The Gilded Wolves

by Roshani Chokshi

  “Technically, Goliath is a tarantula,” said Zofia.

  She was beaming in Tristan’s direction.

  Hypnos propped himself up on his elbows. “What’s the difference…”

  “Now you’ve done it,” sighed Laila.

  “Well, mygalomorphs—” started Tristan, only for Séverin to clap his hand over Tristan’s mouth.

  “He’ll tell you later,” he said tiredly.

  “Later,” repeated Hypnos. “Like … at tea? Tomorrow?”

  Séverin smiled. “Why not.”

  In the catacombs, more voices joined the din of the Sphinxes pawing through the detritus, searching for the House-marked items.

  “We should get out of here,” said Séverin. “Leave the cleanup to the Order.” He looked at Hypnos. “Which means you.”

  Hypnos scowled. “And soon, you. Don’t look so damn smug.”

  Séverin wanted to snatch that response straight out of the air and hold it tight … Soon he would be a part of the Order. House Vanth would be dead no longer. And the Order, the same people who had denied him, would be begging for his help.

  Enrique held the Ring of House Kore in his hand. He gave it to Hypnos.

  “Don’t take all the credit.”

  “I couldn’t if I wanted to,” said Hypnos. “Those Sphinx probably saw it all.”

  But he smiled even as he said it.

  “Let’s go home,” said Séverin.

  Around them, the world had fallen into a semblance of peace. The skeletons, once animated by the essence force of Roux-Joubert and his dead associate, had returned to their place of rest. Roux-Joubert writhed on the stage, sobbing and howling. He crawled forward, trying to grab Séverin’s ankle, but he shook him off.

  “You took it from me,” rasped Roux-Joubert.

  Séverin ignored him. The Order would deal with him. The six of them trudged back toward stairs that led out of the catacombs.

  Séverin could hardly believe it. They’d fought the Fallen House and survived. The matriarch of House Kore would witness what had transpired, and, with a well-placed word from Hypnos, they would come to L’Eden and administer the test of two Rings. House Vanth would be restored. Why couldn’t the five of them do this forever? Plus Hypnos—six of them.

  So many things blurred through Séverin’s head at that moment. He thought about the pale mask and the mystery of the doctor. He licked his lips and thought he tasted the remnant of Laila’s not-kiss. He risked a glance at her and realized she was already looking at him, her dark eyes wide, color flushed on her cheeks and down her neck. Séverin looked away first. There was too much joy to take in. The sound of Enrique and Zofia squabbling over whether or not the key to unlocking the Babel Fragment had been mathematically based or symbology based.

  “—impossible to detect without locating the center of the logarithm spiral!”

  “Okay, but after that. That was me! Why can’t we share credit fifty-fifty?”

  “If you would like to divide this up statistically, I am entitled to seventy-five percent.”

  “Seventy-five?”

  Laila smiled, occasionally smoothing Tristan’s hair from his forehead even as he fussed and protested.

  “I’m hungry,” sighed Enrique. “A bone-in steak would be perfection.”

  The others gave him strange looks. He looked around the catacombs and shrugged.

  “What? I’m hungry. What about you, Tristan? What do you want?”

  “This,” Tristan said quietly. “Just this.”

  PART VI

  From the archival records of the Order of Babel The Origins of Empire

  Master Emanuele Orsatti, House Orcus of the Order’s Italy faction 1878, reign of King Umberto I

  I think the greatest power is belief, for what is a god without it?

  33

  ENRIQUE

  Enrique opened a gift box sent from Laila. Nestled inside a swath of inky silk lay a golden wolf mask, one that left the lower half of his face free. The mask had been expertly Forged, and the short, gleaming hairs bristled, as if touched by an invisible wind. Enrique half wondered if the second he put it on, he’d start howling. Tucked behind the mask was a short letter from Laila:

  For the Palais’s full moon party tonight … may it be the start of a new phase for us all.

  He grinned despite himself. Tomorrow, Hypnos and the matriarch of House Kore would come to the hotel and reissue the inheritance test to Séverin. Everything was changing. He could almost see it in the air, like the afterburn of the sun pressing against his closed eyes.

  All the more reason to celebrate.

  Yet, he couldn’t leave behind what had happened in the catacombs. A week had passed, and yet every night, he jolted awake, the stench of something burning in his nose … the silk sheets beneath his hand feeling like damp, bone-studded dirt. According to Séverin, the Order had already begun their interrogation of the caught Fallen House members, and there was another object the group had been searching for: an ancient book known only as The Divine Lyrics.

  Enrique rummaged through the papers on his desk, ignoring the latest rejection letter from La Solidaridad and the hasty invitation to tea from the Ilustrados … something about the name of that title nudged at the dark of his thoughts. But then the clock struck, and he let out a curse. He could search later.

  For now, he had a party to get to.

  Enrique tied the mask’s ribbons around his neck and entered the hall. The carriage would be waiting for them downstairs, and if they got there early enough, he might have time to eat an entire bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries. Just before he got to the staircase, a familiar silhouette made him stop short. “Don’t you have your own house?”

  “Hello to you too,” huffed Hypnos. “As a matter of fact, I have procured a permanent set of suites in L’Eden. I imagine I’ll keep seeing more of you anyway.”

  “You’re like a plague.”

  “What was that? I’m all the rage?” Hypnos cupped a hand to his ear, then grinned.

  Enrique rolled his eyes.

  “Well, I have to stay here. On official Order business. It’s my duty as the patriarch of House Nyx.”

  From the other side of the hall, Zofia emerged, dressed in her usual black leather smock and a tight-fitting cap that let out a single curl of candlelight hair. Wherever Zofia went, she carried that laboratory scent with her, as if she were always faintly burning. It was beginning to grow on him.

  “Tell me you’re not wearing that to the Palais party,” said Hypnos, horrified.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Why not?” asked Hypnos. “We’re all celebrating!”

  Zofia grimaced. “I have work—”

  “Oh posh,” said Hypnos. “Join us! Just change out of whatever that is you’re wearing, and we can go! Feast upon the offerings of the town! Pour out libations to life itself!”

  “What about your attire?”

  “What’s wrong with my attire?” Hypnos asked, plucking at his outrageous velvet suit. The collar had opened at the throat, and Enrique remembered how his pulse had leapt that first time they had met. How Hypnos’s fingers had coasted down his chest.

  Enrique shook himself and turned to Zofia. “Come out with us, phoenix. Your work won’t go up into flames if you take an evening off.”

  “Very true,” said Hypnos. “Besides, remember how we decided to be friends?”

  Zofia glowered. “Please do not suggest that we are now going to sacrifice a cat to Satan. It’s not even Wednesday.”

  “Friends,” he said, ignoring her comment. “May go on outings. To the theater. Or concerts.” He glanced at her smock. “Although one might suggest less ascetic apparel. Should you decide to join, we will be waiting here.”

  Zofia huffed and turned on her heel without comment. Enrique watched her go, feeling the slightest pang. He understood how she felt. Shaken, still, by what happened in the catacombs. Eager to concentrate on anything but her own thoughts.

  “
I think everyone could use a distraction from last week,” said Hypnos. “You especially.”

  Enrique looked up, startled at how close the other boy stood. He had only just noticed. Around them, the lights of the hall had dimmed. The only illumination came from the gilded baroque patterns along the wall. Hypnos smelled of neroli and jasmine, the scent more concentrated at the base of his throat—Enrique could see a slick swipe where the other boy must have applied the pomade.

  “Perhaps you’re in need of convincing?”

  “Unless you have a treasure trove of jewels and undiscovered Forged instruments, I am not sure what you have to offer,” joked Enrique.

  “Well, there’s always this.”

  Hypnos bent down and kissed him.

  34

  ZOFIA

  Zofia looked at the dresses covering her bed. It seemed as though someone had melted a rainbow atop her duvet—rich, nearly edible looking colors covered every inch of it. Laila was to blame.

  Yesterday, Laila had left a trail of cookies leading from her laboratory to her bedroom. When she opened the door, she saw a wardrobe filled with gowns of pale lilac and dove gray, rich sable and gold-streaked chestnut.

  “Voilà!” Laila had said, delivering a low bow.

  “What?”

  “Your new wardrobe! I stole your measurements a while ago and had these commissioned. You can even wear them underneath that butcher’s smock you call a uniform.”

  Zofia had taken a couple steps forward, lightly stroking the silk. It was soft and cold beneath her hands. She liked silk far better than she liked other materials, which Laila had laughed at. Who would have thought the engineer would have the most expensive taste?

  “Until when?” asked Zofia.

  “What do you mean?”

  She’d always had to return the gowns she wore for acquisitions. Zofia was used to this. Even in Glowno, she and Hela had only one fine gown to share between them.

  “They’re yours,” said Laila. “For the keeping. And wearing. Which means you must actually wear them.”

  Hers. Zofia let out a breath. The gowns were worth far more than her salary, and yet, with so many to choose from, she could even send one to Hela. The thought warmed Zofia’s face. What did she say to someone who had done something like this for her? “Thank you” was inadequate. She needed to parse apart the moments that had led her here. She glanced at the floor where a bitten cookie lay on a tray.

  “You lured me here with a path of cookies.”

  “Who said it was a path? It could have just been artfully strewn cookies. You made it a path by following it, and assuming it had any intention.”

  “I—”

  “I know.”

  And that was all she needed to say.

  Now, Zofia ran her hand across the dresses. She reached for a gown that Laila had described as “blue as the heavens.” Once she had clasped all the buttons, she evaluated her reflection. Her hair looked like a cloud of snow. Her eyes were blue. That was all she really noticed. Looking at her reflection for more than a minute at a time was excruciatingly boring. Zofia turned away to slip on the ivory gloves. She pinched her cheeks a couple times—the way she had seen Laila do—and then headed for the door, her heartbeat thundering in her chest.

  She’d never done this before, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. All her life, she’d felt far too analyzed to willingly put herself in people’s line of sight. But maybe that could change. She had Laila and Enrique to thank for that. With them, she never felt as if every sentence was a labyrinth to navigate. Séverin was a little more difficult. He often said only half of what he meant to say, according to Laila. Hypnos, on the other hand, said all he meant to say, but Enrique had told her she was only to take half of it seriously, which made processing his sentences a bit of a chore. With them, she did not feel as if there was a part of her missing. It made her feel brave, to wander into this strange terrain as she did now where she was no different from anyone around her. That perhaps she was enough … that her company could be desired and sought out just like anyone else’s.

  Ahead of her, the lights of the hotel’s hallway had dimmed. Down the grand staircase, she could hear the sounds of a violin and a pianoforte. The vaulted windows overhead revealed a clear night sky decorated with an immeasurable number of stars.

  When she got to the end of the hall, Zofia stopped short. Enrique and Hypnos had not moved from their spot. Their eyes were locked on each other, heads bent low in conversation and then—just as suddenly—not in conversation.

  Zofia could not move. Cold spread through her, swirling from the new, embroidered heels Laila had hid next to her work boots and climbing up her body and her new dress and her ivory gloves that had already rumpled and fallen past her elbows. She watched as Hypnos’s hand slipped around Enrique’s neck and he deepened the kiss. She was reminded of all that she could not detect. All that she could not do. She could storm into a room, but she could not command its attention through charm. She could face herself in the mirror, but she could not spark imaginations with her face.

  Zofia stepped back. She should stay in the world she knew.

  And not reach for one she did not.

  Slowly, she turned on her heel, careful to tiptoe softly so that no one heard or saw her. In her room, she stripped off the blue dress and gloves. Then she put on her rubber gloves and donned her black smock.

  She had work to do.

  35

  SÉVERIN

  Séverin hooked his walking stick around the carriage’s velvet curtains, scanning the damp streets. The Palais des Rêves stood in the distance, casting curves of amber light that feathered into the night like wings. If Laila were here, she would say the lights looked like a blessing of angel feathers. He grinned. If that were true, it was no blessing. It was a declaration. Only Paris would rip out seraph wings and string them onto its buildings as if to say one thing:

  This was no place for angels.

  He rapped the top of the hansom with his cane. “Arrêtez!”

  Beside him, Tristan jerked awake.

  “We’re here already?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  Tristan hadn’t been sleeping well in the past week. Sometimes, Séverin found him curled up in the greenhouse, a pair of pliers in his hand, surrounded by unfinished terrariums … including one creation where an array of crimped jasmine petals looked unnervingly like milky bones set into the earth.

  “Where are the others?” asked Tristan.

  “Probably inside,” said Séverin.

  Enrique had been giddy to attend the full moon party at the infamous Palais, and Séverin would’ve bet money he’d try to get there early just for the desserts.

  “Don’t forget the mask,” said Séverin.

  “Oh, right.”

  Each of them had been given a wolf mask. He’d wear it, but he drew the line at baying at the full moon or whatever festivity the Palais had planned.

  Tristan jumped out of the hansom, then paused, patting one of his jacket pockets.

  “Forgot I had this,” he said, drawing out an envelope. “The factotum asked me to give it to you. He said it’s urgent.”

  Séverin took the letter. “Who’s it from?”

  “Matriarch of House Kore,” said Tristan, his mouth twisting.

  He hadn’t quite warmed to the idea of Séverin regaining his House after the inheritance test was reissued tomorrow. Every day, Tristan had to be assured that nothing would change … and every day Séverin reassured him. He wasn’t going to ignore him like last time.

  Séverin stuffed the letter in his pocket. “She marks everything urgent.”

  It was beginning to get annoying. Invitations to tea? Urgent. Queries about his marital status? Urgent. Thoughts on the weather? Urgent.

  * * *

  TONIGHT, THE PALAIS felt like a devil’s dream of heaven, full of golden wolves and gleaming teeth and stars white as milk. Inside, the Palais had been redecorated for the full moon festivities.
Waitresses darted between tables, trailing burning seraph wings. The obsidian floor looked like a void flecked with stars. Patrons in wolf masks sat in velvet chairs, tossing back their liquor and howling with laughter.

  Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by gilded wolves. And for whatever reason, it made him feel perfectly at home. Wolves were everywhere. In politics, on thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war. Not that Séverin was complaining. It was just that, like other wolves, he wanted his share.

  Tomorrow, he would have it.

  At the center of the room near the stage, Enrique and Hypnos waved them down. Séverin made his way over and sank into the armchair.

  “Where’s Zofia?”

  “She decided not to come for some reason,” said Hypnos.

  The corner of Enrique’s mouth tugged down for an instant, but he quickly hid it in a smile.

  “More strawberries for me,” he said, reaching for the silver bowl full of sweets. “Also. You’re late. You’re lucky L’Énigme’s performance got moved to a later slot.”

  “What?” snapped Séverin.

  He’d timed their arrival precisely so they would miss her performance. When Laila danced, he felt like everyone else in the room when they watched her. As if his soul’s salvation balanced on the turn of her wrist, the lift of her chin. He couldn’t go through that again.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Enrique shrugged. Even behind his mask, Séverin thought his gaze was a little too knowing. “Ask her yourself.”

  Too late, he saw her walking toward them. Unlike the others, she wore no wolf mask but a white headdress fixed with several white peacock feathers. A dress the color of moonlight clung to her. Heads turned when she walked. She smiled radiantly, and for good reason. According to Hypnos, they might have a lead on the ancient book she’d been searching for these past two years. She might finally have a way out of Paris.