Patrick made a mental note to remind Spencer later that Lucien was the enemy, despite being their ally tonight, and that fucking the enemy was not allowed.
Lucien turned on his heels. “Move.”
They followed his lead to the opposite wing, where white folding chairs had been set up in multiple rows. Each chair carried a folded name card on its seat, indicating which invited group it belonged to. Lucien’s was at the very front, his name the only one written out, while all the other cards merely listedGuest of Lucien. On Lucien’s seat was a small plastic sign with a number on it that would be used to indicate his interest on items up for sale.
Carmen always sat on Lucien’s right, but Patrick made sure to take the seat on the other side. Their group took up two rows in a small cluster. While they were in the front, they were farther from the center aisle and the podium on the temporary stage, but closer to the side aisle and some of the werecreatures acting as security.
The seats in the row opposite theirs were eventually taken by a group led by a man whose magic made Patrick’s stomach temporarily roil. He tried not to be obvious about staring, but it was impossible not to look and match that face to the memory of the one he’d seen in the WSA briefing.
Ilya Nazarov was tall and broad-shouldered, with slicked back dirty-blond hair and a face hollowed out from magic. His fingers and thumbs were adorned with gold rings that burned with black magic to Patrick’s senses, though the gold chain necklaces he wore seemed plain enough. The people with him took their seats, but their attention never left Ilya as the necromancer sauntered over to Lucien with an arrogance Patrick wanted to punch off his face.
“I’ve heard much about you, Lucien,” Ilya said with a smile. His Russian accent wasn’t as thick as Patrick expected it to be, most likely a byproduct of his under-the-radar travels.
Lucien didn’t acknowledge Ilya for half a minute. When he finally tipped his head back, the pause was a calculated dig of disrespect that Ilya couldn’t miss. “Did I say you could talk to me?”
Ilya’s smile never wavered. “I am the Patriarch of Souls for the Orthodox Church of the Dead. I talk to whoever I want.”
Lucien looked him up and down with obvious disdain. “If I had wanted an introduction, it would have happened.”
“I think our desires might align. If you are staying in Europe beyond the auction, perhaps we can meet. I’m sure there’s favorable business to be had between my Church and your Night Court.”
“I’m not interested in your preaching, necromancer.”
“Our god could save you.”
Lucien leaned forward, menace in every line of his body. “I don’t need saving.”
Ilya stared at him for a few seconds before casually shrugging off Lucien’s refusal. “Everyone needs saving. Even the undead.”
Lucien said nothing to that, merely stared Ilya down until the necromancer left. Patrick watched the necromancer walk back to his seat and lean in to whisper with one of his fellow worshippers. Patrick wished he could’ve got a picture of the man. He hoped CCTV cameras were working outside the building, but even if they were, he didn’t know if the WSA would share any information after they realized they’d been deliberately misinformed about the auction date.
Patrick looked around at everyone seated for the auction, wondering which of the present buyers belonged to the Dominion Sect. Not knowing was worrisome. He didn’t see Ethan or Zachary Myers, but if those two were remaining Stateside, they’d have sent someone else in their stead.
A flurry of movement at the back near the cross-corridor caught his eye. Patrick watched as Dillon Rossiter started down the center aisle, trailed by several auction aides carrying items of interest. Rossiter was dressed in a flashy dove gray business suit, collar open, and a royal purple silk scarf wrapped around his neck rather than a tie.
In person, Rossiter gave off an aura of cold confidence that didn’t speak of the Seelie Court. Patrick tried not to hunch down in his seat as Rossiter took the stage, pressing his thumb against the filigree ring on his middle finger. He hoped Brigid’s magic would be enough.
Werecreatures staggered themselves down the side aisle and in front of the stage, though only Cressida was allowed on the stage itself. She stood near the stairs, off to the side and out of the way of the auction aides busy displaying the first item up for bid. Cressida scanned the crowd, and Patrick hoped they didn’t stand out in the front row.
The fae in the white corset who had greeted them climbed up to the stage and tottered over to the small table situated near the podium where Rossiter stood. She sat in the chair there and opened up a leather-bound tome.
Rossiter leaned his weight against the podium and adjusted the microphone, smiling widely at the crowd. “Welcome to the Auction of Curiosities and Exceptional Items. I hope all of you have managed to ascertain which object is your heart’s desire. Be advised that I have some items up for bid which were held back from the viewing hour. Don’t forget to save some of your money for those.”
Rossiter gestured for his aides to come forward. A woman held aloft a golden birdcage with a fledgling phoenix inside it, flickers of fire burning at the tips of its tail feathers. It looked small and depressed, hiding its face and beak beneath one trembling wing.
“We’ll start with Lot 809137, a baby phoenix found in the Carpathian Mountains. Bidding shall begin at one million pounds sterling,” Rossiter said. “Do I have one million?”
His approach wasn’t rapid-fire, but he kept the momentum moving, coaxing a bid price out of a buyer that would’ve made even Marek raise an eyebrow. The fledgling phoenix was moved offstage, the buyer’s number written down in the record-keeping book, and the next item was brought up.
Rossiter kept things moving, raking in an amount of money in one hour that most people wouldn’t see in ten lifetimes. Patrick noticed the necromancer, like Lucien, didn’t bid on anything that had come up for auction so far—not until the Morrígan’s staff was carried onto the stage.
It took two aides to carry a long, heavy iron box onto the stage and set it down on the display table there. The woman who had been showing off items had exchanged her white cotton gloves for steel gauntlets this time around. The wards on the iron box glowed when Rossiter hissed out a set of command triggers in no language found on Earth, keeping clear of the box.
Patrick leaned forward when the woman lifted the Morrígan’s staff free of its confinement. He wasn’t the only one. Even through his shields Patrick could sense the deep, primordial power emanating from the staff. It set his teeth on edge.
The Morrígan’s staff looked exactly like the picture General Reed had shown Patrick last summer. The wooden staff was long, with a tip shod in iron and the dull quartz crystal at the head surrounded by twisted Celtic knotwork depicting leaves, ravens, and three phases of the moon linked together.
The aide was careful to keep the staff at arm’s length from her body, ensuring the iron tip pointed away from Rossiter. Iron would always be deadly to the fae, and Patrick thought it odd that the weapon of a Celtic war goddess would be made with some. Maybe it was supposed to be a deterrent to thieves, but that hadn’t helped much since it had gone missing decades ago.
