Page 22 of He’s A 10 But… He Bites

"She's rather sharp," Casimir tells me, as though she's vintage. "She has nerve. You'll need it, both of you, if you intend to keep pulling at this particular thread. The fragment you found is part of a much longer trail." He spreads his fingers. "I know. My ledgers remember every owner who ever lied about provenance. I could save you a great deal of bleeding."

"Generous," I say.

"Practical. I dislike waste, and I dislike watching capable men make poor decisions. You were always so cold, Serrano. Efficient. Lately you seem—warmer. Distracted. I wonder if it improves your judgment or ruins it."

"Worry about your own."

He only smiles and lets the question sit in his silence as he walks off. Riley's fingers tighten on my arm—not nerves. A signal.

"The woman by the harpist," she breathes. "Gray gloves. She's circled us twice. She's not drinking, and she keeps touching her ring."

I follow without turning my head. Tall, polished, a study in expensive boredom. On her finger, a band worked into a circle deliberately left open—a ring split at the top. The First Voice mark. Lucien's people wear secrecy ending as jewelry, I guess now.

"Stay close," I tell Riley. "Let her come."

She does, and up close she smells of bergamot and old funerals.

"What a striking pair." Her stare goes straight to Riley's small clutch, then back up. "You carry something precious. The night is so much lighter when we stop hiding what we are, don't you agree? Soon no one will have to."

"Soon, when is that?" Riley says.

The woman reaches—just a touch, fingertips toward Riley's bag, the gesture disguised as steadying herself. I take her wrist before her glove meets the silk.

I don't squeeze. I don't have to. I hold it hard so she understands the difference between my courtesy and my capacity, and I let her see what lives under my skin.

"You'll want to admire from a distance," I say, very quietly. "I'm told I photograph poorly. So does anyone who reaches into her things."

Her composure flickers. She withdraws her hand with a thin smile and folds back into the room like smoke.

Riley exhales. "Friend of yours?"

"A message from someone who isn't here." My control is no longer level. Something low and old wants to follow that woman and make sure she never reports anything again. I don't move though, I stay where I am. Casimir reappears at my shoulder, having seen all of it. He doesn't apologize.

"You allow Lucien's hounds at your table," I say.

"I allow useful people at my table." He swirls his wine. "Her faction buys. They buy desperately, and the desperate overpay. I am not a believer, Serrano. I am a collector. I keep every door open until I see which one money walks through. Which brings me to my offer. The names you need are in my ledgers, and my ledgers do not leave my home. Come to the Loire. Be my guest. Three days, every record at your disposal, and we both learn something." His smile widens. "Surely two people so attached at the arm can survive a weekend in the country."

It's a trap dressed as hospitality, and he knows I know it. His house, his ground, his rules, and Lucien's people already watching to see if we walk in. I turn to Riley.

"It's your call," I say.

Something passes over her face—surprise, then resolve.

"The trail dies without those ledgers," she says. "We go."

Casimir claps once, pleased as a man closing a sale. "Wonderful. My driver will collect you."

The woman in red slips toward the terrace, already lifting a phone to her ear. Casimir watches us with the patience of someone certain the prize is already his. And I stand with Riley's hand on my arm, knowing exactly how dangerous he is, knowing the country house is worse—and knowing, with a quiet I can't reason away, that pretending is becoming a stranger sort of risk.

15

RILEY

The Loire Valley countryside blurs past the car window in streaks of green and shadow as we drive toward Casimir's estate. My stomach knots tighter with every mile. Nico's hands stay steady on the wheel, but I catch the faint tension. The ledgers might give us the next thread on this damn vault trail, but every instinct screams trap.

The estate rises like something out of a gothic fever dream—old stone walls draped in ivy, and manicured gardens that look too perfect under the fading afternoon light. Casimir's servants greet us with silent efficiency, and doors click shut behind us with soft, final sounds that make my skin crawl. I catalog everything: the long corridors with polished floors that echo just enough to mask footsteps, the antique glass in the windows that could shatter into useful shards, the faint seams in the paneling that might hide passages.

Casimir meets us in a private collection room lined with cases and dustless shelves. Candlelight flickers across his sharp features, giving him that cultured, amused air. "Welcome. I thought we might start here. These ledgers cover transactions from the last two centuries—private collectors trading in... unusual items." He gestures to a heavy oak table where several leather-bound volumes wait.