Heathren’s gaze weighed Layla, his long fingers interlacing upon the tabletop. “Perhaps not. But Adrian Rhakvir has many business ventures that lean on the edge of the law, Ms. Price. And your other beau, Dusk Arlohaim, murdered three villages of humans when he was young. Don’t even get me started on Reginald Durant, starting an entire war between the Blood Dragons of Sweden and Norway and the North Sea Sirens because he drowned a town of Blood Dragons in his wrath. Or Rake André, implicated in five years of creating hallucinations so vivid with his magics that he drove eighteen humans to suicide. But the Red Letter Hotel has long held a truce of sorts with the Intercessoria. The Hotel was founded prior to our lawmaking system, and so its original charter still stands as its own law – unless dire circumstance necessitates Intercessoria investigation, which it does in this case.”
“What are you saying?” Layla breathed, astounded to hear such accusations levied against her friends. She couldn’t believe that Reginald had drowned a village, nor that Rake had killed people, not intentionally. Layla recalled her conversation with Dusk, that the Hotel protected more people than she knew – people who had once wound up on the wrong side of the law but were making good at changing.
As if reading her thoughts, Heathren Merkami gave her a level look. “Recovered lawbreakers who work at the Hotel are given amnesty as long as they can prove they are no longer a threat to society. The Paris Hotel has many yet-dangerous creatures within its walls, Layla Price, which we are not currently investigating or clapping in irons because of the amnesty. You are one of them.”
Layla stiffened, feeling a not-so-veiled threat behind Heathren’s words. “Are you saying I could be arrested if my magic goes haywire?”
“I’m saying it already has, from reports we’re gathering from Hotel Owners who were at Adrian’s little shindig yesterday.”
“Adrian’s invoked the Magna Dicta. I’m his protectee.” Layla fought back.
“I know.” Heathren lifted an eyebrow, his glance one of barely-veiled disdain. “A claim that should have been reported to the High Court, but was not. Like hisoversightin reporting your abduction at Samhain and the entire issue of Hunter. Adrian has secrets within secrets. He believes he operates above the law. I don’t agree. I have brought down men like Adrian Rhakvir time and time again over my two thousand years in the Intercessoria, and I don’t have any qualms about doing it. But I feel no lie from his soul when he asserts that he did not kill the Head Courtesan. And if I can use a small fish to hook a bigger fish, one that has slipped through every Intercessoria net fortensof thousands of years…”
Heathren Merkami suddenly gave a small smile, just a quirk of lips. It was the first time he’d done so, and something about it was so vicious that Layla recalled her first impression of him. Like an angel of darkness, he had a bright fury about him, something fallen and wild. Something that lusted for the hunt and battle, for victory and bloodshed. That smile was so dark that Layla shivered, her skin raising in gooseflesh all along her arms and spine.
“You’re using Adrian as a bargaining chip,” Layla spoke, understanding. “To secure our Hotel’s cooperation against Hunter. My cooperation. And Dusk’s.”
“Sometimes secrets are currency,” Heathren spoke, “and sometimes truth is currency. My currency isprisoners, Ms. Price. Adrian Rhakvir will rot away in the Intercessoria’s dungeons unless I know that you and your friends are doing everything humanly possible to lure this Hunter from his hiding-grounds. I don’t want Adrian Rhakvir. Eventually, maybe, when he overtly breaks a law big enough. But right now, I want the bigger fish. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” Layla breathed, fear washing through her at what all of this would mean.
“Good.” Rising from his chair with an uncompromising fluidity, Heathren stared her down. Layla saw fire in his pale silver eyes as he regarded her. Something about it made her think of blazing swords – and wrath. “I will be in touch, Ms. Price. And when I am, I suggest for all your bound lover’s sakes, and for the friends you are making in this new life of yours, that you cooperate with everything the Intercessoria asks of you. You may go.”
Before Layla could so much as open her mouth, she was suddenly flashing through that white-blind space again, disorientation sweeping her. And with a sensation like being vacuumed through a funnel, she was thrust back within the golden circle on the Hotel’s fourth floor.
It was full afternoon outside the high banks of windows, a dark and stormy winter grey. No one was about. The doors to Adrian’s apartment stood ajar, the golden crime-scene boundary still around them. Layla had thought the hall was empty when Dusk suddenly rose from a chair in the alcove. Still wearing his tux shirt and pants but no jacket or bow-tie, he looked ragged as he moved over swiftly, waiting at the edge of the golden boundary until Layla stepped across.
And then he swept her up in his arms.
“Thank god.” He breathed at her ear, clasping her close. “I thought they might hold you longer. I’m glad they didn’t.”
Layla’s Dragon was sluggish in her veins, barely awake after whatever Heathren had done to her magic, and only a small surge of heat passed between her and Dusk as they held each other.
“Where is Adrian?” Layla breathed anxiously, a dark pit swallowing her.
“They arrested him a few hours ago, just after you were taken into interrogation.” Dusk leaned back, brushing a curl from Layla’s face, his face bleak. “I’m so sorry, Layla…”
Layla’s heart sank. Inside, her Dragon coiled up, digging into a hole so dark Layla could practically taste emptiness on her tongue. It was a terrible place, black and devouring, but she was too exhausted to cry. She should have been feeling more, but after such an awful thirty-six hours, all she could feel was numbness.
It must have showed, because Dusk held her face gently between his palms and kissed her. It was just a press of lips, but as he gave a low rumble, Layla felt something wake inside her at last. As if the veils of bad and worse information that Heathren Merkami had trapped her in finally released, Layla heaved a sigh.
Dusk kissed her again, pressing her sweetly with his lips. “I could use some sleep. You?”
Layla nodded. She didn’t feel like speaking. Dusk’s lips quirked in a terrible smile as he slung his arm around her, escorting her down the hall. They wound up at his rooms, and as they pushed inside the modern 1930’s crystal-accented space, Layla felt ease breathe through her at last. It wasn’t much, but somehow entering Dusk’s serene apartment with its wealth of crystal pillars, geodes, and greenery-framed altars made Layla feel a small release.
The sound of water burbling in the Anubis fountain eased Layla as they stepped into the living area. Moving to his sleek modern breakfast table with its scroll-worked ebony wood, Dusk rummaged inside his tux jacket, slung over a chair. Retrieving the opal stone, he murmured something to it, then slid it away again. Turning to Layla, he nodded at the spread of eggs, bacon, and sautéed kale on the table. “It’s cold, but would you like to eat? Or I could order something new from Catering.”
“What time is it?” Layla moved to the table, but nothing looked appetizing, not even the French press coffee.
Glancing at his platinum and sapphire Rolex, Dusk heaved a sigh. “Two-sixteen p.m.”
Rubbing both hands over her face, Layla sighed. “They held me all morning?”
“You’re lucky. The Intercessoria are known for interrogating witness for days sometimes.” Moving over, Dusk rubbed a hand over her back. Glancing down, Layla saw quicksilver blood staining her yoga clothes from when Adrian had thrown her down on the soaked bed.
“She’s dead.” Layla spoke, finally processing it.
Sylvania was dead. Her friend, the woman who had healed her from illness, the Head Courtesan of the entire Paris Hotel and probably the kindest person Layla had ever met. And though she and Layla hadn’t been the closest friends, Layla felt an enormous hole in her heart, a black reaping not just from her but from the entire Hotel. Sylvania Eroganis had been a treasure, a sublime creature that had been taken from the world far too early. It suddenly made Layla furious – all her sorrow rushing into a blistering sensation that screamed from her veins even though they were still sluggish from Heathren’s ministrations.
