only long enough to note the curses described. If I needed to burn the place down, I did not want any of that residue near me.
Before long he said the words I had waited for.
“Item Seven.”
The air seemed to thin.
An assistant stepped onto the stage with a small black box. It looked innocuous. No glow. No hum. No sense of power radiating from it. Just a rectangular case with reinforced corners and a subtle locking mechanism.
The host rested his hand lightly on it.
“Provenance uncertain,” he said. “Material unidentified. Composition beyond normal analysis. Energy signature… intriguing.”
He unclasped the lid and lifted it.
For a second, a slender metallic shard caught the light.
My breath stopped.
The fragment lay nestled on velvet. The edges were too clean, the surface marked with lines that almost resembled veins. It pulsed against my magic, a small, insistent tug that echoed everything I had felt from the other pieces.
The Pentacoris.
Before any of the buyers could truly study it, the host closed the lid with deliberate disinterest.
“Minor curiosity,” he said. “Potential for those with patience. Or for those who like puzzles.”
He made it sound like something half-forgotten in a back room.
That told me more than any flourish would have.
He wanted the attention elsewhere.
On the serum.
Fine.
Let them look past it.
I raised my hand.
“Opening bid,” the host announced. “Two hundred thousand.”
“I will match and raise,” I said.
A murmur slid through the room.
“I see you, Position Five,” the host replied, looking directly toward me. “Three hundred thousand secured.”
The bidding system here favored direct speech rather than paddles. It kept everyone aware of who played.
Another buyer lifted a hand, his tone bored. “Three-fifty.”
His gaze landed on the box as if it were simply a piece of potential scrap.
I studied him. Smart suit, sharp jaw, eyes that never quite focused on anything with true interest. He wanted to mark himself as present, not actually win.
“Four hundred,” I said.
The host’s smile twitched. “Four hundred to Position Five.”
Marcus shifted in his seat, angle changing. His hand moved in the subtlest flick. Two fingers barely lifted, then smoothed his lapel.
Signaling.
Across the room, another buyer who had shown no interest all evening raised his glass slightly. “Four-twenty.”
They were pushing.
Not to win.
To climb.
To scare off anyone who did not understand the value.
“Five hundred,” I responded.
A few heads turned now, paying more attention. Someone laughed softly. It had that thin quality of the wealthy when they watched something they did not understand.
The host’s eyes gleamed. “Half a million.”
I felt, rather than saw, Marcus’ approval.
Someone else chimed in, a woman with a glittering necklace that radiated magic. “Five-fifty. For the novelty.”
Her tone carried no conviction. She wanted to test me.
My lips curved. “Seven hundred.”
Now the murmurs were not so soft.
The host inclined his head. “Seven hundred at Position Five. Any further interest?”
Beside me, I could sense Con measuring each voice, each movement, every small tell.
Marcus moved his hand again. A slight adjustment of his glass.
Another buyer played his part. “Seven-twenty,” he said, almost casually.
It was a game now.
They underestimated me.
Good.
I met the host’s gaze directly. “One million.”
The room fell into a quieter hum.
This time, no one laughed.
Even the disinterested sorcerer from earlier turned to look.
The host considered. “One million offered.”
He scanned the crowd. Buyers watched one another now, weighing what this might mean. The assistants stayed still, the box closed, the fragment unseen but very present.
I held my posture relaxed. Shoulders back, face calm. The very image of a buyer who could easily afford such a whim.
A shift in the energy across the room drew my gaze.
A woman near the end of the second row uncrossed her legs.
She had been there the whole time, sitting very still, hands folded over an elegant clutch.
Her dress was a deep shade of green, cut close to her body, with sleeves that hugged her arms to the wrist. Dark hair fell over one shoulder in smooth waves.
Her skin was pale, her features fine, almost delicate.
Her eyes, however, were not delicate.
They were sharp and cold, flecked with an unnatural light. When they met mine, I felt something oily slide across my senses.
Witch.
Valerian’s witch.
Cerise.
She smiled slowly, like someone tasting blood.
“Two million,” she said, voice as smooth as silk.
The words slid through the room like a blade.
I felt my spine stiffen.
Con shifted half a step closer to me. His attention locked onto her with the focus of a predator who had just identified a real threat.
Valerian’s presence pressed harder at the edges of my mind, as if pleased.
Of course he had sent her.
Of course he wanted this piece.
The host’s excitement brightened. “Two million.”
He did not say her position number. He did not need to. Everyone saw her.
I forced myself to relax my jaw.
She watched me, smile still in place. Not mocking. Not yet. Just interested.
She wanted to see what I would do.
“Three,” I said.
The number tasted like iron on my tongue.
Gasps scattered through the seats.
It was not the amount. Many in this room could afford far more. It was the way I said it. Absolute. Uncertain only in how much I might be willing to go beyond it.
Cerise’s gaze flicked down and up, assessing.
Her lips parted. “Four.”
The host looked like a man who had just received a gift from a generous deity.
“Four million,” he echoed.
The pressure in the room thickened.
Con bent his head slightly toward mine. His voice reached me alone. “We can pay.”
“I know,” I murmured. “Can we pay more?”
“Yes,” he said.
I felt, rather than saw, the curl of his mouth.
Cerise tilted her head, studying me with open curiosity. There was recognition there. Not personal. Not yet. But she knew power when she saw it.
“Do you know what you bid for?” she asked lightly, addressing me rather than the host. “Or do you simply enjoy collecting expensive mysteries?”
Her tone held a lilt. Pretty. Poisonous.
I gave her a slow, cool smile. “If I tell you, it will cost more.”
Soft laughter rippled nearby.
The host cleared his throat. “We do not negotiate in riddles. Only currency.”
He turned his attention back to me. “Four million has been offered. Will you answer?”
Cerise’s eyes never left mine.
Behind her, behind the velvet and the lights and the glitter of criminal wealth, Valerian’s unseen presence coiled tighter.
He wanted this piece.
He would not get it.
I lifted my chin.
“Five,” I said.
The number dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.
The ripples reached every corner of the room. Servers paused. Guards shifted. Buyers straightened.
Five million would buy more than relics.
It would buy kingdoms in lesser parts of the world.
Cerise’s smile faded by a fraction.
Not because she could not match it. Because something in my posture told her this was no game for me.
The host looked at her. “Any response?”
She held my gaze for another heartbeat, weighing, calculating, listening perhaps to some whisper only she heard.
The air pressed tighter against my skin. Valerian’s presence flared, then cooled.
Cerise’s lashes lowered. “Not for this trinket,” she said.
Trinket.
She dismissed it verbally.
That meant she would shift focus.
The host waited a beat longer. When no further bids came, he turned back to me.
“Five million,” he said. “Sold to Position Five.”
A small incline of his head. “Congratulations.”
Polite applause scattered through the seats. A few snide comments drifted in my direction, veiled behind practiced smiles. Some called me extravagant. Others called me foolish.
I tuned them out.
The only things that mattered were—
The fragment belonged to me now.
Valerian’s witch had backed off.
And somewhere in this lavish, rotten hall, the serum that could create enhanced soldiers waited for its turn on the stage.
Con’s hand brushed my shoulder, grounding.
“One piece,” he murmured. “One step.”
I nodded once, eyes still locked on Cerise.
She leaned back in her chair, calm once more, as though the contest had been nothing but a pleasant diversion.
But I saw the awareness in her eyes now.
She wouldn’t forget this.
The buyer who had paid five million for something the host tried to treat as an afterthought.
The woman Valerian already wanted dead.
The auction rolled on, other items paraded out and sold, but every heartbeat brought us closer to the true prize.
The formula.
The room filled with glitter and laughter and bids.
Underneath it all, war waited patiently for its moment.