She tried to banish that worry, focus on her task this morning—infiltrating Otto’s office to see if they could find anything that might help them weave together these odd threads of his plans.
She and Ronin ran through what they’d learned while she waited for the dried Bleeding Heart petals and Lethaphyll leaves to steep.
“So,” she began, “let’s go over what we know.” She held up a finger as she listed off the facts. “One: Otto has been luring Fae with elemental magic in their ancestry to his estate. And they’re all from either the Akti territory or the Desolation. Which borders Akti. But we don’t know what those locations signify.”
Ronin nodded, drinking from his tea cup. He hadn’t had a Delirium in three days. He was managing well enough without it, though he seemed more tense than usual, his fuse much shorter. Especially when he’d almost shredded that servant who’d interrupted their kiss. And she’d noticed him gazing longingly at the bottles during last night’s dinner. She was incredibly proud of his restraint, had told him so at the table, but he’d waved her off like it was nothing.
“Two”—she held up a second finger—“he’s using the anastasium stones to capture souls. But, we don’t know what he’s using the activated stones for. Nor where he’s hiding them.”
“Three,” Ronin held up three tattooed fingers, “he’s a fucking crazy psychopath who wears weird fucking suits, doesn’t eat meat, and has a strange obsession with the High Gods and the Fallen Goddess, but is rich and influential enough to have lured a bunch of power hungry Fae who haven’t run away from him even though he murdered someone right in front of them. Oh,and they don’t seem to have noticed that he’s warded us all in here. Or, if they have, they don’t care. And he’s got a household full of spellbound human servants and even though he invited you here to get into your pants, he left to fetch some other mysterioussheafter you answered his questions about your heritage with lies.”
Mireille lifted the lid of the tea pot, sniffing at the contents within to see if they had been steeping long enough. Nearly there. “That was way more than three things.”
Ronin barked a sharp laugh. “Am I wrong?”
“No, but none of it answers any of our questions. And what about the illegal relics of the Fallen Goddess that he’s supposedly been gathering? We didn’t find any here in the main house, nor in the galleries. He must be hiding them somewhere else.”
Ronin slumped down in his chair, thunking his teacup onto the table. “How do you deal with this?”
She cocked her head. “With what?”
“Gathering all this information, keeping it straight, figuring out which parts are pertinent and which are dead-ends. It’s fucking confusing.” He raked his fingers up the shaved sides of his head.
She leaned back in her chair, caressing the buttery leather armrests. Picturing her fingers in place of Ronin’s on those soft sides of his head. “It always comes together in the end. Like a puzzle full of missing pieces. We find more, we fit them into place, and the picture suddenly becomes crystal clear.”
“Frustrating to be in the middle of it.”
“Welcome to the life of an IA agent,” she snickered. “And don’t lose hope. Imagine what we might find in Otto’s office this morning. Maybe even the one piece that makes sense of all this.”
“Doubtful,” he grumbled.
A knock rang out across the hall, followed by murmured voices—the servant making his rounds to collect the breakfast trays.
Mireille checked the teapot once more, the liquid now a deep fuschia and wafting that unmistakable licorice scent. She poured out a steaming cup, grinning. “Showtime.”
Ronin sauntered over to the door to await the servant’s knock.
It came mere seconds later, and when Mireille called out for the man to enter, he swung open the door and Ronin was upon him.
The old, silver-haired man didn’t struggle or scream as Mireille stalked over, leveling what she hoped was a non-threatening look. “We’re not going to hurt you. I need you to drink this for me.”
The man pressed his lips together, but Ronin cupped his chin and squeezed his cheeks, forcing his mouth open.
An image flashed through Mireille’s mind: Ronin performing the same hold on Dimi. Something hot and prickly snaked through Mireille’s lower belly, a heady mixture of lust and jealousy. She shook it away before Ronin could sense anything, but the knowing gleam in his golden-blue eyes told her she hadn’t quite succeeded.
She tipped the cup to the man’s mouth, pouring half the liquid down his throat. Ronin’s massive hand covered the man’s entire lower face as he pinched his nose. The man had no choice but to swallow.
The tea took effect instantly, the man’s pupils blowing so wide his hazel irises nearly disappeared.
Ronin released him, and the man swayed on his feet, his eyes glued to Mireille. His new master, according to the extract of Bleeding Heart flower coursing through his system.
“I need you to do something for me,” she whispered.
“Anything,” the man groaned.
So Mireille led him out of the suite, through the quiet halls, and over to the west wing.
The curvedwalls of Otto’s office were lined with shelves crammed with books, small sculptures, masks, and carvings. The space was neat and tidy, not a single element out of place.
