by Lindsey Duga
The closet door I’d been half leaning on was wrenched open, and Colt grabbed me to keep us both from falling.
The waiter I’d been following stood in the door. “Oh, for God’s sake, Clemmons. Bank’s closed! We don’t have time for any petting in the hall closet.”
Blushing from head to toe, I pulled away from Colt and smoothed down my dress, patting my hair even though there was no recovering from that.
“We were almost done, Jimmy,” Colt snapped.
I swallowed. “Brocker thinks I went back to my room. I should go in case he sends someone to check on me.”
Colt snatched my hand before I could disappear. “Eris, this guy won’t go down without a fight and this place is a fortress. Getting kids out of here will require something big.”
“You mean a distraction,” I said slowly. “Something that will cause chaos. Like…thinking the building was…on fire maybe?”
Colt grinned, already catching on to my plan.
With a chuckle, I leaned forward and pressed a finger to my dragon’s lips. “If only someone could produce some high-quality smoke.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Dragon
“I can’t believe you didn’t think of that,” Jimmy muttered as we stripped off our waiter uniforms back at the BOI safe house in Brooklyn.
I tried to give a reasonable explanation, but I couldn’t. The last day we must’ve gone over seven different plans of getting Eris out, but driving everyone out of the building with signs of smoke had never crossed my mind.
“I’ve had a one-track mind lately,” I admitted, thinking about my brief time with Eris in the closet. Maybe I should start believing in God, I thought. Because something truly divine had intervened when I stopped her from undressing me.
A bang on the door made Jimmy and me jump. Rita’s voice came through the wood. “Hurry up, gents.”
“You don’t rush Italian tailoring, Rita,” Jimmy snipped as he finished buttoning his shirt.
Muffled laughter. “And yet you have no problem taking them off fast,” Rita called back.
As Jimmy’s face went a deep shade of red, I ducked my head to hide a smirk, wrenched the door open, and headed to the living room.
Taking a seat, I addressed Rita. “Does Dr. Durwich have the vial of blood?” As soon as Jimmy and I had stepped out of Brocker’s building, I handed the vial off to Erickson and he’d personally delivered it to the good doctor. From there, we headed back to the Brooklyn safe house to brief McCarney and strategize for the following night. It had been over an hour since I’d seen Erickson and I was eager for an update.
Rita nodded. “Erickson just called to confirm. Durwich is in a BOI lab as we speak, working on an antidote. If he can extrapolate the chimera agent strand from it, he may even be able to produce a serum that could reverse its effects.”
“You mean stop someone from becoming a chimera altogether even once they’re injected with the serum?”
The gorgon shrugged. “Once a monster part is attached, there’s no reversing it, but just removing the agent itself might be possible.”
I shot McCarney a look. “Why wasn’t this looked at before?”
“Gin’s scientists appear to be better than ours,” Rita continued. “There’s something in the virus she’s manufactured that is active and volatile, which is changing the chimera’s blood itself. I’m not saying it can be done overnight…but this is major headway. If we can reverse the chimera blood altogether, we can stop monsters from ever being produced again.”
“So, you’re saying that in an effort to mass produce the chimera blood they gave us a way to stop it entirely?” Jimmy asked.
Rita nodded again.
Jimmy tossed his head back and laughed. “That’s rich!”
McCarney rubbed his three-day-old beard. “Did you get more uniforms?”
I nodded to the bag sitting on the sofa draped with a sheet. “One for Erickson and one for Rita. They’ll be able to go to the party, too.”
“Good. All right, let’s review. After all”—he moved his light gray eyes to each of his agents—“this may be your most important hunt yet.”
I’d never seen more hooch in my life.
Erickson and I were in the storage rooms below the grand ballroom where the party was already in full swing. Wine, champagne, whiskey, scotch, vodka, bourbon—all of the finest brands likely smuggled from across Europe to get here—tucked below in their great storeroom. There was no panther piss or homemade booze in sight. Clearly, only the finest liquor for “America’s Royal Court.”
We’d arrived at Brocker’s building, along with the rest of the staff, at six in the morning. The early hour actually gave us more time to explore and find the “hospital ward” that Eris had mentioned. It was in fact the eleventh floor, because when Rita tried it she was turned away by two guards stationed in front of a nondescript door. But they would be easy enough to overpower.
I picked up my tray of champagne flutes and headed back up to the party. I hadn’t found Eris, but the night was still young and guests were still arriving.
No need to panic. Yet.
Looping around already intoxicated guests wearing their finest, I made my way through the ballroom.
Even I had to admit, Brocker knew how to throw a party.
The sunset rays of gold, lavender, pink, and orange stretched across the sky, outlining the Manhattan skyline like a steel mountain ridge. The colors cascaded into the ballroom, hitting the crystal chandeliers and throwing a spectrum of sparkles across the lavish place settings and overdressed guests. The jazz band played in the background, their stylings only meant to enhance the atmosphere, not overpower it—the complete opposite of the band at the Cerberus Club.
One guest, two guests, three guests, plucked champagne flutes off my tray as I moved through the crowd.
Then I saw her.
Tonight, she wore a dress that mocked the sunset. It was red at her shoulders and neckline and then fanned out into gradients of orange, gold, and pink. It shimmered with the slightest movement, and around her neck and dangling from her ears were big rubies. In this light her chestnut hair looked more auburn and it was twirled and bunched just below her ears in the latest bobbed fashion. Across those red, red lips she wore a pleasant smile, as a fat older gentleman with white hair and a handlebar mustache gestured animatedly. Her hand was threaded through Brocker’s arm and my chest heated at the sight of her touching the madman.
She must’ve felt my searing gaze on her, because it was then that she noticed me. Her smile faltered as those blue eyes locked with mine. The fire in my chest roared and I pressed a hand on my heart to quell it.
Swallowing, I tore my gaze from her. If I looked at her a second longer, I’d lose my composure and forget the plan entirely. Not to mention that I needed to avoid Brocker if I could. I hadn’t actually met the man face-to-face, but it was possible he knew what I looked like. Maybe through photographs or descriptions from his many monstrous henchmen that had been sent to capture Eris. Luckily, my saving grace was that he thought I was dead. Shot, and tossed over a boat in Lake Michigan. Even so, styled hair with a crisp uniform could only hide a dead man so much.
Once I wandered back into the crowd, I waited a few minutes, then went to the corner near the bar where waiters were mixing drinks. Jimmy was tending to the bar and doing a damn fine job, too. He gave me a tight nod then turned back to a fancy brunette to make her cocktail.
A minute later, Eris was standing in line for the bar, and I positioned myself to be just behind her.
“How are you?” I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t worry about me. Did you find the floor?”
“Yes, you were right. It was the eleventh. Everything is all set.”
The line to the bar inched forward and time seemed to slow down. I was hyper aware of h
er next to me, and all the things I still wanted to tell her but had no time to. It would just have to wait until next time. There would be a next time.
The band changed their song and Eris glanced back toward the crowd, where she must’ve left Brocker. “I should go.”
I caught her fingertips. “Join the crowd heading for the stairs and get out. Run, don’t look back.”
She finally met my eyes. They seemed to burn right through me. “Back in the hall closet, I forgot to tell you something.”
My brow furrowed. “What?”
She slipped her fingertips from my hold—“I fell in love with you, too”—and disappeared back into the crowd.
I wasn’t entirely sure how long it was before I could move again. And it took many steadying deep breaths to control the hot desire burning its way through me.
Half an hour later, the sun was gone and the view of New York City at night was even more breathtaking than the twilight hours. Lights lit up the skyline in shining orbs that made the city look like a sea of stars on earth.
I scanned the crowd until I found Eris and Brocker at the bottom of the stage’s steps. He was whispering something in her ear and her gaze was downcast, her jaw tight. With a nod, she climbed the steps.
The music of the jazz band faded and then went silent. A hush fell over the crowd as she walked up to the mic and the spotlight swung on her. Her dress glittered and standing there in the golden light she looked like a candle’s flame.
The piano cut through the silent ballroom. Calm, slow notes wove through the air like a breeze through the buildings of Chicago. It swept you up and carried you away. Then it was joined by a cello, then a sax and clarinet.
And then, finally, the voice of a siren.
Eris opened her mouth and began to sing one of the most popular songs on the radio. The song that seemed to have the whole country ensnared.
“I’m just a woman, a lonely woman. Waiting on the weary shore.”
Magic wove through the very oxygen with her song. People seemed to forget how to breathe.
“I’m just a woman who’s only human. One you should feel sorry for.”
Her crimson lips brushed against the mic as she wrapped delicate fingers around its metal stand. Those blue eyes slipped closed as she stepped further into the spotlight, singing with all her heart. All her soul.
“Am I blue. Am I blue. Ain’t these tears in my eyes tellin’ you…”
I thought she would skip over them, finish the song and not sing them period, but Eris sang her own lyrics.
“And now I stand here and pray…that you do as I say…”
I winced as someone pinched my arm. Rita.
Right. The children.
With one final glance at the siren who had the whole room in rapture, I exited the ballroom and tore off my waiter jacket, sprinting down the hall to the elevator where Erickson and Jimmy were already waiting.
There were two guards in front of the door, easily taken out by Erickson’s stingers that he let fly from the center of his palm the moment we stepped off the elevator.
In addition to his manticore talents, Erickson was also a very skilled yegg. Complicated safes were his specialty, so it took him no time at all to pick a simple lock and open the door. Once he did, Rita gasped.
It was exactly as Eris had described. Rows of hospital beds each containing a child, aged between eight and fifteen, hooked up to an IV of glowing blue liquid.
“How are we even going to move them?” Rita asked. “They won’t be able to walk.”
“Just focus on getting those IVs out,” I ordered, already running to the first bed.
There was no time to be gentle. I slipped the needles out of their arms and moved from bed to bed. There was no time to bandage, so trickles of blood oozed down their thin, emaciated arms. Kids groaned, some of them rubbed at their eyes, but most of them barely stirred.
When we were halfway done, Jimmy yelled at me from two rows over. “Better get the smoke going, Clemmons!”
Cursing under my breath, I dashed out of the ward and down the hall back to the elevator. I took it up to the floor right below the ballroom where I knew there was an air vent. Barreling past staff, I came to the metallic grate hanging on the wall. Taking one deep breath, I summoned the heat in my chest…and blew.
Smoke poured from my mouth and nose, curling through the vent in thick dark gray plumes. I kept blowing and blowing, pouring as much smoke as possible into the air ducts until it would fill the vents with it. I pictured the smoke seeping through into the ballroom where people would smell it, see it, and then think the worst.
I didn’t have to wait long to hear the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs.
Hearing all those feet—the power of a thundering crowd—an idea hit me like a pug’s right hook.
Despite most of the guests being half-seas over, they were still able-bodied adults. At least half of them had to be strong enough to carry a child. I charged toward the staircase, threw open the door and roared at the surging crowd.
“HELP.”
It was the perfect cocktail of chaos.
The men—and some women—who were young enough, strong enough, and sober enough to carry a child rushed out of Brocker and Kurtz Holdings and into the street. In the midst of the confused guests rescuing children from what they thought was a burning building, I caught glimpses of Brocker’s henchmen. They merely watched, helpless, as America’s Royal Court escaped with their arms full of Brocker’s treasure.
The only possible way the panicked mob could’ve been stopped was if the doors were locked, but by the time the staff realized what was happening, it was too late. Everyone milled around in the street where police cars and fire trucks waited.
All part of the plan. With regular law enforcement present, there was less chance of a monster rampage. Brocker wouldn’t dare reveal his involvement with monsters in such a public setting.
During the entire ordeal—the mess of bodies and crying children—I looked for her.
Eris, where are you?
Just when I was sure I’d scanned every face coming out of the building, an explosion went off, forty-five stories up.
Red, orange, and yellow flames lit up the black sky. People gasped, pointing upward as the plumes of smoke mixed with the wispy clouds of the October night.
For the second time in my life, I wished I had my wings.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Siren
Under this single spotlight, for three long minutes on this one night, I am a monster.
The song flows out of me, restrained and sour and rageful. Terrible and unmemorable. Cheap and harsh as a glass of panther piss.
Keep singing, Eris.
Don’t.
Stop.
Singing.
When I opened my eyes on my last wavering note, the first thing I saw was a sea of faceless silhouettes. In the bright light of the spotlight, it was all I could discern. The nausea and fatigue that I sometimes felt when using my voice too much was worse than ever before, but somehow I remained standing. Maybe through sheer force of will.
Then movement caught my eye at the edge of the stage.
Brocker had climbed the steps and he was stomping toward me with murder in his eyes. My head still dizzy from my song dripping with magic, I could do little other than stumble after him as he jerked me off the stage and through the mystified crowd. Slowly, they came to, whispers erupting around us as the effects of my enchantment began to fade.
I couldn’t believe I’d done it.
Seeing Colt had breathed new life into me. New clarity. New strength. Night and day I’d worked with Marjorie, writing the new lyrics, rehearsing them, while simultaneously trying to control the magic in my voice. Frustratingly long hours went by as I spoke nonsense words, trying and failing to keep my emotions from bl
eeding through. We had to stop every few hours so I could take a break before I passed out from exhaustion that my magic brought, but then each time we went back to it, I felt just a little bit stronger.
Marjorie was my willing test subject, but by the time the morning came, she was a wreck of emotions, feeling every bit as tired and frustrated as I was.
“It’s not something that can be mastered overnight, Eris,” she’d said to me, wiping at the corners of her eyes. “It will take training.”
She was right. It seemed so simple, and obvious, but I’d never thought of my voice like that before.
Chorus girls, jazz singers—every singer went through some kind of vocal training. I’d never had the luxury of being trained. I’d relied so much on my power and simply followed the melody that I’d heard. But the vocal cords were muscles. They required tension, release, and coordination just like the muscles of an athlete.
Maybe it wasn’t so much about controlling my emotions as it was controlling the muscles that allowed the pearl’s magic to pass through. If I could learn to separate my real voice from the power of the siren’s pearl, would that give me the control I needed?
But that was for another time. Maybe in the future when I could walk free, without Brocker or the BOI chasing me, I could have normal conversations with people. I could finally, finally be heard.
Tonight, however, I needed that siren’s magic. And if it was attached to my voice, then I just had to warm up those muscles and give my best performance yet.
And if the entire ballroom’s enchanted silence had been any indication, I had succeeded.
Dimly, I smelled the signature scent of smoke wafting through the ballroom as Brocker hauled me through its doors. The crowd’s murmuring escalated to shouts of alarm. If I hadn’t been so worn out from using my magic to ensnare a ballroom full of people, I might’ve been able to tear from Brocker’s grasp and join the escaping mass. But I hadn’t expected to be so worn out. It was probably thanks to my night of practicing as well.