Anouk’s fingers sank into the thick pelt while the others argued.
“That’s impossible,” Beau said. “Where did Mada Vittora find a wolf in Paris?”
“I don’t know. The zoo? She was a witch. She could have walked through the portal elevator in Castle Ides straight into the Black Forest and trapped one there.”
“So what does it mean that one of us is a wolf?”
“What’s a wolf if not a traitor? You know what Mada Vittora used to say about wolves: Wolves in the wood together are good; wolf on its own, expect blood and bone. It means we can’t trust one of us.”
“Yes, but which one?” Anouk said.
Beau and Cricket looked at her as though they’d almost forgotten she was there.
“Well, it’s Hunter Black, of course,” Cricket said. “Isn’t it obvious?”
But Anouk kept eyeing the different pelts uneasily. It was impossible to tell. None had Beau’s tan skin or Cricket’s curly hair. Any of the pelts could have belonged to any of them.
“I guess so,” Anouk said.
But it didn’t feel right. Hunter Black was decidedly detached, yes—the very picture of a lone wolf. Except for his fierce devotion to Viggo. Wasn’t that more like a loyal hound clinging to his master’s heels?
Then her eyes fell on the burlap sack on the ground.
“Beau?” Her head started to feel too light. “Where did you get that bag?”
He toed it with his shoe. “It was in the mistress’s closet.”
She approached the sack warily. “On the floor? Or on the shelf?”
“I don’t know. The shelf, I guess. Why? Isn’t it the same one we used to catch the Corpus crows?”
Anouk shook her head. “No. It’s not just any bag.” She crouched down and touched the sack slowly, as though it might bite. She should have recognized its almost imperceptible shimmer when Beau had first grabbed it to carry the pelts. But she’d been unable to think about anything other than Mada Vittora.
The minute her hand grazed the fabric, it changed, and she jerked her fingers back. It shrunk and folded in on itself, burlap darkening and growing glossy and smooth, silver buckles pushing out from the seams, a snaking black leather strap slithering from the opening.
A beautiful, perfect Hermès purse.
“It’s her oubliette.”
Beau jumped backward and almost knocked over a chair. “That’s it? You’re certain?”
“It shimmers, regardless of its form, if you know how to look at it.”
Cricket reached out for it, but Anouk held it back protectively.
“Come on,” Cricket urged. “There could be all kinds of things in there we need. Money. Gold. Spells we could trade for!”
“It isn’t that simple.” Anouk opened the bag and turned it upside down. Nothing came out. Cricket’s face fell.
“It’s empty? That’s impossible.” Beau grabbed the bag and pawed through the space.
Anouk took the bag back from him. “It isn’t empty, but its contents are protected. We’ll need a witch to truly open it.”
Something outside caught Anouk’s ear. A certain familiar rev of an engine. She went to the window. The sun was rising above the tall buildings, casting the city in bright, clear morning light.
The rev came again.
A motorcycle pulled up in front of the apartment, and the driver shut off its engine. The gunmetal color winked in the sunlight. Two figures were on the back, helmets shading their faces. But Anouk didn’t need to see their faces. Only Hunter Black’s coat.
She spun away from the window. “They’re here.”
Beau swore as he looked down at Hunter Black’s motorcycle. “We have to run.”
“Where?” Anouk said. “We’re five stories up and there’s only one staircase.” She went to the door and pressed her ear against its peeling paint. The other residents were up and about now; she heard the canned sound of a radio and the clatter of pans. The downstairs neighbor must be making breakfast.
And then footsteps on the stairs. Two sets.
She recoiled from the door. “They’re coming.” Her hand went to her necklace, needing the soothing touch of Luc’s coin but finding nothing, just skin and bone and an empty chain.
Gone. In the bottom of the fountain.
She dropped her hand. “We have to hide.”
“Are you mad?” said Cricket. “Hunter Black was literally made for this. To hunt. He’ll find you in seconds.”
But Anouk was already searching the room for possible hiding places. She and Beau and Luc had played hide-and-seek whenever Mada Vittora was away and they’d had the full run of the townhouse, a place where entire ballrooms were hidden within closets, staircases led to floors that shouldn’t exist, cupboards opened to secret tunnels.
But Cricket’s apartment was tiny and sparsely furnished and not magic in the slightest, leaving only a handful of options: Under the bed. Beneath the kitchen sink. In the closet.
“She’s right. We don’t have any other choice.” Beau threw back the shower curtain, eyed the tub. “I parked the Rolls-Royce around the corner, and they didn’t see us come in, so they might not know that we’re here.”
Footsteps thundered up the stairs. One flight down now.
“Zut.” Cricket started to throw the scattered pelts into a pile on the floor. “We have to hide these too. Help me.”
The musty smell of pelts and stomp-stomp-stomp of approaching boots made Anouk lightheaded. “The closet. It’s the only place big enough.”
The three of them dragged the pelts to the closet and threw them over the messy piles of clothes just as the footsteps stopped short on the landing.
Someone knocked, hard.
“Quick, get in!” Cricket whispered, herding Beau and Anouk toward the closet.
“The oubliette . . . where is it?” Beau hissed. “If Viggo sees it, he’ll recognize it.”
Anouk scanned the room. “There, beneath the table.” She snatched it up just as Viggo jiggled the knob from the outside, trying to force his way in. Beau threw himself headfirst into the forest of Cricket’s clothes, sending the coat hangers clattering, and Anouk tumbled in after him.
“Cricket!” Viggo yelled. “Open the door!”
Anouk fought against coats and towels and the musty pelts that sent up a scratchy cloud of dust and made her eyes water. She stifled a cough as Beau eased the door closed.
Darkness.
She heard the little puffs of her own breathing. Clothes rustling as Beau moved closer. Pounding again on the front door.
“Let us in, Cricket. Now!”
Cricket hit the music again.
The low beats blared, pulsing in time with the thumping of Anouk’s heart. She pushed a dress out of her face. Her eyes were starting to adjust. The closet door was made of thick frosted glass, the kind that was easier to see out of than into. She could just make out Cricket’s blurry figure crossing the room.
She heard the lock slide open and the clatter of a chain.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” Cricket demanded. “It isn’t even ten o’clock in the morning.”
Anouk pretended she was made of stone, trying not to move an inch. A belt was swinging from a nail, clanking softly, and she cringed and prayed for it to stop.
“You changed your locks,” Viggo accused. Anouk could partially make him out through the frosted glass, his unmistakable slouch and fair, mussed hair. He raised his hand, jingling his set of keys. “This apartment isn’t yours. It’s mine. You can’t keep me out.”
“What do you want?” Cricket spat.
“Are you alone?” Viggo was leaning close to Cricket, nearly pinning her against the kitchenette sink, while Hunter Black’s dark shape set to prowling around the room.
“Of course. Who else would be here?”
“I thought you were supposed to be out of town. A mission in Dordogne.”
“Yeah, well . . . I was, wasn’t I? Just got in a few hours ago.” The music increased a few notches in volume. Cricket must have hit the controls again. Maybe she’d heard the clank from the closet. “Why? What’s this about?”
Viggo didn’t answer right away. Anouk kept her eyes on Hunter Black’s shape moving beyond the frosted glass like some underwater monster as he stalked over to the bathroom. She heard the bathroom door open. The clatter of tin rings as he drew the shower curtain back.
Beau’s hand found hers in the darkness; his fingers squeezed hers protectively.
“Hey!” Cricket called. “Tell your trained monkey to keep his hands off my stuff. What does he think he’s going to find under that bed, his missing couilles?”
It was just a matter of time before Hunter Black looked in the closet. The smell of their pelts was nearly choking. Anouk squeezed Beau’s hand back.
Cricket was right. They had to look out for one another. No one else would.
Viggo said something too low for Anouk to hear, but Cricket answered sharply, “Beau and Anouk? No, Beau hasn’t been by in weeks, and Anouk? I didn’t think that little bird was allowed to leave her cage.” She paused. “Why, what happened? Is it Mada Vittora?”
Anouk tried to ignore the memory of blood on her hands, wiped clean now, though a little was still caught under her fingernails.
“She’s fine,” Viggo answered. His voice drifted to a higher octave. He’d always been a bad liar. “In fact, she wants to see you. Tonight. She’s summoning all four of you to the townhouse for a meeting. No exceptions.”
He tapped her computer and the music stopped.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Anouk could practically hear her heart beating.
“And Luc?” Cricket asked sharply. “Where’s Luc? I haven’t heard from him in days.”
“We don’t know where he is,” Hunter Black said. “No one does.” His hand went to his neck, where, just last week, Luc had had to give him stitches. If Hunter Black had an affinity for any of the other beasties—and Anouk wasn’t convinced that he did—it would be for the boy who sewed his wounds and never breathed a word about it.
Viggo shot him a nasty look, like he’d revealed too much. “Don’t worry about Luc,” Viggo purred, turning back to Cricket. “Pack a bag. You’ll need to stay at the townhouse for a few days. Maybe longer. Things are about to get dangerous in the city. There’s soon to be changes within the Haute. You’ll need my protection.” He took his time putting his hands all over her things, her teapot and candy bowl and the black-cat clock and bright yellow headphones. “You’re so alone out here. What’s it been, four years? Not a lot of time to learn how the world works.” He slowly wound the headphone cords around his palm. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be safe.”
They were too far from the closet for Anouk to make out much. Blurry movement of Viggo setting down the headphones and reaching for Cricket’s shoulders.
“Get your fingers off me,” Cricket hissed.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry like this, love.”
Anouk squeezed her eyes closed. She hated seeing this. Hated the feel of Hunter Black prowling around, his footsteps so calculated and slow, and hated that possessive note in Viggo’s voice. Love? No, what she was listening to wasn’t love. Viggo wasn’t capable of loving anything, as far as she had seen. Not even his own mother. He must have gone to the townhouse. He must have seen the Mada’s body. And yet here he was, pawing at Cricket while his mother’s blood emptied into the Persian rug. He was probably already planning how he could take over her empire. If Anouk had to guess, that’s what this supposed meeting was about.
Hunter Black’s shadow moved away from the bed. He turned toward the closet.
Beau’s hand squeezed hers, hard, as though he feared being ripped apart.