“I doubt it,” said Séverin.
“You don’t think he could figure it out?” asked Laila.
“He can’t. He doesn’t have you.” When Laila’s eyes widened he caught himself and gestured to the whole group: “All of you.”
“Awww…” said Enrique. “What a sweet sentiment. I shall take it to my grave. Literally.”
“Besides, Zofia and Enrique made a perfect fake artifact. There’s no way that Hypnos can trace it back to us.”
Enrique sighed. “God, I’m brilliant.”
Zofia crossed her arms. “I am too.”
“Of course you are,” soothed Laila. “You’re both brilliant.”
“Yes, but I’m more—” huffed Enrique.
Séverin cut them off with two sharp claps. With each clap he felt the cold iron of the oath rings hitting his palms. One for Zofia. One for Enrique. Laila insisted she worked with rather than for him, and there was no need for Tristan since no iron band compared to their bond.
“Now that we have the piece, let’s examine it thoroughly. We make no plans beyond that. We don’t make any speculation about what we might do. We don’t do anything until it’s clear what we’re working with. Understood?”
The four of them nodded. Just like that, the meeting was concluded. They rose slowly. Enrique was the first to head to the door.
He paused in front of Séverin. “Just remember…”
And then Enrique hooked his thumbs together and made a strange waving motion with his hands.
“You’re a bird?”
“A moth!” said Enrique. “A moth approaching a flame!”
“That’s a very alarming moth.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“It’s an alarming metaphor too.”
Enrique rolled his eyes. Behind him, Zofia smuggled more cookies on her plate.
“How are the Sphinx masks coming along?”
“Why?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
“Might need them sooner than later.”
“Mmf.”
Zofia shoved the rest of a cookie into her mouth as she left.
Even before he turned back to the room, Séverin knew who was approaching next. Laila. Everything in the room always rushed to her: every beam of light, every last pair of eyes, every atom of air. Maybe that’s why he sometimes couldn’t breathe when he saw her. Though the room was nearly dark, whatever light clung to its corners now raced to illuminate her. Usually, Laila had a habit of being almost relentlessly radiant. She hated seeing someone hold an empty plate and always thought everyone was hungry. She knew everyone’s secrets even without having to read their objects. At the Palais des Rêves, she turned that radiance into an allure that earned her the name, L’Enigme. The Mystery. But this evening, she spared him no smile. Her dark eyes looked like chips of stone.
Uh oh.
“No tea and sympathy for me?” he asked. He lifted his hand. “I am wounded you know.”
“How thoughtful of you to delay the hour of your death so that I might witness it firsthand,” she said coldly. But the longer she looked at his wrist, the more her shoulders softened. “You could’ve been hurt.”
“It’s the price one pays for chasing wants,” he said lightly. “The problem is I have too many of them.”
Laila shook her head. “You only want one thing.”
“Is that so? Enlighten me.”
He meant it teasingly. But Laila’s posture changed almost immediately. More languid, somehow.
“Very well,” she said.
Laila moved closer. She slid her hand down the front of his jacket.
“I will tell you what you want.”
Séverin held still. This close, he could count her eyelashes, the starlight gilding her cheek. Her skin was so warm he could feel it through the linen of his shirt. What game was she playing? Her fingers slipped into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. She pulled out his silver tin, popped the latch and withdrew a clove. Eyes still locked on his, she dragged her thumb across his lower lip. He didn’t remember parting his lips. But he must have because a moment later, a sharp clove hit his tongue. Laila drew back. Cold rushed in to fill the space. All in all, it took no more than a few seconds. The whole time her composure had stayed the same. Detached and sensual, like the consummate performer she was. He could see her staging an identical routine at the Palais des Rêves—reaching into a patron’s jacket for his cigarette case, placing it on the man’s lips and lighting it before she took it for herself.
“That’s what you want,” she said darkly. “You want an excuse to go hunting. But you have mistaken the predator for prey.”
With that, her skirts swirled around her heels as she left. Séverin bit down on the clove and watched her leave. He waited a moment before turning back to Tristan.
He knew what argument they would have. He had prepared for it, and yet, it still wrenched something from him to see the shine in Tristan’s eyes. In that moment, Séverin felt far older than his eighteen years.
“Just tell me,” he said wearily.
“I wish that this was enough for you.”
Séverin closed his eyes. It wasn’t about enough. Tristan would never understand. He had never felt the pulse of an entirely different future only to see it ripped from his grasp and smothered in front of him. He didn’t understand that sometimes the only way to take down what had destroyed you was to disguise yourself as part of it.
“It’s not about enough,” said Séverin. “It’s about balancing the scales. Fairness.”
Tristan didn’t look at him. “When you came of age, you promised that you would protect us.”
Séverin hadn’t forgotten. The day he said that was the day he realized that some memories have a taste. That day, his mouth was full of blood, and so his promise would always taste like salt and iron.
“Let’s say this whole venture doesn’t kill us. What if you get what you want? If you get back your House you’ll be a patriarch…” His voice pitched higher. “What if you become like—”
“Don’t.”
He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound so cold, but it did, and Tristan flinched.
“I will never be like our fathers.”
Tristan and Séverin had seven fathers. An assembly line of foster fathers and guardians, all of whom had been fringe members of the Order of Babel. All of whom had made Séverin who he was, for better or worse.
“Being part of the Order won’t make me one of them,” said Séverin, his voice icy. “I don’t want to be their equals. I don’t want them to look us in the eye. I want them to look away, to blink harshly, like they’ve stared at the sun itself. I don’t want them standing across from us. I want them kneeling.”
Tristan nodded tersely.
“I protect you,” said Séverin softly. “Remember that promise? I said I’d protect you. I said I’d make us a paradise of our own.”
“L’Eden,” said Tristan miserably.
Séverin had named his hotel not just for the Garden of Paradise, but for the promise that had been struck long ago when the two of them were nothing but wary eyes and skinned knees, while the houses and fathers and lessons moved about them as relentless as seasons.
“I protect you,” said Séverin again, this time quieter. “Always.”
Finally, Tristan’s shoulders fell. He leaned against Séverin, the top of his blonde head tickling the inside of Séverin’s nose until he sneezed.
“Fine,” grumbled Tristan.
Séverin tried to think of something else to say. Something that would take Tristan’s mind off of what the five of them were planning to do next.
“I hear Goliath molted?”
“Don’t pretend like you care about Goliath. I know you tried to set a cat on him last month.”
“To be fair, Goliath is the stuff of nightmares.”
Tristan didn’t laugh.
* * *
Over the next week and a half, Laila spied on the Order members who frequented the Palais des
Rêves, looking out for any signs of unrest or rumors of theft following the auction. But all was quiet. Even the notorious Sphinx guards who could follow the trail of any House-marked artifact had not been glimpsed outside the city residences of House Kore and House Nyx.
Séverin was sitting in his office when his butler came in with the mail.
“For you,” said his butler, a concerned furrow on his forehead.
Séverin glanced at the envelope. An elaborate letter H was emblazoned on the front.
Hypnos.
He dismissed the man, and then stared down at the envelope. Bits of brown flecked the front, like dried blood. Séverin touched the seal. Instantly, something sharp stabbed into the pad of his finger, a Forged thorn concealed in the melted wax. He hissed, drawing back his hand, but a drop of blood hit the paper. It sank into the envelope, and the elaborate letter H shivered, unraveling before his eyes until it opened into a short missive.
I know you stole from me.
ALSO BY ROSHANI CHOKSHI
The Star-Touched Queen
A Crown of Wishes
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roshani Chokshi is the New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Touched Queen. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Shimmer, and The Book Smugglers. Her short story “The Star Maiden” was long-listed for the British Fantasy Science Award. You can visit her online at www.roshanichokshi.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Death and Night
1. Death
2. Night
3. Death
4. Night
5. Death
6. Night
7. Night
8. Death
9. Night
10. Death
11. Night
12. Death
Poison and Gold
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Rose and Sword
Present
The Extravagance of Normal
Present
The Bargain for Breath
Present
The First Gate
Present
Second Blush
Present
The Gate of Grief
Inhale
Tomorrow
End
Epilogue
Excerpt: The Gilded Wolves
Also by Roshani Chokshi
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
STAR-TOUCHED STORIES. Copyright © 2018 by Roshani Chokshi. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover photographs: stars © istock.com/Olegkalina; flower © sayhope/Shutterstock.com; sky © tomertu/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-18079-7 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-18080-3 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250180803
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2018
Star-Touched Stories Page 30