CHAPTER 23
SILK AND CYANIDE
POV: Elodie Fray
Location: The Obsidian Tower (Penthouse Master Suite)
Sensory: The chemical sting of hair dye, the cold slide of satin against bruised skin, the hum of a city waking up to violence.
Mood: Weaponized Beauty.
The sun rises over the city like a bruise. Purple, yellow, and violent.
I watch it from the white leather sofa, my head resting on the back cushion, my body feeling light, almost weightless. It’s the blood loss. I gave Alaric a pint. Maybe more. The plastic bag hangs empty on the IV stand he improvised from a coat rack, the tube dangling like a severed artery.
Beside me, Alaric sleeps. It is a fitful, drug-induced sleep.
I pumped him full of saline and antibiotics from the cache, and the fresh blood—my blood—has brought a faint flush of color back to his grey skin.
He is still pale, still ruined, but he is breathing.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Adagio.
I look at my arm. A small bruise is forming in the crook of my elbow where the needle was. It matches the bruise on my neck. It matches the bite mark on my palm. I am a map of his violence, and now, I am his lifeline.
"Elodie."
His voice is a whisper, scraping against the silence of the penthouse. I turn my head. His eyes are open. Silver slits in the morning light. He doesn't move his head; he just tracks me with his gaze.
"I'm here," I say, my voice raspy.
"Time," he croaks.
I look at the digital clock on the sleek, black wall. 07:00. The Gala is at 19:00. Twelve hours. Twelve hours to turn a fugitive into a queen.
"We have to move," he says, trying to sit up. He makes it halfway before his face twists in agony. He collapses back, a hiss of breath escaping his teeth. "Damn it."
"Stay down," I command, swinging my legs off the couch. The room spins. I grab the armrest to steady myself. "You are the general today, Alaric. Generals don't march. They direct."
He looks at me, assessing my sway, my pallor. "Drink," he orders, pointing to a bottle of electrolyte water on the table. "And eat. There are protein bars in the cache. You need to replenish the volume."
I obey. I drink the salty-sweet water. I force down a dry, chalky protein bar. It tastes like sawdust, but I eat it. Fuel. I am the vehicle. He is the driver. The vehicle needs fuel.
"The Supply Drop," Alaric says, his eyes clearing as his mind locks onto the mission. "It’s in the service elevator. I arranged it before we left the asylum. A contingency package."
"You planned for this?"
"I plan for everything," he murmurs. "Even for the end of the world. Go get it."
I walk to the service elevator in the kitchen. It’s a dumbwaiter system, larger than the one in the suite. I press the call button. It hums. A minute later, the doors slide open.
There are three black boxes. sleek, matte, unmarked. I carry them into the living room, stacking them on the coffee table. "Open them," Alaric says.
I open the first one. Weapons. Not guns.
Knives. Ceramic blades that pass through metal detectors.
Garrote wire disguised as jewelry. A small, lipstick-sized canister of something that I suspect isn't lipstick.
"VX gas," Alaric narrates calmly. " localized. Lethal in three seconds. That’s your 'break in case of emergency' option. "
I open the second box. Tech. Earpieces. Micro-transmitters. A tablet with hacking software pre-loaded. And a jammer.
I open the third box. And I gasp.
It’s a dress. It spills out of the box like liquid midnight. Black velvet and silk. Strapless. With a slit that goes all the way up the left thigh. And shoes. Stilettos with heels that look like ice picks. And jewelry. Diamonds. Real ones. Cold and heavy.
"The armor," Alaric whispers from the couch. "It was designed for you. For the Vienna debut you never made."
I touch the velvet. It’s soft. Expensive. "It looks like a funeral gown."
"It is," he smiles darkly. "For them."
He shifts, grimacing. "Go. Shower. Scrub the forest off you. Scrub the blood off. When you come out... Elodie Fray stays in the bathroom. Only the Muse comes out."
The shower in the penthouse is a waterfall.
I stand under the scalding spray for thirty minutes.
I scrub my skin until it is raw and red.
I wash the river silt from my hair. I wash the dried blood of the mercenary I killed from my fingernails.
I watch the water swirl down the drain. Grey. Red. Black. Then clear.
I step out. I dry myself with a towel that feels like a cloud.
I look in the mirror. The girl staring back is thin.
Too thin. Her collarbones jut out like knife ridges.
Her eyes are huge, shadowed, haunted. But there is something new in the set of her jaw.
A hardness. The porcelain has been fired in the kiln.
It’s not fragile anymore. It’s ceramic armor.
I open the dye kit I found in the bathroom cache. My hair is a mousy, dirty blonde. Innocuous. Forgettable. Alaric wants a statement. I mix the chemicals. The smell burns my nose. I apply the dye. Dark. Raven black. Just like his soul.
When I wash it out and dry it, the transformation is shocking.
With the black hair and the pale skin, I look like a vampire.
I look severe. Dangerous. I apply the makeup from the kit.
Blood red lips. Smoky eyes. Sharp contour.
I hide the bruise on my neck with foundation, but I leave the bite mark on my palm visible. A reminder.
I walk out into the living room. I am naked except for the towel wrapped around me.
Alaric is awake. He has managed to sit up, propping himself against the cushions.
He has the tablet in his lap, typing with his left hand.
He stops when he sees me. His eyes go wide.
The pupil swallows the silver. He drops the tablet.
"Come here," he growls.
I walk to him. I drop the towel. He stares at me. He doesn't touch me—he can't, his hands are too weak, too damaged—but his gaze is a physical caress. He traces the line of my throat, my breasts, my hips.
"My God," he breathes. "You are a weapon."
"Put me in the scabbard," I say, pointing to the dress box.
"Not yet." He gestures to the first box. "The thigh holster. Put it on."
I take the sheer black stockings. I pull them up my legs. I take the lace garter belt. I fasten it. I take the ceramic knife sheath. I strap it to my left inner thigh, high up, where the slit of the dress will hide it but allow access. I slide the knife in. It feels cold against my skin. A secret.
"Good," Alaric murmurs, his voice thick. "Now the wire."
I take the diamond necklace. It looks like a simple choker. "The clasp," he instructs. "Twist it twice to the left. The wire deploys. It can cut through a trachea with five pounds of pressure."
I fasten it around my neck. It sits right over the bruise he gave me. "And the VX?"
"Clutch bag," he says. "Don't use it unless you are cornered. If you pop that seal, you have to hold your breath and run. It kills everything in a ten-foot radius."
I nod. Finally, I step into the dress. I pull it up. It fits like a second skin. It holds me, sculpts me. The velvet absorbs the light; the silk reflects it. I step into the heels. I am now six feet tall. I turn to face him.
Alaric looks at me with a mixture of lust and profound sadness. "They will eat you alive," he whispers.
"Let them try," I say. "I have indigestion."
He laughs. A weak, proud sound. He picks up the earpiece. A tiny, flesh-colored dot. "Put this in your left ear. Deep. It’s a bone-conduction unit. No one will see it. No one will hear it."
I insert it. It hums. "Check. One, two." His voice rings inside my skull. Clear. Intimate. It sounds like my own thoughts.
"I hear you," I say.
"I will be with you," he promises via the link, even though he is sitting right in front of me. "I will see what you see through the venue cameras. I will hear what you hear. I will be the voice in your head."
"And if the signal cuts?"
"Then you are on your own, Elodie. And you do what you have to do to survive. Burn it down."
He hands me an invitation. Heavy cardstock. Gold leaf. The Senator's Gala. A Night for the Future. Admit One.
"Where did you get this?"
"I stole it," he says simply. "From a dead man."
He looks at the clock. 18:00. "The car is waiting downstairs. A limo service. Automated. I hacked the dispatch."
He tries to stand up to say goodbye. He pushes off the couch. His legs buckle instantly. He falls back, gasping, sweat popping out on his forehead. The exertion rips fresh blood from his shoulder. "Fuck," he hisses, slamming his good fist into the cushion. "Useless."
I kneel in front of him. The black velvet pools around me on the white floor. "You are not useless," I say fiercely, grabbing his face with both hands. "You are the mind. I am the body. That’s the deal."
"I should be there," he growls, tears of frustration shining in his eyes. "I should be standing between you and them. I should be killing them for looking at you."
"You already killed for me. Now let me kill for you."
I kiss him. I kiss him carefully, mindful of his pain, but deeply.
I taste the coffee he drank. I taste the iron of his resolve.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips.
It is the first time I have said it. I don't know if it's true in the normal sense.
But in this world—in the dark, twisted world of the Obsidian Tower—it is the only truth that matters.
Alaric freezes. He looks at me, stunned. Then he leans his forehead against mine. "Come back to me," he orders. "That is a command, Elodie. Come back."
"I will."
I stand up. I grab the clutch. I walk to the door. I don't look back. If I look back, I won't leave. And if I don't leave, we both die in this tower when Thorne’s men finally sweep the grid.