That night, Tristan sat beside him, their hands clasped like in prayer.
“I will always be your family.”
SÉVERIN STOOD BEFOREa teahouse in Khamovniki District. Tinsel and Forged lights twinkled along the snow-dusted eaves. The air carried a faint whiff of steeped tea and the chime of demitasse spoons hitting the sides of porcelain cups. On the streets, bundled-up couples in long, gray coats and fur-lined hats spared them no glance as they disappeared indoors and out of the cold.
Séverin watched, hawkeyed, as Enrique, Zofia, and Laila were led to a different entrance by the matriarch’s Sphinx and—at Séverin’s demand—the uninjured House Nyx guards.
“No harm will come to them during our private discussion,” said the matriarch, eyeing him and Hypnos. “Trust me.”
He had, unfortunately, no cause to doubt her. Before they had shoved them into the carriage, the matriarch had stripped his jacket and taken out the Tezcat spectacles.For safe keeping, she’d said, smiling. On the carriage ride, he noticed Laila had removed her gloves to touch the House Kore carriage cushion and the matriarch’s forgotten fur stole. When he caught Laila’s eye, she shook her head. It was a clear signal—the matriarch was not behind the attack.
But that didn’t mean he had to trust her.
Hypnos caught his eye and shrugged. “Well, we did getkidnapped… but at least most of our clothes and equipment arrived safely?”
“Small victories,” said Séverin darkly.
At the entrance to the teahouse, a woman greeted them in a foyer lined with mirrors on each side.
“Tea for four? And do you prefer black or green leaves?”
“Red leaves,” said the matriarch. She held out her hand, where her Babel Ring—a twist of thorns—glinted dully.
“A dragon or a unicorn?” asked the woman.
“Just the horn and the flame,” replied the matriarch.
The moment she finished her sentence, one of the mirrors lining the walls glowed a soft green and then parted in the middle, revealing a carmine-red staircase that spiraled up. Annoyingly, Séverin found himself curious.
“Shall we?” asked the matriarch.
Without waiting for them to answer, the matriarch and her guard took to the stairs. The mirror door seamed shut behind Séverin, and the last of the downstairs salon laughter vanished… replaced with the rich music of a zither. Hypnos closed his eyes, humming appreciatively. He’d forgotten how much the other boy loved music. When they were young, he remembered that Hypnos possessed a beautiful singing voice. That last year his parents had lived, they’d even put on a Christmas performance, with Séverin controlling the stage and watching as the audience’s faces glowed with wonder.
Séverin dug his nails into his palm, willing those recollections to dust. He didn’twantto remember. He didn’t want to see Hypnos as a grinning child, breathless from song. He didn’t want to see the matriarch as she had once been to him…Tante FeeFee… whose love, for a moment, had felt unconditional.
At the landing of the stairs, the hallway opened into a wide room. The ceiling was Forged stained glass and appeared like a drop of blood unfurling infinitely into a crystal bowl of water. Private booths of carmine lay behind ivory screens. Red poppy petals carpeted the floor, and the room smelled of musk and smoldering incense.
Masked servers dressed in black moved discreetly through the room, balancing onyx trays holding small, pewter cups while patrons wearing gruesome rabbit masks reached languidly for the cups. It was only when Séverin saw that each of the patrons had a metal claw attached to their pinky finger that he realized what this place was.
“A blood Forging den?” he asked.
“We must have our pleasures one way or the other,” said the matriarch.
Séverin had never entered a blood Forging den before… but he knew of their reputations. Such a place kept a handful of resident artists who could not only manipulate the presence of iron within one’s blood, but also heighten aspects of mind and mood. A drop of blood in the hands of a talented artist could bring dizzying pleasure, erase inhibitions with a single sip, and—it was rumored—even allow someone to wear another’s face for an evening, which lasted far longer than the effects of mirror powder.
“Perhaps you imagine that I was behind the attack in the alley,” said the matriarch as she slid into a booth.
Thanks to Laila, he didn’t, actually, but that didn’t explain how she knew where they would be. Vasiliev’s last words rang in his head:She’ll find you.
Was ither?
When neither Hypnos nor he said anything, the matriarch continued.
“As you know, the Houses of the Order of Babel are readying themselves for the Winter Conclave in two weeks at a palace in Volgograd,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s the usual itinerary of posturing and partying before the annual Midnight Auction.”
“Then you’re in Russia early.”
“I had business here,” she said, rapping the table with her knuckles.
