It felt wrong to spy into this part of Eva with Séverin so close to her. Gingerly, Laila pulled on her robe, then stepped out into the hallway and down the passage to the stair’s landing. Eva’s necklace vibrated with emotion, and the moment she touched it, the sensation of being hunted overwhelmed her, turning her pulse rabbit-quick with panic. Its most recent action had been last night, when Eva had removed it from her neck and concealed it in the palm of her hand after Séverin consumed the blood Forged drink. But there was a deeper memory within it. Laila closed her eyes, searching out the object’s truths—

A small, red-haired Eva twirling before a painting of a beautiful ballerina with identical hair. She was in a room full of paintings and statues.

“I want to dance like Mama!” she said.

“You will never end up like your mama. Do you understand, Eva?”

Even in the memory, Laila recognized the voice … Mikhail Vasiliev. The art dealer from St. Petersburg. An image of a portrait flashed through her head of a beautiful ballerina, Vasiliev’s lover who had killed herself after the birth of their illegitimate child. All this time they had thought the child was dead. They were wrong.

Laila remembered Vasiliev’s last words in the salon:

She will find you.

It was never the matriarch. It was Eva, Vasiliev’s own daughter.

Laila pressed the pendant harder, and the memories rushed forth—

A long, hot knife taken to Eva’s leg. Her shrill screams as she pleaded for them to stop.

“I can’t let you be like your mother. I’m doing this to protect you, child, you understand? I do this because I love you.”

Tears prickled Laila’s eyes … but it was nothing compared to the panic she suddenly felt when the memory changed. The memories before had been deep-seated … but this … this was within the past year.

“I know you want freedom, Eva Yefremovna. Do as I say, and I will give it to you. No more curfews, no more hiding, no more darkness. The Fallen House is depending on you.”

The pendant fell from Laila’s hand with a small, metallic chime. Too many thoughts raced through her head, but it was the sound that caught her attention. The Winter Conclave revels were said to go on for hours. It shouldn’t be this silent.

“You should have stayed in bed,” said Eva from the bottom of the staircase.

The other girl had changed out of her green ballroom gown to an outfit of a soldier. Slim, black trousers and a close-fitting jacket.

“How did you enjoy the doctor’s gift?” said Eva, advancing toward her. “In his mercy, he wanted to give you both one last night of pleasure. He figured that either you’d be too stubborn to go to Séverin, and I would have to do the honors of giving him one last night with you. Alternatively, I would have incited you to the point you would go to him on your own.”

Eva eyed her up and down.

“It seems I was successful. Well done, me.”

Eva pulled out a dagger. Laila glanced over her shoulder. She was too far from the door. She put up her hands, her thoughts clamoring together. The doctor? He was here?

“Listen, Eva. I understand the Fallen House may have promised you freedom, but we can help you—”

Eva’s eyes widened. “How did you…”

She trailed off, her gaze snapping to her dropped necklace. At that, Eva looked beyond Laila’s shoulder.

“You were right,” she said.

But she was not speaking to Laila.

Behind her, someone started to clap. Before Laila could turn, the person grabbed hold of her, pulling her against their chest. Eva lunged forward, grabbing her by the throat. Her ring talon dug into her neck.

“Be still.”

Laila’s limbs went numb. She couldn’t even speak. All she felt was a roiling sense of nausea.

“You must be wondering what the Fallen House wants with you,” said Eva.

“It’s the same thing your darling Séverin craves, my sweet muse, my divine instrument,” said a familiar voice.

Laila felt her arms yanked forward, her hands brought up to her face.

“Nothing but your touch.”

31

SÉVERIN

Séverin awoke to a cold bed and a panic that felt like a thunderstorm had taken root in his skull. Laila was gone. Of course she was gone. If he could, he would’ve cursed that blood Forging drink for unlocking him so thoroughly. He must have terrified her. He touched the empty space beside him. Every exquisite detail of last night burned through him. Including everything he’d said. Shame burned his cheeks … but then why did he remember Laila smiling at him, her laughter against his skin? Laila was many things, but not cruel. Pity wouldn’t have driven her to his bed. So then why had she left it so soon?

Séverin threw back the sheets, groping on the table beside him for Tristan’s knife hidden under one of his notebooks. The heft of the wooden hilt in his hand calmed him. He unsheathed it, staring at the blade and the thin, translucent vein in the metal where Goliath’s paralyzing venom ran thick. Perhaps more than the failure to protect Tristan was how he’d failed to know him fully. How could Tristan inflict hurt and give love in the same breath? How was he supposed to live knowing that all of this had been for nothing? The Divine Lyrics had never been there. He’d failed Tristan. He’d failed all of them, left them unprotected … and left himself unprotected too. What he’d done with Laila … he felt like a creature yanked from its shell, all exposed flesh and raw nerves.

Silence pressed all around, and … wait. Silence?

Dread grabbed hold of his thoughts. Séverin threw on his clothes, pocketed a couple of Zofia’s concealed weapons and Tristan’s knife, and then opened the door. A sickly sweet smell immediately hit his nose. Like blood and spiced wine. He crossed the stair landing. On one of the steps, he spotted a familiar necklace … Eva’s ballerina pendant.

Thinking of her brought a bitter taste to the back of his throat. She’d tricked him, and that mind Forging draught had turned him reckless, blurring the differences to show him who he wanted in his arms. Not who he had.

Far below came a strange scraping sound, like dry leaves on a road. Goose bumps pebbled his skin. The silence was all wrong. It wasn’t the intoxicated, full-bodied silence of a crowd passed out, but something more sinister. More absent.

Séverin kept to the side of the stairs. Immediately, a rounded shape met his eye. He stepped closer and his stomach dropped.

A person was sprawled out on the steps.

With a normal Order function, he would have assumed they were just passed out from drink … but this person’s eyes kept moving, roving back and forth wildly, his mouth frozen in an oval of panic. Paralyzed.

Séverin bent down, turning the man’s chin ever so slightly. A slight puncture wound marked his skin. This had to be an act of blood Forging. The paralyzed person—a white man in his late fifties—stared hard into Séverin’s eyes, silently pleading for help, but Séverin had no skill in blood Forging. And frankly, this man was not his concern. He cared about where Laila had gone; whether Zofia and Enrique were safe … and Hypnos.

As Séverin moved down the staircase and entered the atrium, he saw dozens of Order members slumped over, lining the frozen walls in neat rows. Scattered around them, the living animal-like treasure chests of the Order appeared as inanimate as rock, frozen just like their respective matriarchs and patriarchs. Hypnos was not among them.