“Enjoy the seance, Ronin.” Layla sashayed away from him, joining a group that included Julius Kosera, several other Fae, and even a few humans who were being fed from. The tangy scent of mortal fear wafted through the room as they wept, paralyzed by their Fae predators.
Layla herself approached a stunning dark-haired woman who bowed her head in deference. Ronin turned away just as Layla whipped one of her knives out of her thigh-sheath and held it against the young woman’s throat as she fed.
Ronin took another bracing gulp of his drink, then laid it away on a side table. Though his need for a Delirium was damn-near unbearable, he refused to get that high through a live—and most certainly non-consensual—feeding. There were still a few boundaries he was unwilling to cross.
He surveyed the space for Mireille, his gaze catching on her unmistakable fiery red hair. She was standing atop the dais, Otto looming over her and gesturing toward the throne of bones. Mireille looked enraptured by whatever he was saying, and Ronin couldn’t tell if it was fake or not.
Knowing Mireille and her unquenchable thirst for knowledge, her interest was likely genuine.
Go rescue her, his wolf piped up, finally stirring back to life after that odd conversation with Layla.
Doesn’t look like she particularly wants or needs to be rescued, Ronin answered, turning away to seek another drink and a guest to interrogate.
Before he got the chance, a bell jingled, and the entire room turned their attention to Otto.
Mireille had stepped down onto the glass floor, glancing up at Otto just as expectantly as the other guests.
What secrets in her heritage had Layla been referring to? Surely it had something to do with that family tree they’d seen in Otto’s office yesterday. Had something to do with Mireille’s father.
He was about to rush to her side, warn her of what Layla had said, when Otto spoke up and the entire room went silent.
“Cherished guests,” he intoned.
“It is time to begin our seance.”
Mireille watchedOtto from the side of the dais, her mind aflutter. He hadn’t uttered a word about her lies, those fabricated stories she’d spun about her parents. Her heart had been in her throat during their entire chat, waiting for him to drop some hint that she’d exposed herself. Instead, he’d regaled her with the incredible history of the piece at the center of the dais.
The Deathstalker had claimed the throne was stitched together with the bones of every Otto male going all the way back to Magnus Otto, the progenitor of the line. Otto had pointed out each bone, naming every male family member, and while Mireille had been fascinated, she also couldn’t help asking herself why they’d only included the males. Who wouldn’t have even existed without the females who’d birthed them. Then thought to herself, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible fate that the females hadn’t been forced to have their bones turned into a chair to house their male progeny’s ass for thousands of years.
“Now, the vast majority of you maythinkyou know what to expect tonight,” Otto addressed the crowd, “but we can assure you that this particular seance will be unlike any you have ever experienced.”
The crowd burbled, exchanging excited whispers, and Mireille used the pause to scan the room for Ronin.
It wasn’t difficult to find him; other than Kosera, who was guarding the room’s sole entrance, Ronin was the tallest male in the room, his white hair standing out against the black walls.
He turned to her as soon as her eyes landed on him. As if he could sense her attention. She offered a smile, which hereturned, flicking his eyes toward Otto then back to her again. Asking if she got any important intel.
She offered a slight shrug, trying to conveyyes and no. In truth, other than regaling Mireille with the history of the throne, Otto hadn’t given her much.
The Deathstalker himself spoke up again. “And we have invited another very special guest to guide us in our transcendental quest.”
Otto signaled to Kosera, who opened the ballroom door to reveal an ancient Deathstalker female. Her coal-black pupils were lined in white, her ashen dreadlocks a grizzled nest around her head and shoulders. She was dressed in a sweeping, high-collared jacket woven with green-black feathers. Mireille had a ghastly suspicion they’d been pulled from a Windrider’s wings.
The crowd parted as the old female shuffled toward the dais, hunched over a knobby cane topped with a carved snake’s head, its fangs cradling a milky rock the size of a duck egg.
A fire opal.
The relic of the Fallen Goddess they’d been seeking?
With every strike of her cane, the female took a single step forward, and the long trail of her coat slid across the floor.
Clack, hiss.
Clack, hiss.
Clack, hiss.
The room was grave silent, the guests not daring to even breathe.
