But thanks to their moles inside Section, Henrika and Anatoly had been tipped off, and I had ended up trapped in a minefield that Anatoly and his men had planted in one of the hotel’s lawns. I’d used my synesthesia to figure out where the bombs were buried and escaped the minefield, but the resulting explosion had still decimated the lawn. Anatoly had been killed during a fight at the hotel, but Henrika had escaped, and I had been tracking her ever since.
London, Paris, Madrid, Vienna. Henrika had led me on a merry chase, jet-setting from one city to another.
The whole point of Section 47 was to quietly, discreetly eliminate threats, as well as to make sure that regular mortals remained largely oblivious to the existence of paramortals, so no formal arrest warrants or charges had been filed against Henrika. As far as the general public knew, and as reflected on her social-media accounts, Henrika was having the time of her life on a whirlwind European vacation. She had dramatically increased her security and never stayed in one place more than a few days, but for the most part, she had the intelligence, money, contacts, and resources to go on living her life as though nothing much had changed.
It was going to change, though. Henrika Hyde was going to wind up in a Section black site or in the ground. I didn’t particularly care which one, as long as I found out whether she had any more moles embedded in the spy organization.
That alone would have been reason enough for me to track her, but Henrika had also given me a personal reason to hunt her down. She claimed to know exactly what had happened to my father, Jack Locke, a Section cleaner who had been killed on a mission roughly fifteen years ago. I’d thought I had put my father’s death behind me long ago, but Henrika’s taunting had opened old wounds, and I wanted answers.
But to get those answers, I had to catch up with the bitch first.
Over the past few months, I had studied every single aspect of Henrika’s life, including social-media posts about her favorite holiday parties, and I’d even gotten hold of her private Christmas card and gift lists. Henrika always sent the Eisen family a lavish present, and she had often frequented their annual Christmas Eve bash at Tannenbaum Castle. Hence my hope she would show up tonight.
But even if Henrika didn’t appear, I still might be able to find her, thanks to Elsa Eisen.
My plan was simple. I would wait for an opportunity to slip out of the ballroom, avoid the security guards roaming through the castle, and make my way to Elsa’s office. Once there, I would hack into her laptop and copy her files, along with whatever other paper records I could find, then leave the office and slip back into the party undetected.
I was already itching to get my hands on Elsa’s files and see what details they contained about Henrika. Maybe if I was lucky, I would even find some information on the Syndicate, a shadowy group of paramortal criminals and terrorists who occasionally worked together to trade secrets, sell weapons, and increase their own wealth, power, and reach. Most people in the intelligence community thought the Syndicate was nothing more than an urban legend, but my father had firmly believed in the group’s existence, and now I did, too.
A finger jabbed into my left shoulder. “Why are you just standing here?” Jacques made a sharp, shooing motion with his hand. “The guests are arriving! Go, go, go!”
He was right. Elsa and Lina were now standing by the open doors, greeting their guests.
“Start handing out champagne,” Jacques ordered. “Imbécile!”
My fingers clenched around the tray, and I longed to smash the whole thing into his face, champagne flutes and all. But that would only get me kicked out of the castle, so I pushed the angry urge aside, drew in a deep breath, and let out a slow, cleansing exhalation, just like I would on my yoga mat. Then I plastered a smile on my face and moved toward the glittering crowd.
Time for this sugar plum spy to get to work.
I quickly handed out all the champagne flutes on my tray, returned to the drinks table, and got some more. As I wound my way through the crowd for a second time, I paused here and there, angling my chest at every single person who crossed my path.
Earlier in the locker room, I had pinned an extra silver button to the front of my blue coat—one that contained a hidden camera, along with a two-way communication device. Elsa Eisen dealt with a variety of folks, and the guest list featured more than one known underworld figure, mortal and paramortal alike. By the time I had passed out a second tray of drinks, I’d spotted a forger, a biochemist, a codebreaker, and a nuclear scientist. Even if Henrika didn’t attend the party, tonight’s mission might still yield some actionable intelligence, given all the dangerous people I saw hobnobbing together.
I went to get some more champagne. Jacques was standing at the end of a nearby dessert table, brandishing a long, sharp knife at Maria.
My synesthesia kicked in, the way it so often did, and the blade burned a bright, bloody red in my eyes. I tensed and gripped my tray a little tighter. I wasn’t nearly as deadly as a Section cleaner—a polite term for an assassin—but I could defend myself and others if need be.
“Rectangles!” Jacques hissed, rolling the r an impressively long time. “The strudels are supposed to be cut into rectangles, not squares!”
“Yes, Chef!” Maria chirped in a bright voice.
Jacques let out a derisive snort and shoved the knife into her hand. Then he spun around, hurried over to a different table, and started berating another chef about the excessive amount of balsamic glaze the younger man was drizzling over the bite-size caprese bruschetta appetizers.
I walked over to Maria. “Are you okay?”
She giggled. “Of course. Do you know how many demanding chefs I’ve dealt with at castle parties over the years? Jacques isn’t that bad. At least he isn’t throwing knives at people—yet.”
She sliced a plum strudel into the desired shape, then popped one of the rectangles into her mouth. “I’m not sure how he got hired to cater the Christmas Eve party, though. It’s a big event, and his food is nothing special. Although his desserts could be really good if the pastry weren’t so terrible. My mother makes much better strudels at her bakery in the village.”
Maria made a face and handed me the other half of the strudel, which I popped into my own mouth. She was right. The tart fruit filling and sticky-sweet sugar glaze were delicious, but the baked pastry crust itself was as dry as dirt, and it ruined the rest of the dessert. I much preferred the fantastic pies that my friend Pablo Suarez whipped up at the Moondust Diner.
“But free food is free food, right?” Maria winked at me and started slicing the other strudels.
I laughed, grabbed another tray of drinks, and plunged back into the crowd.
By this point, all the guests had arrived, and conversation filled the air, along with classical music that whispered from the stage’s sound system. Selections from The Nutcracker, of course.
I was down to the last drink on my tray when someone sidled up beside me.
“Excuse me. May I trouble you for a glass of champagne?” a masculine voice murmured.
The low, husky, familiar timbre sent a pleasant chill sliding down my spine, even as the faint Australian accent made me sigh in appreciation. I was a sucker for a man with an accent, especially this man and his delicious accent.
The man was around six feet tall, with tan skin, high cheekbones, and a straight nose. His dark blond hair was slightly rumpled, as though he’d run his fingers through the thick locks and hadn’t cared how they landed. The slightly messy look was still fabulous on him, and the perfect amount of golden stubble clung to his strong jaw, adding to his appeal.