Arthie wouldn’t commend herself until the ledger was in her hands. The Festival of Night was a weeklong event beginning with an auction, the proceeds from which the Athereum gifted to the public to better their image. They were the good vampires, the high-class, enigmatic, impressive ones.
She wasn’t fond of how the living treated vampires, but she loathed the Athereum’s distaste of lesser vampires even more.
“Speaking of a full house,” Matteo said, rearranging his decanters and casting Arthie a look, “you won’t be able to enter the Athereum armed. Not even with a renowned pistol such as yours.”
Renowned and, what Matteo wasn’t aware of, special. She drew her pistol and shifted it in the light. Gold pooled into the dark abysses of its filigree. Flick was staring; Laith pretended he wasn’t. But they didn’t have to worry about Calibore being seen or getting them kicked out.
“This?” Arthie asked, pointing it at him. “He’ll dress up nice enough for the occasion. Just like the rest of us will.”
“You’ll be recognized either way with that hair, you know,” Matteo said.
Arthie shrugged. She was counting on it.
“Why do you go through the trouble of dying your hair?” Flick asked.
“What’s the first thing people notice about you?” Arthie asked.
“My skin.”
“And what’s the first thing you notice about me?”
“The hair,” she replied without missing a beat.
“Exactly,” Arthie replied. Everything else, like the brown of her skin and the disparities that stemmed from it, came second. “And then there are the whispers. Her skin’s like caramel, they say. Or tea steeped too long and doused in milk. Strange that it’s food they see when it’s anything different than the norm, no? It’s not much, but I like giving them something else to talk about.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, darling, I think you look dangerous even with that fairy floss hair,” Matteo said, returning to his seat. “Now please put that away.”
She spun the pistol around her trigger finger, and Matteo’s eyes bugged out of his skull. She wondered if he was recounting the previous night, when Jin had shot him. Arthie dropped a glance at his exposed chest. Spotless, not a bruise or blemish marred his creamy skin. He had to have drunk quite a bit of blood to heal so quickly.
Matteo cleared his throat, and Arthie looked up to find him watching her. He winked.
And Arthie had no way to explain why she’d been staring at his naked chest without alerting the rest of the crew to that fact. She decided to keep her pistol out a little longer.
“No weapons, khalas. No one’s risking anything besides the clothes on their person,” Laith said. For once, he and Matteo were in agreement, and it was clear the vampire didn’t like it.
“Oh, we can omit those too, if you’re concerned,” he simpered.
“I would prefer to omit you altogether,” Laith replied, then pressed his lips thin, looking irritated at himself for engaging.
Arthie holstered her pistol. She knew Jin didn’t like going in bare. He had as many as ten different tools on his person at a time, usually a lockpick or a knife, and always, always his umbrella.
“Don’t tell me you have no trouble setting foot in the Athereum unarmed,” she said.
“Darling, gleefully reading the occasional obituary is the most violence you’ll ever see me partake in,” Matteo said, not the least bit apologetic.
Laith sighed, but Arthie supposed there was skill involved in abhorring violence. He had to make use of other methods to stay safe.
Like make a name for himself as a painter.
“What about the Athereum wall? We have to get past that before we can be concerned about the front door,” Flick pointed out.
Laith’s gaze drifted across the buildings Matteo had begun sketching along the lower half of the paper beside the Athereum, giving them a view of the street. “We can scale it.”
“No one in a city of crooks builds a wall without precautions,” Arthie said. “It’s fortified and impenetrable. You can’t climb it.”
But Laith was not without pride. “I was trained to master walls far more difficult and cover distances just as great.”
“He’s right, he definitely has the look of a cultist,” Jin said, biting into the apple Laith had given him.
“It is not a cult. Being a hashashin is an art. Our creed shapes bodies into blades, though none can ever be as great a killer as our kingdom’s crown prince.”
“Your crown prince is a murderer?” Jin asked.
“At least he’s up-front about it,” Flick pointed out. “What leader isn’t a murderer?”
Laith looked insulted. “He is a changed man now.”
Arthie attributed Laith’s self-assurance to his training. To whittle a man into a blade required stripping away fear and misgivings and apprehension, leaving ample room for pride to bloom.
Matteo cleared his throat. “Regardless, the wall won’t be of concern.”
“We’re going to blow it up, are we?” Jin asked, tilting his head. “You know, I didn’t think that was your style.”
“I forged for someone in possession of dynamite,” Flick suggested, looking a tad too excited at the idea. “I’m sure we can arrange something with him.”
Matteo frowned, as if realizing for the first time that he was in a room full of people unlike him. “What? Goodness, no. The gates will be open for the event. The Festival of Night is as much a display of the Athereum’s generosity to the public as it is a party. Press will be there, possibly even adoring fans—enough of a crowd for us to blend in, both through the gates and in the gardens.
“What I’m more concerned about is this guard here.” He tapped at a spot above the left side of the entrance, where a chunk of the roof had been cut for a dormer balcony. “It extends to a mezzanine inside, designed so he can survey both the gardens and the Athereum foyer. He’ll spot Flick heading into the archive room.”
“A single guard for both inside and out,” Laith said, studying the sketch. “I can take care of him.”
“These are Athereum vampires. Don’t get cocky,” Arthie said. “I’ll scope it out first.”
“Wonderful. And who are we stealing from again?” Matteo asked.
“Did you miss the past hour or so?” Jin asked.
“Oh, but who within the Athereum are you stealing from?”
Arthie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t see—”
“A vampire by the name of Penn,” Laith cut in.
“Penn,” Matteo repeated slowly, his gaze narrowing on Arthie. “As in Penn Arundel, head of the Athereum?”
She refused to meet his eyes, pulling his sketches toward her and running a finger over the building rising to the Athereum’s left. It was beautifully rendered. Matteo’s work was much like him, timeless, refined, and sensual in a way she didn’t have the right words for.
“The head?” Flick asked. “Does that make the job harder?”
“Not exactly,” Matteo said, reminding Arthie of last night. He knew far more about her than he should.
“Why not?” Jin asked, and Arthie felt his eyes on her back, no doubt trying to decide if she’d known this beforehand. “He’s the head of the Athereum. Seems like someone forgot to mention an important detail.”
“Head of the Athereum means he’ll be involved in the charity auction,” Matteo pointed out. “He won’t be guarding his office.”
Jin continued watching her for a good long minute.
“Well, good.” Flick leaned closer. “Isn’t it funny how the Athereum shines even beneath the Old Roaring Tower’s shadow?”
“Ah yes, the peakies’ greatest invention yet: a very, very big clock,” Jin announced, finally looking away.
Laith scowled. “Invention? It is a minaret they adapted to include a clock. What is the purpose of a tower if not to magnify a voice?”
“To magnify the passage of time,” Arthie replied, tracing the tower as it tapered to its knifepoint peak. “Unfortunately for all of us, those with voices in this fair country are loud enough.” Arthie rolled up the plans and pulled on her cap. “Let’s scope the place.”
Matteo went to a box on the side credenza, where he pulled out a pair of supple gloves and tinted spectacles. He took Jin’s umbrella and propped it open while Jin sputtered a protest. “It is a perfectly gloomy day for a stroll.”
“It is a good day for a stroll,” Flick agreed.
“Ivylock Street will be clear of the lunch crowd right about now,” Arthie said, pocket watch in hand because there wasn’t a single clock in the house. Matteo regarded the little instrument. Vampires weren’t fond of noting the passage of time. Arthie supposed it was an unwelcome reminder that they were here forever, cursed to watch generations rise and fall, destined to be forgotten.
The clock tower’s position beside the Athereum was a cruel joke indeed.
“Don’t frown,” she simpered. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this job is done.”
He slipped on his tinted spectacles. “You certainly know how to motivate a man, darling.”
On their walk back after surveying the Athereum, Arthie began putting together the first stages of her plan. Jin announced he was about to die of hunger, and Flick looked ready to keel over, so they stopped at a coffeehouse.
“A coffeehouse instead of Spindrift?” Matteo drawled. He sat under the shade of the awning and set Jin’s umbrella across his leg, tipping his head back to the skies.
Arthie wondered how often he left his house during the day. It was excessively gloomy today, as most of White Roaring’s days tended to be with its smog-filled skies, but not every day was like that. Not only did direct sunlight harm vampires, but it would have been impossible for Matteo to have kept his secret this long, as the undead didn’t cast shadows. Someone would have noticed.
“What will your patrons think when they see you here?” he asked.
Arthie shrugged and pulled out a chair for herself. People were always hungry, and hungry dogs were never loyal. “Our patrons come to Spindrift because they wish to, not because we drive them there through ulterior means. Greed will get me nowhere.”
Spindrift had the best tea and a crew that brewed and baked the best in turn. If people wanted to spend their hard-earned coin on something inferior, that was fine by her. One can only learn from their mistakes.
“Morals,” Laith scoffed. “What of those secrets you collect? Do you pay for them?”
“I pay the same for Ettenian secrets as Ettenia has paid for its atrocities. Nothing,” Arthie said, her voice tight.
“You’ll find Arthie’s morals to be quite like the sea. They choose upon whom to enact their wrath,” Jin said as he disappeared inside the coffeehouse.
“So we’ve noticed,” Laith drawled.
He exasperated her, and she didn’t quite understand why. He seemed to enrage every part of her that her typical anger did not. It seared her chest, burned low in her belly. It confused her.
A waiter brought him a tray with a cup of coffee, a spoon, and a bowl of sugar.
“What do you think of Ettenia?” Flick asked him.
Laith gave it a moment’s thought. “It is industrial, crisp, and yet everything about it is bland. Especially the food.”
Arthie remembered very little of her life outside Ettenia. When she closed her eyes and dared to think of Ceylan, that place she once called home before she was thrown into a little boat and thrust out to sea, she didn’t think of fiery foods or the sticky heat or the lush foliage—she saw red. On her hands. Flooding the shore, dyed across uniforms, smeared on the leaders who had been held less accountable than a refugee on the streets.
Jin returned with a half-eaten pastry oozing raspberry jam dark as blood and a paper bag marked with the buttery imprint of a strudel. He peered at the teacup on a passing waiter’s tray and sighed. “Imagine falling in love with someone and learning they make tea the color of bone.”
As he finished the first of his pastries and sat down, Flick’s stomach growled like a beast. Jin folded the bag back on its crease with a frown and inched it toward the center of the table, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief monogrammed with a J. The corner was singed black. It had been years since the fire, yet he still clung to the hope that his parents were alive.
Arthie never shared in his hope—outwardly. She’d scoured the remains of his parents’ house and threatened enough officials to know the fire at the Siwang Residence was no accident. But until she had proof that they were alive and an actual lead to follow, she’d continue acting as if she didn’t believe they could have survived. Arthie wouldn’t give Jin more hope until she was certain. She knew what it was like to have that ripped away.
“Are you not having anything?” Laith was watching her as he piled two cubes of sugar into his cup and fed a third to his cat.
“I have very refined tastes,” Arthie said.
“You’re a snob, you mean.”
“Better a snob than someone mistaking sugar for flavor,” she replied.
A slow smirk curled the side of his mouth, and he made sure she was looking when he added a third cube into his cup, stirring it thoroughly before meeting her eyes and dropping in a fourth.
“Can’t blame me for needing a way to work with something so bitter.”
“Can’t make a choice without meeting its consequence.”
Laith lowered his gaze to her mouth to irk her further, then he sat back and set the spoon on the table.
“Our high captain seems to be keeping a close eye on you,” Jin mumbled.
“The way Flick can’t stop staring at you?” Arthie asked.
“If anything,” he said, folding and tucking his handkerchief away, “it’s because you terrify her, and I’m the only decent one around. You, however”—he gave her a look—“don’t forget that he’s a Horned Guard. Don’t stray from the plan.”
Arthie rolled her eyes. Him and his tieless club collar shirts and tender concerns.
“I’m serious, Arthie,” he said.
“As am I, more often than you, Jin.”
He left the paper bag on the table and pushed his chair back, nearly toppling over a young lady, who clutched the wide hoop of her skirt as she regained her balance. Her chaperone fumed before he saw the look on Jin’s face and decided he would rather live another day. Arthie hadn’t meant for him to get that upset.
“I really believed you were the more charming of the Casimirs,” Matteo remarked.
Jin slipped his hands into his pockets. “Oh, I live and breathe charm, vampire. Sometimes one needs a knife to drive a point home.”
Arthie ignored the weight of Laith’s gaze, left the table, and crossed the street in the direction of Spindrift. For whatever reason, she glanced back at the coffeehouse. But neither the high captain nor Matteo were there, only Flick, picking up the paper bag with a streusel Jin had left behind for her.