Mireille stood, beaming at him. Though her smile dissolved as her eyes roved over his bloodied face, his awkwardly cradled left arm. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I will be.” He shook his head, tossing Bonecleaver to the ground and cupping her cheek with his right hand. “What’s going on? What did you two do?”
Mireille aimed a smug smirk at Layla. “Took some extra precautions. We each took a small dose of veiling potion before the performance. Layla thought Otto might try to drink from me. Luckily, honey-badger bi-forms are immune to Deathstalker venom. His bite only knocked her out for a bit while the neurotoxins in her blood did their work.” Mireille laughed, the merry sound music to his ears.
“What were you going to do if you had to go through with the dance solo?” Ronin asked Layla.
She shrugged. “We wouldn’t have let it get that far. Mireille would’ve captured Nostrata before I took a single step.”
He brushed a thumb across Mireille’s cheekbone. “You should have told me.”
She tipped up a shoulder, all cool nonchalance. “We needed your reaction to be genuine. Otherwise, Otto might have known we’d switched places.”
He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her in for a hungry kiss.
Layla rolled her eyes. “You two can quit pretending now.”
Mireille gazed up at him, her icy silver eyes softer than he’d ever seen them, a strand of copper hair blowing across her face. She placed a hand on his chest, and his heart squeezed. “We were never pretending,” she whispered, smiling, and sweet Amatu, it was the most beautiful fucking thing he’d ever seen.
Ronin leaned down for another kiss.
He never reached her lips.
The estate entrance exploded, a burst of tinkling glass and crushed stone that revealed Nyctima.
And Otto riding on the back of her head.
Horrified screamsand echoing clangs erupted through the courtyard as the guests began pounding on the iron fence.
Mireille grabbed her sword, Ronin lifted Bonecleaver, and Layla unhooked two throwing knives from the corset around Mireille’s waist.
Nyctima lowered her head and Otto leapt down, his feet crunching through the gravel as he headed for the trio at the fountain.
The last line of defense between these monsters and the innocent Fae behind them.
Otto paused, blinking slowly. His skin had paled further, and his bright yellow viper’s eyes had darkened to deep pits so black they seemed to swallow the gray afternoon light.
“He’s mine,” Mireille growled. “You two take Nyctima.”
She stalked forward as Ronin and Layla pivoted for the snake, who was being lured toward the gate by the wailing, cowering guests.
Mireille tightened her grip on the sword as she stopped mere feet from Otto. “You look a bit different, Jurgev.”
He cocked his head, the motion more serpentine than Fae, then hissed, shooting a jet of fire toward her that she pivoted away from.
“Lost your ability to speak when you got eaten by your little pet, huh?” Mireille taunted, inching closer. He smelled like singed hair and charred flesh, the skin on his palms melting ontothe gravel in smoking chunks. “You wanted me to dance for you” —she leveled the sword at his face— “so let’s fucking dance.”
She lunged for him, slicing her sword toward his stomach, but he slithered away. His movements were hitching and jerky, like he barely had control of his muscles. A corpse risen from death.
He shambled toward the fence, aiming for the guests, and Mireille dashed after him.
She passed Ronin and Layla, both dodging Nyctima’s giant fangs as they futilely attempted to pierce her hide with knives and axe. Every blow glanced off the shimmering black scales.
Mireille re-focused on Otto, arcing her sword down and catching his calf. It cut through his blackened trousers, digging into his flesh, but he didn’t halt. He was beyond pain, beyond thought.
She crashed into his back, tackling him to the ground, and pressed her sword under his jaw. He didn’t struggle, merely lay beneath her, smirking like he had some great secret.
Not a drop of blood emerged when she dragged the steel across his throat, even though the skin parted easily, releasing a cloudy gray puff. He laughed, a smoggy hiss containing no sound at all.
