But to the thug standing next to me, it only looks like one thing. The assassin is coming for La Contessa. He lifts his wrist to his mouth, speaking rapidly into it, code I don’t know but still understand. The guards on the other side of the balcony swarm like bees, barking questions, orders, calling to each other, and I take the opportunity to slip back down the eastern staircase and merge back into the people.
I’m tall enough that I can keep eyes on thebauta-costumed agent, and it’s not long before he realizes I’m no longer upstairs. His attention is caught by the group of guards on the mezzanine pointing his way, and he hesitates, judging his chances. He begins to back away, turning to the entrance, but stops when he sees me heading toward him.
His eyes burn straight into mine.
He wants to kill me.
Wants it badly enough that he’ll squander a few minutes of his escape time to do it.
I back off, feigning caution. What I’m really doing is choosing our place of engagement. But IFF agent takes the bait, following me under the cover of the mezzanine just as several of La Contessa’s guards reach the ballroom floor and begin fanning out. The rest of them stay up on the balcony, guarding the private room, but when I move closer to the wall, deeper into the shadows, I’m out of their line of sight.
I round a corner into a small alcove showcasing achaise longue, and behind me I hear hurried footsteps, picking up the pace. I turn and wait. Thebautaappears, a gleaming knife in his hand, a matching glint of hatred in his eyes.
But to his right, there’s a flash of pink and white. A flamingo-haired Harlequin steps into view, pulling off his mask. “Hey, bozo,” he says in a broad American accent. “It’s me you want, isn’t it?”
The moment of hesitation, of the knife swaying away from me toward a new target, is all I need. I close the few yards between us, dodge behind the IFF agent as he turns, and grab his head.
One quiet snap and it’s over.
I support the lifeless body down onto thechaise longueand, after checking the pockets for any identification—none—and making one small addition of my own, I arrange the deceased agent as though he were a passed-out partygoer who’s had one too many cocktails.
I glance up at Finch, who’s keeping watch.
“Ten seconds to company,” he says. He runs a hand through his newly-pink hair and gives me a grin before slipping back on the small silk mask that matches his Harlequin costume. “Should I go change back into Birdman?” he asks. “I left the cloak and mask over on the other side, stuffed in a big vase.”
My heart is still hammering from the adrenaline—not from worry for myself, but forFinch. It was a dangerous game we played tonight, big risk for big reward, and there were moments where I had to battle my own need to rush straight for him, protect him.
“No,” I say. “Stay as you are.” I couldn’t bear to see him cover up again, not now that he’s returned to the pink hair that reminds me of the night we met. He changed it just this afternoon, at the last minute, on my suggestion.
Our ten seconds are up. La Contessa’s guards are swarming, pushing Finch aside, grabbing hold of me, leaning over thebauta-masked corpse. One of them pats him down, finds the knife, and then—
“Shit,” he breathes, pulling out a photograph from the inner pocket of the agent’s tunic. He shows it to another guard, the one who must be their leader, judging by the deferential air shown to him. They mutter together, and the one phrase I overhear isLa Contessa.
“You did this?” The lead guard turns to me, gesturing at the body.
I shrug off the two guards holding me and straighten my costume. I will neither confirm nor deny the accusation, but the leader is no fool. He knows me.
But before he can interrogate me further, we’re interrupted by the guard whose middle finger I broke. In quiet Italian, he murmurs into the leader’s ear, too hushed for me to hear, but I can tell I am the topic of conversation by the way the lead guard watches my face as he listens.
A moment later, the leader nods, steps closer to me and begins to say something, but pauses to press a finger against the small speaker in his ear. He listens, frowning at the floor, then looks up at me again. “La Contessa has asked to speak with you.”
“You’ll handle this?” I ask, indicating thechaise longuewith a tilt of my head. The lead guard gives one short nod. “Well, then,” I say. “Let’s not keep the lady waiting.”
As we are escorted away by two of the guards, Finch looks down at his black boots. They matched the plague doctor outfit well but are decidedly out of place with his Harlequin costume. He gives one glance back over his shoulder at our dead enemy.
“Guy should’ve paid more attention to my shoes,” he murmurs with satisfaction.
Chapter Sixty-Two
FINCH
Ithink Luca is as surprised as I am that he was actually capable of letting me be part of the plans tonight. But as we ascend the stairs, hand in hand, he leans down to my ear. “Well done,uccellino.”
I squeeze his hand and press my shoulder into him, basking in his praise. “Same,” I whisper back at him, and he gives a quiet snort of laughter.
One enemy down. One to go.
We are admitted into La Contessa’s private room with no trouble, although I have to blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the candlelight within. The room is small and intimate, and La Contessa is draped across a divan, dressed in an intricate, corseted costume of black satin. As we enter, she is holding up to her face an ornate filigree mask at the end of a silver wand.
