Chapter 13 Valerie
Val loved music and music loved her. She looked good in a dress, could balance in the steepest stilettos and swing her hips better than half the night-dancers in the Hollows.
An orphan raised in House Armand, she used to dream of places like this: a grand ballroom where music soared all the way to the ceiling, laughter echoed like wind chimes and satin skirts whispered across polished floors.
Admittedly, she never fantasized about the attempted assassination part. Or the swinging corpses. Or the pyres of burning books. Or the cold clod of dread currently sitting in the pit of her stomach…
Anouk must have been feeling it too because she gripped her hand so tightly her fingerbones clicked. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Well, no shit,’ said Val.
The whole damn ball was wrong. The library at the Appoline, one of the most revered landmarks in Valterre, and home to a thousand years of the kingdom’s best and brightest scholars, had been stripped bare.
Remade as the prince’s playground, complete with a sea of Urnican elite.
All of them trussed up like woodland animals and twirling themselves dizzy.
‘Just keep smiling,’ she added.
They were supposed to be taking turns dancing with each other, but Theo was keeping his distance, orbiting her like a sparkly dressed planet.
Another wrongness squirmed inside Val.
This one was closer.
Personal.
Theo’s nearness was dizzying in a different way.
She thought she’d imagined it the other night after he and Paola had staggered home drunk.
Had hoped by the time they were alone together again, she wouldn’t feel the same sickening sensation.
But the carriage ride had been a struggle.
She could barely breathe from the rioting inside her.
Her gut twisted and twisted, her magic hissing at her to pay attention.
To look closer.
To be careful.
Something in Theo was different.
And he was desperately trying to hide it from her.
From all of them.
But right now, someone else was hiding too.
A bigger, more prescient threat.
So she stowed her suspicions, focusing on the trouble at hand.
‘Andreas isn’t here,’ said Anouk. ‘There’s been no signal.’
They’d been watching for a skittering of shadows up the wall – the sign Ransom was meant to give when he found the prince, but so far … there had been nothing.
Inclining her head towards a nearby couple, Anouk added, ‘I swear I know them. And see those women, standing by the door?’
Val whipped her head around, setting loose a raft of unruly curls. ‘The foxes?’
‘They’re from Castellan.’
In her head, Val unrolled the map of Valterre, picturing the town. It was as far west as you could go without stumbling into the Kingdom of Urnica. What the hell were its people doing here?
You already know, Saint of Truth.
A shudder gripped her. She was still getting used to the voice, that strange chorus of magic and intuition.
Anouk dragged Val and Theo across the dance floor. ‘And him,’ she hissed, pointing to a man in a lion’s mask. ‘I swear he’s the baker’s son. These people are villagers. Why would they be here at his fancy ball?’
You already know.
Tonight was a lie.
Every moment of it.
Val scanned the faces around them. Looking past the bejewelled masks and glittering headpieces to the eyes staring vacantly at nothing. To the bodies that swayed lazily, as though being tugged by invisible strings.
Look harder, Saint of Truth.
Val crushed her hands into fists, trying to call on that new force inside her.
Trying to open her third eye.
Power trickled through her. Her blood was like warm syrup in her veins.
She looked again. Harder.
And was seized by a rush of violent sickness. The wrongness was like a worm squirming in her soul.
The truth crystallized, sudden and absolute.
This was no dance floor.
It was a stage.
‘Your eyes,’ hissed Theo.
They were gold.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ said Val.
Anouk shoved her towards the window. ‘There’s a vase over there.’
Val staggered across the dance floor, shoving dancers out of the way. They hardly noticed her.
Yanking out a bunch of long-stemmed lilies, she gripped the vase on the windowsill and stuck her head inside, vomiting up all the ale she’d drunk on the journey here.
‘I did say the mead tasted shitty.’ A familiar voice rippled too close to her ear.
Val froze with her head in the vase.
Fuck.
‘No need to be embarrassed, kitten. You weren’t sober on the dance floor of Marvale either.’
She lifted her head. Even without the low growl of his voice, she would have known Caruso Dantes anywhere.
That towering frame was hard to mistake; the wide heft of his shoulders and impressive swell of his biceps, those long powerful legs and huge hands all hinted at the predator within.
Then there was the short black hair webbed with a unique constellation of scars.
Once, when she was drunk off her ass, he’d let her trace them.
And, of course, there was that slow-curling smirk.
That damn smirk.
Ignoring the dangerous murderer standing two feet away, Val snatched a napkin from a nearby server and daintily dabbed the sides of her mouth.
He watched her all the while, those searing blue eyes never blinking.
Caruso was a born killer, and he didn’t care who knew it.
Barely a month ago, they’d journeyed across Valterre together.
Drank and danced well past midnight, played cards and surrendered coin, killed and buried a man, even talked long into the night at Marvale, trading dark secrets and whispered dreams, like they weren’t enemies. Or even allies.
But … friends.
Despite her better judgement, Val had grown to like the unpredictable Dagger. Hopelessly drunk in the Paramour Inn of Marvale, she’d even fallen asleep in his arms, drooled all over his shoulder and lived to tell the tale.
Then it had all gone to hell at the Summer Palace. Bibi had died and Val had escaped. Caruso had stayed, staking his loyalty to Andreas and forsaking his promise to Ransom.
All for the lure of power.
Traitorous bastard.
She’d hated how much it had surprised her. How she’d walked the streets of Old Haven on the nights that came after, hoping he’d show up, hat in hand.
Pathetic.
She didn’t need to be the Saint of Truth to know that. Caruso had always been a selfish prick, remorseless to the last and smug as all hell. Lethal. Especially here, in his wolf’s mask.
An apt costume.
Those icy eyes missing nothing. He was looking at Val the way a wolf sized up its prey, and grinning like he was looking forward to devouring it.
‘Hello, Valerie.’
‘Caruso.’ She could admit, at least to herself, that some primal, reckless part of her was going to enjoy this. ‘Of all the ballrooms in all the world …’
He hitched a dark brow. ‘Miss me?’
‘Like a violent hangover.’
Instead of sounding the alarm, or dragging her out of here by her hair, he dug his hands into his pockets and said, without a breath of urgency, ‘What brings you here?’
‘I fancied a dance.’
‘You are good at those.’
Truth, whispered the old voice.
Her eyes flashed gold again.
He canted his head. ‘A saint, then.’
‘Afraid I’ll smite you?’
‘Something tells me I’d enjoy it.’ He flicked a whisker on her mask. ‘Kitten. Interesting choice.’
‘Black cat, actually,’ she corrected him.
‘For me?’
‘You wish.’
The smirk returned. ‘I like it.’
Truth.
And she was still not dead.
Sinking into the distraction, she fingered the edge of his mask. ‘Are you on the hunt, wolf?’
‘Always,’ he said, catching her fingers. He curled them in his fist. Not hard. Not quite gentle either. ‘Where are your friends, Valerie?’
Her heart thundered. ‘Where’s your tyrant?’
‘He’ll be along shortly.’
Lie.
She stepped back. ‘No, he won’t.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because you’re the only one in this ballroom moving like you have a free thought in your head.’
Which is why she had to keep him here.
His brows shot up. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘Unfortunately.’
A pair of Rose-bearers marched their way. Caruso grabbed her by the waist and spun her onto the dance floor.
Sensations flooded her, the press of his hands on her waist making his mood so much easier to read.
Worry. Relief. Frustration.
Desire.
Well.
‘Which begs the question,’ she went on, like he hadn’t just swept her off her feet. Like he wasn’t still holding on to her with the kind of possession she’d only ever read about in romance novels. ‘Why have you been left to your own devices? Are your free thoughts really so impenetrable?’
‘Maybe Andreas isn’t so bad.’
‘Liar.’
He blinked at her.
Conscious of Anouk and Theo still moving through the crowd towards Sera and Ransom, and the threat of discovery mounting by the minute, she pressed her palms against his chest, easily commanding the fullness of his attention.
‘What have you traded to remain the master of your own thoughts, Dantes?
Or are they simply too screwed up to mould?
He tugged her close and bent his lips to her ear. ‘Careful, kitten. You’re on thin ice.’
Truth.
She pushed him away, but his hands shot up, pinning them to his chest. ‘Lark made a bargain with the prince. In exchange for his alliance, Nadia and I are never to be touched by his power.’
She snorted. A serpent’s deal, indeed. ‘You should have come as a sheep, Caruso.’
‘You shouldn’t have come at all.’ He toyed with a loose curl. ‘But at least you have the pleasure of seeing me. Happy?’
She looked up at him from beneath the dark veil of her lashes. ‘Are you?’
‘Never better.’
‘Lie,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
Lie.
She lifted her fingers to the silver scars along the side of his head. ‘You used to be fearless, Caruso,’ she said, lightly tracing them. ‘It’s what I liked most about you.’
His throat knotted. ‘I’m still fearless.’
‘No, you’re not.’
His eyes darkened.
‘You hate him and you won’t admit it. You don’t want to be here any more than I do but you’re too cowardly to walk away. To face the mistake you made.’
Bold words. The kind of swing you take only once. But to hell with caution. She was already in the enemy’s den and his wolf had rumbled her disguise. If Caruso was going to kill her, then she would die with the truth on her lips.
Only the heat in his eyes didn’t seem threatening now. It was dangerous in a different way.
He hummed. ‘Saint of Truth.’
Her brows shot up. ‘I guess you’re smarter than I thought.’
‘Of course Saint Oriel would grant you a gift guaranteed to get you in trouble.’
‘Nothing I’m not used to.’
‘Good. Because war is coming.’
‘War is already here.’ Tilting her chin, she leaned close, until her words feathered his lips. ‘Can’t you feel it?’
‘I feel something.’
She flushed.
Another pair of Rose-bearers came their way.
‘Dance, kitten,’ he said, his hands sliding to the small of her back.
She gripped his lapels. ‘I hate when you call me that.’
‘No you don’t,’ he said, spinning her.
She let him do it, surprised at his deftness.
‘I’ll admit you’re a welcome distraction, Valerie.’
‘Nice honesty,’ she purred. ‘Now admit the other thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘That your prince is a tyrant and you feel trapped.’
‘Where will that get me?’ he said, dipping her.
‘Back into my good graces.’
He leaned over her, his breath on her cheek. ‘Have I been there before?’
They straightened once more. Sliding her hands up his chest, she rose to her tiptoes like she was telling him a secret. ‘The night you carried me home at Marvale, and let me sleep on your shoulder.’
He smiled against her temple. ‘And you drooled all over me.’
‘You probably kept it in a jar.’
He barked a laugh.
Drawing back she said, ‘Admit you’re better than this, Caruso.’
A beat of hesitation. She felt him waver, but then his gaze shifted to something over her shoulder. ‘Turn it off,’ he said under his breath.
‘What?’ She tried to turn her head.
He grabbed her chin, pulling her back to him. Against her lips, he said, ‘Your eyes. Turn. Them. Off.’
‘Twinkletoes!’ Lark’s voice rang out. ‘You’re not allowed to screw the puppets!’
A quick peek around Caruso’s shoulder revealed the Necromancer sauntering through the crowd in a slim black suit.
No mask needed. Not when the skin on his face was as taut and grey as a week-old corpse.
Lark was his own kind of monster, half rotted through.
‘Look alive, Dantes. We have somewhere to be!’
Val bristled.
‘Run along now, kitten,’ said Caruso, turning towards him.
She grabbed his cravat, yanking him back to her. ‘Where’s Andreas? Show me some damn courage, Caruso. Tell me something true.’
Hands sliding from her waist, he released her, finger by finger, like part of him was reluctant to let her go.
‘If you value your life, then get the hell out of here,’ he said, stepping away.
Stalking towards Lark, he added, over his shoulder, ‘While you still can.’
Truth, whispered the old voice.