The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  He pressed on. “Well, it was before my time … but my father once told me about something strange that happened there years ago. There were stories of terrible sounds near Lake Baikal, like girls screaming for their lives. It terrified the locals, and got to be so bad that the Russian faction, House Dazbog, asked the Order to intervene. My father sent a small unit of mind Forging artists to detect if anyone was being controlled. But no one ever found anything.”

  “And it just stopped?” asked Laila.

  Hypnos nodded. “Eventually. The locals claimed girls were being murdered, but they never found any bodies.” In a smaller voice, he added: “I hope the Sleeping Palace isn’t in Siberia.”

  Enrique winced. “I think the name alone confirms it … The etymology of the word ‘Siberia’ isn’t exactly clear, but it does sound remarkably close to the Siberian Tatar word for sleeping land, which would be sib ir. Hence, Sleeping Palace. But maybe I’m wrong,” he added quickly when he saw the panic on Hypnos’s face. “Where are the Tezcat spectacles anyway? A bank? A museum?”

  “A mansion,” said Séverin.

  He tapped the Mnemo bug pinned to his lapel. The Forged creature shivered to life, its jewel-colored wings whirring and its pincers clicking as it opened its jaws and projected an image onto the bookshelf showing a huge waterfront mansion overlooking the Neva River. He’d written the street name in the margins: Angliskaya Naberezhnava. The English Embankment of St. Petersburg, Russia.

  “That’s … a big house,” said Enrique.

  “It’s in Russia?” asked Zofia, her eyes narrowing.

  Séverin switched the image to another external shot of the waterfront mansion. “The Tezcat spectacles are concealed in a private collection in the home of an art dealer. The room itself is called the Chamber of Goddesses, but I could find no information—”

  Enrique squeaked. “I’ve heard of that installation! It’s hundreds of years old … No one knows the original sculptor. If it is sculpture. At least, that’s my guess. I’ve been dying to see it!” He beamed at the room, sighing. “Can you imagine what’s in the Chamber of Goddesses?”

  Zofia raised an eyebrow. “Goddesses?”

  “Well, that’s just the title of the room,” sniffed Enrique.

  “The title is lying?”

  “No, the title is evocative of the art, but it could be something else.”

  Zofia frowned. “Sometimes I don’t understand art.”

  Hypnos raised a glass. “Hear, hear.”

  “So, we have to go into the Chamber, find the Tezcat spectacles, get out,” said Zofia.

  “Not quite,” said Séverin. “The Tezcat spectacles are like ornamented glasses, and one critical piece … the lens … is kept around the neck of the art dealer.” He paused to consult his notes: “A Monsieur Mikhail Vasiliev.”

  “Why do I know that name…,” said Hypnos, rubbing his jaw. “He owns the Chamber of Goddesses?”

  Séverin nodded.

  “But why would the Fallen House entrust him with the key to finding their ancient estate and its treasure vaults?” asked Hypnos. “What does he know?”

  “And why would he wear something like that around his neck?”

  “He knows nothing, apparently,” said Séverin. “According to my informant, the lens is disguised as a nostalgic keepsake, shaped like the old key that had once unlocked his lover’s bedroom.”

  Laila looked down at her lap, pulling at a tassel on her dress. It was a shade of blood red that unnerved him. He didn’t want to look at it.

  “But why him?” pressed Enrique.

  “He’s important enough to keep his objects safe and insignificant enough that he draws no eyes,” said Séverin. “He’s not related to the Order, so he wouldn’t be brought in for questioning. The most scandalous piece of his past is an affair with a prima ballerina that soured. He got her pregnant, refused to marry her, the baby was stillborn, and she killed herself.” Enrique shuddered and crossed himself. “As a result, Vasiliev went into hiding for a few years, and that’s when he purchased the Chamber of Goddesses. He wears his guilt over the whole affair around his neck.”

  “Now I remember his name … the Russian Recluse,” said Hypnos. He shook his head. “I don’t know how you’ll make him leave home. I haven’t brushed up on my gossip of St. Petersburg in some time, but the only thing he leaves his house for is—”

  “The Imperial Russian Ballet,” finished Séverin, changing the image to the stately Mariinsky Theatre, shining and extravagant with its decoration of Forged smoke ballerinas that pirouetted on the outside balconies and unraveled in the moonlight. “Their next performance is in three days, and he’ll be there. What I need is the box next to his.”

  Hypnos snapped his fingers. “Consider it done. The Order keeps a standing box, and I can secure you a ticket.”

  “How?” asked Enrique.

  “The usual route.” Hypnos shrugged. “Money, charm, etcetera…”

  “I’ll need more than one. Two or three tickets,” said Séverin, risking a glance at Laila. “Laila will be posing as my mistress for the duration of this acquisition. Another person should join us.”

  Silence.

  Séverin raised an eyebrow. “I believe two people should be enough for the job inside Vasiliev’s home. A third can go with us.”

  More silence.

  Enrique seemed extraordinarily preoccupied with something under his nail. Zofia scowled. Séverin looked to Hypnos, who tsked.

  “You could not pay me to be in that guest box between the two of you.”

  Beside him, Enrique reached for a glass of water, drank it too quickly, and started choking. Zofia slapped his back. Séverin tried not to look at Laila, but it was like ignoring the sun. He didn’t have to see it to feel its glare.

  “There’s still several other issues to consider,” said Séverin brusquely. “Vasiliev has a special salon within the Theatre that he frequents with his bodyguards. Admittance depends on a special blood Forging tattoo—”

  “Blood Forging?” repeated Zofia, paling.

  Hypnos whistled. “Certainly a rather expensive indulgence.”

  “What’s blood Forging?” asked Enrique. “I’ve never seen that.”

  “A talent for a mixed set of affinities,” said Zofia. “Mind and matter, liquid and solid metal.”

  “It’s very rare to find someone who can manipulate both the mind and the presence of iron in the bloodstream,” said Hypnos, before smiling slyly. “And also very pleasurable.”

  Séverin had seen such artists a couple times in L’Eden. Many of them chose to hone their craft in ice affinity rather than blood, but the ones who specialized in blood were often brought along with a patron who either required numbing during painful medical procedures, or for recreation, to heighten one’s senses before certain … activities.

  “We need to separate Vasiliev from his bodyguards,” said Séverin. “Something that can pull men apart—”

  “Money?” asked Enrique.

  “Love!” said Hypnos.

  “Magnets,” said Zofia.

  Laila, Enrique, and Hypnos turned to stare at her.

  “Powerful magnets,” Zofia amended.

  “Can you do that?” asked Séverin.

  Zofia nodded.

  “That does not solve how we would enter his salon,” said Enrique.

  “I have an idea around that,” said Laila. “I am L’Énigme after all. I can bring a certain notoriety when I wish.”

  Despite himself, Séverin looked at her. A thousand moments converged and fell apart. He saw her hair spangled with sugar. He saw the blur of her body when he’d thrown her to the ground, thinking she was Roux-Joubert’s target that night in the Palais des Rêves. He remembered the painful words he’d uttered and how he wished, now, that they were true. If only she weren’t real.

  Laila raised an eyebrow.

  “I am assisting you, am I not?” she asked frostily.

  “Yes.” Séverin pretended to adjust his
sleeves. “We leave for St. Petersburg the day after tomorrow. We have much to do.”

  “What about after we get the Tezcat spectacles?” asked Hypnos. “Will we tell the Order—”

  “No,” said Séverin sharply. “I don’t want their interference until we know what we’re working with. Winter Conclave is in three weeks’ time in Moscow. If we have something by then, we’ll share.”

  Hypnos frowned at this, but Séverin ignored him. He was not letting the Order take this from him. Not after so much had changed. As Séverin turned to leave, he caught sight of evening falling outside the stargazing room.

  Once, this meeting room had served as a reminder that the stars themselves were within reach. Once, they could tip back their heads and dare to gaze at the heavens. Now, the stars seemed a mockery: teeth-white snarls of destiny and constellations, spun out into a celestial calligraphy that spelled unshakable fates for all mortals. That would change, thought Séverin. Soon … they would find that book.

  Then, not even the stars could touch them.

  6

  LAILA

  Laila watched Séverin leave the stargazing room, a tilted emptiness settling inside her.

  On the one hand, she let herself hope for the first time in ages. If Séverin’s informant proved right, then perhaps she had more left of life than she imagined. On the other hand, Séverin stained all that fresh hope with hate. She hated the cold light in his eyes and the frigid tug of his smile. She hated that the sight of him twisted something inside her, forcing her to remember that, once, he had made her feel wonder.

  Worse, she hated hoping that the moment he found The Divine Lyrics would be the moment he would return to who he had once been. As if some spell might be broken. Laila tried to push out that dream, but it was stubborn and stuck fast to her heart.

  “My laboratory—” started Zofia, at the same time Enrique muttered about the library. Hypnos shushed them violently.

  “Non,” he said. He pointed at the floor. “Stay here. I will be right back. I have a surprise.”

  He fled the room, leaving the three of them alone. Laila cast a sidelong glance at Zofia. She’d hardly had a chance to speak to her before the meeting. Now that she looked at her, new details leapt to her attention … Zofia had not changed out of her traveling clothes. Violet circles haunted her eyes. There was a thinness to her face that spoke of worry. That was not how she should look after spending Chanukah with her family.

  “Are you well? Are you eating enough?”

  Before Laila had moved out of L’Eden, she’d written explicit instructions to the cooks on how to serve Zofia. Zofia hated when her food touched; didn’t like overly bright or patterned plates; and her favorite dessert was a perfectly pale and perfectly round sugar cookie. Laila used to do those things for her. But that was before. And the moment the question left her mouth, the more guilt sharpened in her heart. What right did she have to ask after Zofia when she had left? When she had put distance between them?

  Laila turned the garnet ring on her hand. Sometimes she felt her secret like a poison slowly leeching into her bloodstream. More than anything, she wanted to tell them, to free herself from this burden … but what if the truth repulsed them? Her own father could barely look at her. She couldn’t lose the only family she had left.

  Zofia shrugged. “Goliath is losing his appetite.”

  “Considering Goliath eats crickets, I’m not sure I blame him,” said Laila teasingly.

  “He’s not eating as many crickets as he should,” said Zofia, plucking a matchstick and chewing it. “I made a chart documenting the volume of crickets consumed, and the trajectory is descending. I could show it to you if you’d like—”

  “I’m fine without,” said Laila. “But thank you.”

  Zofia stared at her lap. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  Laila almost reached out to hold Zofia’s hand before pausing. What looked like love to her did not always look like that to Zofia. Zofia’s gaze lifted to the black cushion Tristan used to sit on, now shoved under the coffee table.

  “Perhaps Goliath is grieving,” said Laila softly.

  Zofia met her gaze. “Perhaps.”

  Zofia looked like she would say more, but Enrique wandered over to Laila.

  “We need to talk later,” he murmured before he sat in front of her.

  “There’s little to say,” said Laila.

  Enrique fixed her with his you-reek-of-lies face, but he didn’t press her. Laila had told him about the jaadugar in her town, who had once guarded The Divine Lyrics … but that was all. Enrique and Zofia knew she had been trying to find the book, but they didn’t know why. And she could not bear to tell them.

  Sighing, Enrique angled his back just so, and Laila, recognizing what he was doing, sighed and started to scratch between his shoulder blades.

  “I miss back scratches,” said Enrique sadly.

  “There was a dog in Poland who used to do something similar,” observed Zofia.

  “I don’t have the energy to unpack that insult,” said Enrique, sounding at once amused and bruised.

  “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.”