“It’s not an insult.”
“You basically called me a dog—”
“—I said your actions paralleled that of a dog.”
“That’s not exactly complimentary.”
“Is it complimentary if I tell you he was an exemplary dog?”
“No—”
Laila ignored them, basking in the fragile whir of their bickering. This felt like an echo of how they used to be. She had tried, from a distance, to stay close after Tristan had died. But the moment she saw Séverin, she was reminded of how impossible that would be. If she’d stayed in L’Eden, she could not have survived the constant reminder of this unhealed and unclosed wound. Even now, he haunted her. Though he’d stopped eating cloves altogether, she still imagined the scent of them. When he left the room, unwanted ghosts of memories snuck up on her. Memories he didn’t know she had, like when they had been attacked by a Forged creature inside House Kore’s underground library. When she regained consciousness, the first sound she remembered was Séverin’s voice at her ear: Laila, this is your Majnun. And you will drive me well and truly mad if you do not wake up this instant.
“Voila!” called Hypnos from the doorway.
He was pushing a cart laden with treats. They were colorful cookies—which disgusted Zofia—and ham sandwiches—which turned Enrique’s stomach—and … a steaming samovar of hot cocoa. Which only Tristan drank.
Hypnos’s smile wasn’t his usual catlike grin. Now it looked shy and quick. Hopeful.
“I thought, perhaps, before all the planning … we might refresh ourselves?”
Enrique stared at the cart, finally managing a bemused “Oh.”
Laila wished she hadn’t seen the way Zofia leaned forward eagerly, only to snap back in a recoil. And now Hypnos stood before them, his smile stretched a second too long … his shoulders falling a fraction.
“Well, if you’re not hungry, I will eat,” he said, a touch too brightly.
This used to be Laila’s responsibility. In that second, the room felt cloying and too tight, brimming with so many old memories that there was hardly enough air to draw into her lungs.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing.
Zofia frowned. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m sorry,” said Laila.
“Cookie?” asked Hypnos hopefully, holding one up to her as she passed.
Laila kissed him on the cheek and plucked it from his hand.
“I think the others just ate, unfortunately,” she whispered.
“Oh,” said Hypnos, his hands dropping from the cart. “Of course.”
Laila left the room quickly, tossing the cookie in a potted plant at the entrance. All she wanted was to leave and run out into the streets. She wanted to be free of her secret and scream it to Paris … but then she turned the corner.
And there he was.
Séverin. A silhouette of silk and night, a boy with a mouth made for kisses and cruelty. A boy who had once conjured wonder and came too close to touching her heart. Laila reached for her hate like armor, but he was too fast.
“Laila,” he said slowly, like her name was something to savor. “I was about to look for you.”
Laila’s heart didn’t know how to hate. Not truly. And a small part of her wished never to learn. She could only stand there, staring at him. She remembered his face as he read the letter meant for Tristan … the pain when he’d discovered how many demons his brother had hidden from him. Maybe it was that which finally let her speak.
“I am sorry you found out the truth about Tristan the way you did, but I—”
“I’m not,” he said. He tilted his head slightly, and dark curls swept across his forehead. His lips curved to a cold grin. “In fact, you deserve my thanks. And since you’ll be acting as my mistress, I have a present for you. I can’t have L’Énigme on my arm with a bare throat.”
Until that moment, Laila hadn’t noticed the velvet box under his arm. A jewelry box. He opened it, revealing a diamond choker that looked like snapped icicles. Just the thought of putting it against her skin made her shiver.
“They’re real,” he said, holding them out for her to touch.
Laila traced one jewel, only to feel a slight resistance in her thoughts. That only happened when she touched a Forged object. Séverin’s shadow fell over her.
“When I have need of you, this diamond necklace will turn warm and tighten ever so slightly,” he said. “Then you will report to me and tell me of any findings. Likewise, I will inform you of my progress with securing The Divine Lyrics.”
Laila jerked back.
“You wish to collar me?”
Séverin raised his wrist, where her own oath bracelet caught the light.
“I wish to return the favor. Are we not equals in all things? Was that not what we promised each other?”
His words were a twisted echo of their first meeting. Fury stole Laila’s voice just as Séverin stepped closer.
“Let’s not forget that it was you who came to my chambers and demanded to act as my mistress, to be in my bed.”
The Forged diamonds seemed to glint knowingly, as if sneering to her: What did you expect?
He lifted the choker, letting it dangle from his fingers. “I assume you have no objections.”
Ice snuck up her veins. Objections? No. She wanted to live, to savor existence. And so all she felt was disbelief at this stranger before her. The longer she stared at him, the more it felt like watching night creep toward her, her eyes adjusting to the dark.
“None whatsoever,” she said, swiping the diamond necklace from him. She nearly closed the distance between them, and felt a sharp stab of pleasure when he flinched from her. “The difference between a diamond necklace and a diamond dog collar depends on the bitch. And they both have teeth, Monsieur.”
7
ENRIQUE
St. Petersburg, Russia
Enrique pulled his scarf tighter, as if it might keep out the Russian winter. Snowflakes whipped around his steps, pressing cold kisses to his neck. St. Petersburg was a city suspended between old and new magic—electric streetlamps cast wide pools of golden light and bridges arched like the outspread wings of angels, and yet the shadows looked too sharp and the winter air smelled of warm copper, like old blood.
Beside Enrique and Zofia, the Neva River gleamed like a black mirror. The lights of palatial homes along the English Embankment—one of the grandest streets of St. Petersburg—had abandoned their windows for the lustrous water. Unstirred by the wind, the Neva’s reflection looked as if a different, parallel St. Petersburg had been poured into the water.
Enrique believed in it sometimes—other worlds crafted from the choices he had not made, paths he had not followed. He stared at the water, at the wavering image of the other icy St. Petersburg. Maybe in that world, Tristan was alive. Maybe they were drinking cocoa, and making an ugly tinsel crown for Séverin, and thinking of how to make off with a barrel of imported champagne for the annual New Year’s party at L’Eden. Maybe Laila hadn’t given up baking, and L’Eden still always smelled of sugar, and he and Zofia would fight over cake slices. Maybe Séverin had accepted his inheritance, instead of throwing it away, and maybe that other Enrique was not only a member of the Ilustrados but the toast of Paris, surrounded by a gaggle of wide-eyed admirers hanging on his every word.