“Goodnight, Juliet,” Mireille snapped as she whipped open the door, then slammed it on Juliet’s frustrated sigh.
In her dressing room, the largest in the theater, Mireille plopped into the tufted chair before her vanity table and sank her head into her hands.
She didn’t know why she bothered to keep that box for her father. He’d never once shown up to claim it. But to open it up to another patron… She wasn’t ready to give up that hope yet.
The hope that she’d one day meet the male who’d sired her.
The hope that she might one day learn his name.
She tucked the pain of his centuries-long absence away, her eyes darting to a small ballerina figurine leaning between the mirror’s spherical bulbs, and began her post-show routine—a series of steps as carefully choreographed as those she’d just performed.
She removed her shoes, then her costume. Peeled off her tights. Wiped away her make-up. Brushed out her hair—fifty strokes on the right, then the left. And finally, changed into charcoal leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
Atop the vanity, her commstone began to glow.
She tucked the violet stone underneath her ear and High Councilor Skanisse’s squeaky voice flowed into her mind. “You’ve retrieved the scepter.”
It wasn’t even a question. The Deathstalker’s body must have been discovered in that shack in Southlake.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Mireille purred, burying her grief behind a professional mask—her go-to tactic.
“Did anyone see you?” Skanisse asked in a tight voice.
“You mean other than the dead Deathstalker?”
Skanisse huffed. “You find any evidence that tied him to Otto?”
Mireille bit back a frustrated grunt. Jurgev Otto, the biggest of the big fish in the trade for the Fallen Goddess’s relics, had proven to be Mireille’s most elusive mark yet. Though she had little doubt that the eccentric Fae billionaire was the intended recipient of that scepter, she’d found nothing that proved it. The only smart move that dead Deathstalker had made earlier today was not revealing the name of his buyer.
Mireille had been trying to get an in with Otto for months. He was a constant presence throughout Kheimos’s many clubs and restaurants, often surrounded by a rotating entourage of the snowy city’s glitterati. Ancient religious relics weren’t the only things he collected.
Mireille had put herself in his path, using veiling potions to alter her appearance with different body types, hair colors, faces, and even genders, each more alluring than the last. Nothing had worked to capture his attention; she’d never even gotten close enough to be rebuffed.
Skanisse was growing impatient with her lack of progress.
“No,” Mireille grumbled. “But I?—”
“Be here tomorrow morning at eight. I have another matter to discuss with you.”
“What other matter?”
“Eight o’clock,” Skanisse spat. “And don’t forget the scepter.”
The connection went dead and Mireille ripped the commstone away from her ear, tossing it onto the vanity.
Fury burned through her veins. Shehatedhaving to answer to Skanisse. Preening bastard who sat behind a desk all day, had no idea of the dangers and drudgery of the field work Mireille performed for him and his precious Empire. She’d never oncefailed to deliver in the nearly three centuries she’d worked for the High Councilor, had done everything he’d ever asked of her with her trademark ruthless efficiency, completing every single assignment on time and without getting caught.
And still, she couldn’t get a word of praise from the male. She didn’t know why she craved it so badly. Still, she supposed she should be grateful that he allowed her to pursue her true passion, to continue to dance as long as it didn’t interfere with her other…duties.
She pushed up from her chair, trying not to dwell on the lack of information. She preferred to know exactly what she was getting into before a trip to Imperial Affairs headquarters downtown.
Preparation was a singular obsession for Mireille.
And she didnotappreciate surprises.
Shouldering her bag, she left her dressing room. The theater was empty as she strode to the back entrance. Even Juliet, who sometimes hovered around waiting for her, had given up.
Good.
