The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  You will always have me, Tristan had said at the funeral.

  Yes, thought Séverin now. He would always have him. But would he always know him?

  * * *

  AS THE TROIKA rumbled over the streets of St. Petersburg, Séverin drew out Tristan’s penknife. A shimmering vein of Goliath’s paralyzing venom ran down its edge. When he touched the blade, he imagined the soft brush of ghostly feathers, remnants of Tristan’s kills. And then he’d remember Tristan’s wide grin and sly jokes, and he couldn’t reconcile this blade with his brother. How could someone hold so much love and so many demons in one heart?

  The troika pulled to a stop. Through the pulled velvet curtains, Séverin heard laughter and violin music, the bell-like chime of glasses clinking together.

  “We’ve arrived at the Mariinsky Theatre, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” called his driver from the front.

  Séverin hid the blade behind a steel-lined pocket of his jacket where it couldn’t hurt him. Before he stepped outside, Séverin closed his eyes and pictured Roux-Joubert in the catacombs, his mouth dripping with golden ichor, that shining blood of the gods. Phantom sensations crawled over his skin—black feathers shooting from his spine, wings draping around his shoulders, horns unraveling from his head, and that unmistakable rush of invincibility. Of godhood. Bad or benevolent, he didn’t care. He just wanted more of it.

  Inside the Mariinsky Theatre, the glittering elite of St. Petersburg glided about before the ballet performance. At the entrance, a Forged ice sculpture of Snegurochka—the snow maiden from Russian fairy tales—twirled slowly, her gown of ice stars and crystal pearls catching the light and spreading nets of frost over the red carpet floors. Women wearing kokoshniks of golden appliqué and swan feathers laughed behind pale hands. The air smelled of ambergris perfume and tobacco smoke, salt and the occasional metallic tang of snow. A couple of women draped in ermine and sable fur walked past him, trailing gossip in their wake.

  “Is that the hotelier from Paris?” whispered one. “Where’s he sitting?”

  “Don’t look at him like that, Ekaterina,” snapped the other. “Rumor has it he’s got a cabaret star or courtesan warming his bed tonight.”

  “Well, I don’t see her on his arm,” she said with a sniff.

  Séverin ignored them, turning instead toward the ivory-and-gilt doors of the entrance. The minutes ticked slowly past. Séverin twisted the diamond signet ring around his pinky. Laila would hate him for summoning her like that, but it’s not as though she’d given him a choice. She was supposed to meet him here fifteen minutes ago. Séverin turned about the room. A server in a crisp silver jacket balanced a platter of etched glasses carved from ice and filled with black peppercorn vodka beside zakuski on small porcelain dishes: pickled cucumber and glossy roe, bits of meat suspended in aspic, and thick slabs of rye.

  A man wearing an ermine ruff caught his eye and followed his gaze to the door. He flashed a knowing smile, then picked up two glasses, handing one to Séverin.

  “Za lyubov!” he said, and cheerfully knocked back the glass. The man lowered his voice. “It means ‘to love,’ my friend.” He winked and looked back to the door. “May she not keep you waiting for long.”

  Séverin drained his vodka in one swallow. It smoldered down his throat. “Or may she never find me at all.”

  The man looked confused, but before he could say anything, an announcer from the top of the golden, spiraled staircase called out: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats!”

  The crowd moved toward the staircase. Séverin hung back. Laila still wasn’t here, and yet even in her absence, she’d managed to drive him mad. He heard her in the chime of another woman’s too-throaty laugh, the whip of a fan she’d never bother to carry. He thought he saw her through the golden haze of a floating candelabra, trailing a bronze hand down someone else’s jacket. But it was never her.

  Inside the auditorium, golden champagne chandeliers drifted over the guests, who waved down flutes with a sharp flick of their hand. An artist with an affinity for silk matter had Forged the embroidery of the stage’s scarlet curtains, so the threads moved fluidly into the shape of swimming koi fish. The stirring of a long-ago childhood impulse flickered inside his chest … to watch the audience, to follow the paths of their gaze. To make wonders. But he shoved it down.

  Séverin snuck a glance at the empty box beside his. The art dealer, Mikhail Vasiliev, was due to arrive any minute now. Impatiently, he tapped his foot against the ground, and then let out a small curse. Some of the anti-magnetic dust Zofia had coated their shoes with left a fine grit along the wooden floor. He looked down at his hand, to the diamond signet ring that was bonded to Laila’s choker. He scowled at it. Either it wasn’t working, or she’d chosen to ignore him entirely.

  At the sound of the door opening, Séverin sat up straight. He expected Laila, but it wasn’t his door that had opened—it was Vasiliev’s. Two armed guards entered the booth beside his. Their cuffs were rolled, and the blood Forged tattoo that allowed them entrance into the downstairs’ private lobby salon cast a scarlet glow beneath the gas lamps. Séverin could just make out a small symbol … an apple … before the guards turned, scanning the box.

  “This isn’t the usual,” murmured one of the guards.

  “The other was under construction,” said the second. “Even Vasiliev’s salon is under construction. They had to add new metal beams or something in the corners.”

  The other guard nodded and then made a sound of disgust as he scraped his feet on the floor. “Do they no longer clean this establishment? Look at all this dust. Disgusting.”

  “Vasiliev won’t like all these changes … he’s nervous tonight.”

  “Well, he should be. Someone stole the verit stone lion at the entrance. Not that he knows, so don’t tell him.” The man shuddered. “He’s hard enough to be around these days.”

  Séverin smiled into his champagne flute.

  The first guard picked up the bottle of champagne sweating in its ice bucket.

  “At least the Mariinsky Theatre saw fit to send a bubbly apology.”

  The second one only grunted.

  The two guards headed back outside, no doubt to assure Vasiliev that everything was safe. On the curtain, the embroidered koi fish swam into an elaborate number 5.

  Five minutes until curtain.

  Vasiliev’s door opened once more, and Séverin dug his nails into the armrest. It was only when the door shut that he realized it was not Vasiliev’s box entrance. But his. The scent of roses and sugar filled the air.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I kept you pining, Séverin,” she said smoothly.

  Before, she would have called him Majnun, but that was lifetimes ago.

  He turned his head and saw Laila. Tonight, she wore a magnificent golden gown. A thousand tempting bows embellished her waist. Her hair was pulled up, and an artful gold-feathered fascinator sat in her curls like a small sun. His eyes went to her neck—her throat was bare.

  “Where’s your necklace?”

  “A diamond choker with a metallic gown looks rather tacky,” she said, making a tsk sound. “Our arrangement allows you to—supposedly—lay claim to my bed, not my sense of taste. Besides, this is our first public appearance together. A gaudy diamond necklace loudly proclaims I do your bidding for money, when the world already knows that a woman like me can’t possibly exist outside the cabaret without the excuse of a wealthy lover. Your collar would have been an exaggeration for tonight.”

  She added this last part bitterly, for it was true. Women like Laila could not move freely through the world, and the world was only poorer for it.

  “Unless you believe my outfit is overplaying my role?” she asked, raising her eyebrow. “Would you have preferred the diamond necklace with a less eye-catching gown?”

  “It’s not about the outfit. It’s about the appearance,” he said tightly. “I expected you to enter with me, and I expected you to wear
that necklace as I wear my oath to you.”

  Just then, the curtain was called, and ballerinas in delicate white tulle twirled across the stage. The Forged lights caught the edge of Laila’s dress, turning her molten. Séverin scanned the audience’s expressions, annoyed to see several of them had turned in his direction, though their eyes were fixated on Laila. Too late, he realized Laila’s fingers had crossed the barrier of their shared armrest until her hand rested on his sleeve. He jerked back.

  “Is that any way to treat the girl you love?” she asked. “Surely, you can endure my touch.”

  Laila leaned in closer, and Séverin had no choice but to look at her: at the sleek line of her neck, her full lips, and cygnet eyes. Once, when they had trusted each other, she told him she had been cobbled together like a doll. As if it made her less real. Those parts—those lips he’d traced, neck he’d kissed, scar he’d touched—were exquisite. But that wasn’t the essence of her. The essence of her was walking into a room, and all eyes pinned to her, as if she were the performance of a lifetime. The essence of her was a smile full of forgiveness, the warmth in her hands, sugar in her hair.

  Just as quickly as the thought rose to his head, it disappeared, swallowed up by the memory of torn-up bird wings and ichor, Tristan’s gray eyes dulling and Laila’s rapid pulse. Numbness rose, icing him over until he felt nothing.

  “I don’t love you,” he said flatly.

  “Then pretend,” she whispered, her fingers trailing up his jaw now, turning his face to hers.

  She moved so close, he thought she’d actually—

  “I read the coats of Vasiliev’s security detail in the main foyer,” she whispered. “Vasiliev leaves two guards outside the private salon. One with a weapon, and one who has blood Forged access to open the room. The one with the tattoo is … an admirer … of mine.” Séverin didn’t miss the way her lip curled in distaste at this. “Hypnos has several House Nyx guards placed to redirect the crowd. A couple are disguised as Vasiliev’s guards.”

  Séverin nodded and started to pull away from her. He hated being this close to her.

  “I am not finished,” she hissed.

  “We’re drawing too much attention. Tell me later.”

  Laila tightened her grip on his hand, and Séverin felt scalded. This had gone far enough. He reached out, cupping the back of Laila’s head, feeling the hot pulse of her skin as he bent to the hollow of her neck. Her breath hitched.

  “Now you’re overplaying your part,” he said and then released her.

  * * *

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER came the call for intermission.

  The stage curtains drew tight. Séverin listened for the sound of Vasiliev rising from his chair in the box beside them.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” he said.

  That was the first time Séverin heard his voice. It wasn’t what he expected. Vasiliev was a broad man, with a shock of dark hair and silver at his temples. He looked full of strength, and yet his voice was almost thin and wispy. Around his neck shone a gold chain. At the end of it twirled the lens piece of the Tezcat spectacles.

  Laila rose, her hand resting on his shoulder. She touched her throat, and her L’Énigme headdress unfurled around her face, concealing her eyes and nose, leaving only her mouth which curved in a sensuous suggestion. Her coy smile acted as its own camouflage as they slipped away from the crowd, down the servants’ service halls and into a darkened hallway that shot off from the main lobby.

  The entrance to Vasiliev’s private salon was designed as two, twelve-foot high marble hands cupped in prayer. When someone was granted entrance, the palm doors swung open. Séverin studied the threshold. Every acquisition was the same in the sense that every hiding place contained a message that someone hoped would outlive them. The trick lay in understanding the context. Vasiliev’s salon was no different. Someone might think the hands pressed together were a sign of a guest humbling himself before Vasiliev … but Séverin suspected it was the opposite. The doors loomed huge, rendering whoever stood before them—regardless of their stature—small. There was something apoolgetic about the design. To Séverin, it was a loud, public expression of guilt. The same guilt that perhaps convinced Vasiliev to wear the Fallen House’s Tezcat lens necklace in the first place, thinking it was a nod to his dead ballerina lover.

  Séverin judged the distance between the two men stationed at the entrance. One was a guard with a bayonet across his back. The way he stood, tilted to one side, suggested a bad leg. The other guard had his hands clasped before him. When he saw Laila, he flashed an oily smile.

  “Mademoiselle L’Énigme!” he said, bowing his head. “I heard the rumors that you would be here this evening.”

  He barely registered Séverin walking behind her.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Laila laughed. It was a high, false sound.

  “I am told I have an admirer inside who wishes to greet me personally.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle, if only…” The first guard leered. “But, one cannot enter without one of these.” He raised his wrist, displaying the apple-shaped blood Forged tattoo. “Unless Mademoiselle has one hidden somewhere secret on her person?”

  His eyes roved down the length of her, and Séverin had a great urge to snap the man’s neck.

  “You’re welcome to check,” she said silkily.

  The guard’s eyes widened. He straightened his lapel, then walked over to her. Laila stretched out her bronze leg for inspection. Séverin counted down from ten.

  9 …

  The man reached for her thigh.

  7 …

  Laila feigned a laugh as his other hand went to her waist.

  4 …

  The second the man touched her, Laila drew out a knife and pressed it against his neck, leaving Séverin standing there uselessly holding a knife in his hand.

  “Guard!” shouted the first.

  But the man with the bayonet didn’t move.

  “Get this bitch off me,” he said.

  Séverin raised his knife and walked forward. “I’m afraid he doesn’t work for you. He works for us.”

  Laila pressed the knife tighter to his throat.

  “If you kill me, you can’t get inside,” said the man, starting to sweat. “You need me.”

  “On the contrary,” said Laila. “We only need your hand.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Please—”

  Laila looked at Séverin. Séverin raised his knife higher.

  “No—” started the guard.

  Séverin brought it down, switching his grip at the last second, so the heavy hilt slammed into the back of the man’s skull. He slumped forward, unconscious.

  “Repulsive,” hissed Laila, pocketing her knife. When she saw Séverin looking at it, she shrugged. “I was going to tell you I could render him immobile on my own. You were the one who chose not to listen.”

  Séverin shut his mouth.

  With the help of the disguised House Nyx guard, they dragged the guard forward, placing his wrist with the blood Forged tattoo on an access point in the middle of the pressed-palm marble doors. The marble shuddered open at the touch, and Séverin dropped the man to the floor.

  Séverin glanced at the guard. “Get the wedding carriage ready.”

  The other man nodded and left.

  Inside the salon, rich curtains and portraits of a ballerina with red hair adorned the licorice-black walls. Vasiliev sat at a desk, sketching. At the sight of Laila and Séverin, his guards leapt forward.

  “Rather dusty inside here, isn’t it?” asked Séverin.

  He pushed down on Zofia’s magnetic signet ring, and the guards zoomed backwards into the four corners of the room where, earlier today, a false construction team had erected several powerful magnetic beams, to Zofia’s specific instructions.

  Vasiliev stared at them, his face pale.

  “How?”

  “Adhesive magnets,” said Séverin, with a grim smile. “Fascinating, aren’t
they? Even small particles that can coat a man’s shoes might retain their strong polarity. Now, the chain and lens pendant around your neck, if you please.”

  He expected Vasiliev to frown in confusion … but instead, the other man just bowed his head. Guilt scrawled across his features. The same guilt Séverin detected in the design of his salon’s entrance.

  “I knew this was coming.”

  Séverin frowned, on the verge of speaking when Vasiliev grabbed a champagne flute, knocked back the drink and then shuddered as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “A truly blessed man is one who knows his burdens,” said Vasiliev. His gaze slid to the champagne. “It was kind of you to provide mind Forged champagne. It absolves one of guilt, though I have few people left in my life to answer to these days.”

  Vasiliev unwrapped the chain from around his neck, already starting to sway on his feet. The Tezcat spectacle lens glittered in the dark room. It was the size of an ordinary monocle and set into a structure that resembled a key. He placed it on his desk, his eyes slowly closing.

  “She’s not safe, you know,” he said wearily. “She’ll find you. And then she will see reason.”

  His chin dropped to his chest as unconsciousness overtook him. Laila looked at Séverin, horror on her face.

  “Who is he talking about?”

  But Séverin had no answer.

  9

  ZOFIA

  Zofia pulled her now flameless jacket back on and tore off one of her Tezcat-detecting pendants.

  Over the past few months, she had perfected the formula, so all she had to do was hold the pendant to an object and it would reveal whether there was a concealed Tezcat door. One by one, she held the pendant to the statues, but her pendant never changed color.

  Whatever lay hidden here had taken different precautions. Zofia frowned, shivering. Arctic air filled the Chamber of Goddesses. A white tinge spread from the door, erasing the gold filigree on the tile and creeping up the walls. Where the white touched the statues, their shapes began to dissolve back into their wall niches. In a matter of minutes, they would disappear entirely. Even the riddle had begun to disappear from the floor: