“I’ve got a pretty good guess,” she muttered. “What were we talking about before your ex-girlfriend showed up?”
“She’s not my?—”
“Right, Mattias. And the question of what actually happened to his sister.”
“Is it worth checking through the archive files again tomorrow before we leave for Otto’s on Monday?”
“I don’t think so. We’re heading to the source itself. Better to see what we can learn up there.” Mireille got a far-off, dreamy look and they settled into a comfortable silence, each of them lost in thought as they gazed down upon the sea of Fae still dancing away to the pulsing drumbeats.
And Ronin wondered if Mireille’s thoughts matched his own.
What the fuck was going on up at that estate?
And what had the IA gotten them into?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As the sleek, black sedan crept up a gravel driveway on Monday afternoon, Ronin couldn’t help thinking that the estate’s moniker had been spot on.
Cathedral of Bones, indeed.
Three tapered white turrets pierced the surrounding pines like skeletal fingers, intercut with long, thin windows.
The sedan crunched to a halt beside a stone fountain with a statue of a coiled, striking serpent in the center. To the right was an arched entranceway of towering double doors, above which shone a stained-glass window depicting the High God of Death and Destruction himself.
Stygios glowered down from a throne of writhing serpents, his forked tongue poked out over long, sharp fangs. Nyctima twined through his feet, and the yellow glass of his eyes gleamed, cutting through the overcast haze.
Ronin stepped out of the sedan, a chill wind rustling through his hair. He glanced up toward the far left turret, spying a humanoid-shaped shadow watching their arrival from the window. Ronin shivered as he rounded the trunk to retrieve their bags.
“No need, sir.” A dark-haired human servant bustled down to the car. “The bags will be brought to your room.” He gestured up the stairs, where a regal-looking woman with a tight gray chignon waited. “Mistress Klovia will give you a brief tour of the main house. We hope your stay with us is empowering.”
An odd thing to say, Ronin thought. He inspected the man, searching for any sign of the spells Mattias had assumed the human staff were under. The man looked well-cared for, not sickly or tired. Though theredidseem to be a lack of vitality in his eyes.
Mireille took Ronin’s proffered arm, her face carefully neutral as her gaze climbed the ossified towers and stained-glass window.
Mistress Klovia stepped forward to greet them and the white stone doors behind her groaned open, seemingly of their own accord. “Welcome to the Otto estate.” Her voice was low and deep, no hint of a smile as she swept an arm across the threshold. “After you.”
As Mireille and Ronin were swallowed into the gaping maw, his wolf shuddered.This place reeks.
Ronin sniffed the air, smelling nothing but the heady, floral notes of the massive bouquet of pale blue roses sitting atop a round table in the entryway.
Of what?Ronin asked.Roses?
No, his wolf whined.
Death.
Mistress Klovia swept aheadof Mireille and Ronin, her low-heeled shoes clacking on the checkered marble floors. “The first floor contains rooms for social gatherings. You may feel freeto use the parlors during your stay. However, there is a strict midnight curfew.”
Ronin glanced into the rooms they passed, each with soaring ceilings and purposefully arranged couches, chairs, and tables around which groups of Fae were gathered. Bubbling laughter and excited conversations echoed, the walls a veritable gallery of paintings and artistic photographs, plus several maps of the continent and its various territories.
In the third room, a line of beautiful humans stood against one wall, the women in gauzy dresses and the men shirtless above linen pants. Beside them, a stack of Delirium bottles glistened atop a black credenza. Ronin’s mouth watered.
The drive to the estate had taken several hours, and he hadn’t had a drop of the substance since before he’d left his apartment this morning.
He paused at the parlor entrance as a Deathstalker female wearing a low-cut turquoise bodysuit approached the humans, stopping before a chiseled blond who didn’t look a day over twenty-five. The man inclined his head, following the Deathstalker to a red settee where she arranged herself in his lap. She sniffed his neck, coasting her sharp purple fingernails down his chest, and he released a groan of such euphoric ecstasy that Ronin’s wolf yipped.
The warm cinnamon scent of the young man’s lust wafted into the hallway as the Deathstalker female began sucking down lungfuls.
