“Now I remember his name… the Russian Recluse,” said Hypnos. He shook his head. “I don’t know how you’ll make him leave home. I haven’t brushed up on my gossip of St. Petersburg in some time, but the only thing he leaves his house for is—”
“The Imperial Russian Ballet,” finished Séverin, changing the image to the stately Mariinsky Theatre, shining and extravagant with its decoration of Forged smoke ballerinas that pirouetted on the outside balconies and unraveled in the moonlight. “Their next performance is in three days, and he’ll be there. What I need is the box next to his.”
Hypnos snapped his fingers. “Consider it done. The Order keeps a standing box, and I can secure you a ticket.”
“How?” asked Enrique.
“The usual route.” Hypnos shrugged. “Money, charm, etcetera…”
“I’ll need more than one. Two or three tickets,” said Séverin, risking a glance at Laila. “Laila will be posing as my mistress for the duration of this acquisition. Another person should join us.”
Silence.
Séverin raised an eyebrow. “I believe two people should be enough for the job inside Vasiliev’s home. A third can go with us.”
More silence.
Enrique seemed extraordinarily preoccupied with something under his nail. Zofia scowled. Séverin looked to Hypnos, whotsked.
“You could not pay me to be in that guest box between the two of you.”
Beside him, Enrique reached for a glass of water, drank it too quickly, and started choking. Zofia slapped his back. Séverin tried not to look at Laila, but it was like ignoring the sun. He didn’t have to see it to feel its glare.
“There’s still several other issues to consider,” said Séverin brusquely. “Vasiliev has a special salon within the Theatre that he frequents with his bodyguards. Admittance depends on a special blood Forging tattoo—”
“Blood Forging?” repeated Zofia, paling.
Hypnos whistled. “Certainly a rather expensive indulgence.”
“What’s blood Forging?” asked Enrique. “I’ve never seen that.”
“A talent for a mixed set of affinities,” said Zofia. “Mind and matter, liquid and solid metal.”
“It’s very rare to find someone who can manipulate both the mind and the presence of iron in the bloodstream,” said Hypnos, before smiling slyly. “And alsoverypleasurable.”
Séverin had seen such artists a couple times in L’Eden. Many of them chose to hone their craft in ice affinity rather than blood, but the ones who specialized in blood were often brought along with a patron who either required numbing during painful medical procedures, or for recreation, to heighten one’s senses before certain… activities.
“We need to separate Vasiliev from his bodyguards,” said Séverin. “Something that can pull men apart—”
“Money?” asked Enrique.
“Love!” said Hypnos.
“Magnets,” said Zofia.
Laila, Enrique, and Hypnos turned to stare at her.
“Powerful magnets,” Zofia amended.
“Can you do that?” asked Séverin.
Zofia nodded.
“That does not solve how we would enter his salon,” said Enrique.
“I have an idea around that,” said Laila. “I am L’Énigme after all. I can bring a certain notoriety when I wish.”
Despite himself, Séverin looked at her. A thousand moments converged and fell apart. He saw her hair spangled with sugar. He saw the blur of her body when he’d thrown her to the ground, thinking she was Roux-Joubert’s target that night in the Palais des Rêves. He remembered the painful words he’d uttered and how he wished, now, that they were true. If only she weren’t real.
