“I told you that if you let him speak, he would inhale too much toxic fumes. Now look at him. You should leave before you risk serious injury.”
“Wait a minute, that solution is eating into the ground—”
“Is it? That’s curious. I can’t remember it doing that.”
The first guard narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your accent?”
“Accent?” repeated Enrique, trying to slip back into his disguise.
The first guard stepped forward. “Your mustache is coming off.”
“Toxic fumes. You know. Mustaches are always the first to go.”
The first guard cocked his rifle.
“No! Don’t do that. Totally unnecessary. There’s just something wrong, perhaps, with your eyes.”
Enrique lunged for his walking stick. He couldn’t have the deaths—or disintegration—of these guards on his conscience.
“There’s nothing wrong with our sight, old man.”
“Are you sure?” asked Enrique.
He lifted the walking stick high above his head, then slammed itdown, flinging his arm across his eyes. A white light burst from the wood, followed by an ear-shattering sound. Afterward he saw two guards lying facedown and unconscious. Enrique stepped over them gingerly, leaned down and whispered, “How are your eyes now?”
But the loud shouts outside the door snapped his victory in half. The piranha solution spread quickly over the terrarium floor, stopping just short of the guards. A blue sheen crept over Tristan’s skin. Enrique patted down his jacket, his fingers shaking until he found what he was looking for: the candied violet.
Enrique shoved the candy into Tristan’s mouth, pinching his nose and forcing him to swallow. He had two unconscious guards, a thoroughly ruined mustache, and outside, the door shook from the sounds of the security team. Hope was a thin thread inside him, but Enrique reached for it anyway. It was all he had left.
16
LAILA
Laila fumbled in the dark, her breaths shallow and quick.
If you panic, you’ll lose even more.
The taste of metal filled her mouth. She winced. The sharp lock pick had scraped the inside of her cheek. She spat it into her hand, then started feeling around for the hinges.
In a way, this was her fault. Three weeks ago, she’d ruined a cake. Séverin, perhaps trying to console her, or more likely get her out of his study, had said, “It’s just cake. It’s not like there’s anything valuable inside it.”
“Oh really?” she had demanded.
She’d baked his favorite snake seal into a fruit tart, and left it on his desk with a note:You’re wrong.
So who was she to blame when Séverin had slid the note she’d written across her kitchen counter, told her about his plan, and grinningly said, “Prove it.”
And here she was.
Trapped in a cake.
Sneaking herself into the base had been easy once the whole thing had been assembled. The final task—locking it shut—required Zofia.
Her fingers fumbled until they finally found the clasp. Sweat slicked her palms. The metal needles were wet with spit and kept sliding from her hands. All she could hear was her heartbeat. And then the pick notched into something. She stilled. Listening. Listening for the slight gasp of metal, the muffled snick of things aligning…
Pop.
The hinges came undone, clanging to the bottom of the base. Laila grinned.
