“Lethe, Styx, Phlegethon, Cocytus, and Acheron,” he recited softly.
The five rivers in the home of Hades.
House Kore had turned its country estate into an opulent underworld. How fitting, he thought, for this place was his hell.
The carriage door opened on the River Styx. Before him stood an elaborate entrance: a glowing, jade skull of what might have been a monster dragged out of myth, with a row of teeth concealing verit stone. The barest prickle of ice ghosted over Séverin’s skin. When they’d tested the verit that Enrique and Zofia discovered, it had worked like a charm.
It will work… It has to work.
To the left of the verit entrance stood a group of three guards. Jutting over their shoulders, the points of their bayonets caught the flat, green light of the stone.
“Monsieur Faucher, welcome to House Kore’s country estate,”said the first guard. “If you do not mind, may we check you before you enter through the jaws?”
“Into the belly of the beast, as it were.”
The first guard let out a nervous laugh. The lightstick in his hand flashed. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Séverin forced himself not to flinch as the penlight neared his skin. Every time he saw a penlight, he thought of Wrath, who had used the penlights to double-check there was no sign left of the Forged mind affinity he used on them. He always knew when the Order was planning their monthly check-in because for twelve precious hours, Wrath would not place the Phobus Helmet on him. It was just enough time for traces of mind manipulation to disappear… just enough time that no one from the Order ever believed him.
The familiar light flashed over his pupils. Memory conjured the nightmares of the Phobus Helmet behind his eyes, but just as quickly, the light flashed off, and the guard waved him toward the verit jaws.
Behind him, he heard the scrape of carriages. The others had arrived right on time. Including—judging from the low laugh—Hypnos. Which meant Laila was here, pushing that gigantic icebox of cakes and Forged tools, all hidden by a verit stone concealed in the metal.
As Séverin walked through the verit entrance, he held his breath… but the small nub of verit in his shoe had done the job. With the entrance behind him, he headed to a dock choked in fog and mist where Zofia and Enrique were already waiting.
“Welcome to the country estate of House Kore,” announced a calm, disembodied voice from the air. “Please be advised that all boats may only transport three guests at a time.”
A long boat carved of onyx rose out of the water.
Once in the boat, the false Styx flowed beneath them, leadingthem toward a cave. The cave walls were hewn onyx, gleaming wet and lustrous. Stalactites dripped down from the ceiling. Within minutes, the small boat glided to a stop in front of another elegantly appointed dock, this one shrouded in mist save for the gigantic pair of ebony doors Forged with the snarling, barking faces of the three-headed guard dog of the underworld. Each head barked:
“In—”
“—vi—”
“—tations.”
The three heads kept their mouths wide. One by one, Séverin, Zofia, and Enrique placed their invitations onto the black tongues. The dogs’ jaws slammed shut, the heads melting into the wood and stone. A moment passed before the doors swung open. Light and sound and music poured out of the doors, blinding Séverin. The three of them stood, and the boat rocked beneath them. Once more, the dog heads appeared, this time a slip of velvet dangled from their teeth.
“Take—”
“—your—”
“—masks.”
They did.
Zofia entered first. Then Enrique. Séverin went last. He couldn’t undo this step once he took it. Past the greeting vestibule, a floor of polished black marble drank up the light cast down from chandeliers of etched bone and stained glass. It looked like nothing he remembered as a child, and for that he was glad.
Beneath the light, a delicate pattern spiraled across the floor, like that of a nautilus. A network of crystal vines and quartz veins formed the walls, as if they were sumptuously below the ground. Masked guests clad in black and gray and bloodred moved down the halls. An after-echo of a chimed gong lingered in the air. They had arrived moments after the dinner gong had rung. Only the matriarch and agroup of her servants were left. She walked toward them, dressed in an oxblood gown and a choker of black diamond thorns. On her face, a gold mask.
He stared at her a second too long, convinced she’d recognize him. She didn’t. The last time he’d seen her, he’d seen the blue glow on the Babel Ring—the color that declared he was the rightful heir—ripped from his sight. The last time she’d spoken to him was the last time he had a family.
“Welcome to our Spring Festival,” she said in her smoky voice, her smile tight.
She extended one velvet-gloved hand. Séverin noted the glove of her right hand was heavily padded. Her bones had not yet healed after the theft of her Ring. Enrique bent over her proffered hand and Zofia executed a perfect curtsy. The matriarch whispered something to her manservants, who immediately led them to different parts of the mansion.
