“She would never need your magic.”
But Silas remained undeterred by her insistence, his eyes silently taunting,Didn’t she?“Neversay never, little witch. She did, in fact, need my magic. And when she used that magic, it created a…” He waved a hand, as if trying to find the most appropriate term. “…tether between us.”
“Yousurveilledmy mother?” It was preposterous to think anyone could have been keeping watch on someone as powerful as her mother. But Silas was powerful too. Ree did not know the limits his strange alchemy might reach.
“The Brotherhood surveils all matters of magical importance. Even the magic of your kind when it suits our ends. Now would be one such time. The Vatican will spare no resource to see a second Holy Inquisition in the city. You’d do well to gather allies, daughter of Marie Laveau. And quickly.”
“Are you proposing an alliance? Betweenus?”
“You and I will be as I was with your dear mother…” His lips quirked. “Friends of a sort.”
“I will never work with the Brotherhood,” she snarled. “Never.”
“No?” He lifted a silvery brow. “I think you will, little witch. You will find the dangers in this city require concessions to survive them.”
“I can handle a little danger.”
His eyes fell to her neck, to the ugly burns the aurum collar had left. “Yes, quite well by the looks of it. I have heard that you enjoy games. But tell me, do you know therulesthis time? I’ll tell you a secret, little witch: I’ve another piece on the board. And I intend to use it to my full advantage. You should know one thing about me—Idon’t lose.” The dragon’s eyes twinkled, the vibration in the air sending a shiver through her. “I play to fucking win.”
“We’re done here.” Ree nodded toward the door. “Get out.”
“Very well,” the alchemist replied curtly.For now,those strange eyes promised. Silas drew on his black velvet hood, and as he passed he murmured, “Mutatio.” Immediately there was an odd cooling sensation along her neck. In the gilded looking glass against the wall, she saw that the skin was healed, the burns perfectly mended, almost as if they had never been there at all.
Ree turned to face Silas, but he was gone. She cursed. The Brotherhood of the White Hand knew about her mother. And now? She had no idea what they might do next.
She held the coin from the Aurelia in her hand, the gold glinting in the firelight. Silas had cautioned her to find allies. Although she detested the Brotherhood and all that it stood for, she couldn’t help but think that the alchemist might have been right. The game was changing right before her eyes, and she needed allies, andfast.Was she foolish to hope Henryk might become one of them, instead of her enemy?
Ree started toward the door. She’d been dealt a new hand, it was true.
And she’d be damned if she didn’t playit.
Ree sat at her preferred table in the back of the darkened parlor. The lights in the Aurelia burned low tonight. She cast her gaze about the room, anticipation and nerves squirming in her gut. Like the windows outside, the ceiling had been enchanted to look like the night sky—an inky vastness swaddled in a web of silvery constellations, as if the stars themselves had been woven into the dark canvas. Itwas her favorite music hall in all of New Orleans. Feathered dancers in shining silver and black silks danced across a stage, swaying their hips back and forth to the brass band that struck up a tune in the back. Lithe acrobats dangled from silvery cords suspended from the constellation ceiling, spinning on and on in a dizzying blur. Ree ran a hand through her curls, still damp from the bath she’d taken to rinse away the putrid stink of the jailhouse. Try as she might, there was no washing away that terrible memory.
Ree stirred the piece of lavender in her drink, what the pretty barmaid had calledle royale,named for its rich purple coloring. It was normally her favorite. The music was the best in all the Quarter. One song could usually drown out whatever sorrows the drinks wouldn’t. But not tonight. The loss of her mother, Marcel, Anabelle…the moment the officer had unlocked those burning shackles from her skin, Ree had run like a coward, escaping the horrors of the day. Marcel’s empty face, backlit in the harsh sunlight, buzzing with black flies. Anabelle’s mouth twisting cruelly at her. Her mother’s body, unmoving. Sitting in that darkened cell, collared with aurum for the second time, the sting of the metal burning into the skin of her throat, had changed her. Scared her. Maybe this wasn’t just a game, not the way Silas made it out to be. This was real.
And Henryk. His eyes meeting hers in the dark, only coldness in their depths.
The tune ended, another starting up in its place. This one an old folk song she hadn’t heard since she was a child, a favorite of her mother’s. Ree took a long drink from her glass, savoring the burn against the back of her throat to distract from the burning in her eyes.
Henryk Broussard slid into the seat across from her.
He was no longer in his Inquisitor uniform but dressed down in simple linen. The long-sleeved shirt he’d chosen was well suited to his frame—clean and deliberate, the dark folds clinging to his broad shoulders, dipping at the chest to reveal a garnet-flecked crucifix hanging from his neck.
His lips quirked as he crossed his gloved hands. “Hello, Ree.”
The sound of her name on his tongue flipped her stomach. That same sense of familiarity and ease that made her heart ache. Thegruff burn of his voice. After all these years, he sounded the same. His accent had slipped. But it was still the voice she remembered, beautifully Cajun.
She stifled a pang in her chest. That they could be sitting here now, like this, as if they were simply old friends, seemed like the cruelest joke of all.
“Henryk,” she said stiffly. “You look well. I suppose holy work agrees with some of us, at least. Welcome back to New Orleans. Back to us heathens.”
Ree snatched a glass of bourbon from a passing tray and slid it across the table. Henryk caught it with one hand and took an indifferent drink, eyes locked onto hers.
Now properly face-to-face, she could see that at twenty-eight years old his features had refined themselves into perfect place. He was…embarrassingly handsome. His hair was longer than she remembered, combed away from his face, still the same deep ruddy brown, the color of communion wine. Part of it curled into his eyes, the same piercing gray, as bright and pale as quicksilver under certain light. His skin was paler than hers but still held the same touch of gold, the permanent mark of an unforgiving Louisiana sun. Needless to say, Madame Monet’s girls would have gladly bedded him for no coin at all.
“I know why you chose this place.”
“Of course you do.” His expression hardened. “How could you forget?”
