There, the young heir of House Nyx, Hypnos, drained a champagne flute and motioned for another. Tiers of pearly macarons in the shape of a giant swan marked the east exit.
He lifted the flute to his lips, not sipping, but once more noting the ballroom’s layout and exits just over the glass rim. At once, a glass from the champagne chandelier floating above him broke off and sailed into his hand. The corner of his lips tipped into a smile as he raised his fingers. And though House Nyx would win, that artifact was going home with Séverin. Light bidding would take place, but everyone suspected House Nyx had fixed the round to win the object.
The mask belonged to the House Kore courier who, if Séverin’s dosage had been correct, was currently drooling in a lavish suite at his hotel, L’Eden.Īccording to his intelligence, the object he had come here for would be on the auction block any moment now. It was a tangle of metal thorns and roses gilded with frost, Forged so the ice never melted and the roses never wilted. While the auctioneer launched into a long-winded speech about the hallowed and burdensome duties of the Order, Séverin touched his stolen mask. Ten years ago, the Order had declared the line of House Vanth dead. Séverin, last of the Montagnet-Alarie line and heir to House Vanth, whispered its name anyway. The long scar down his palm silvered beneath the chandelier light, a reminder of the inheritance he had been denied. Séverin raised his hands, but refused to clap. Once more, we give thanks and honor to the two Houses of France who agreed to host this spring’s auction. As you know, the objects of this evening’s auction have been rescued from far-flung locales like the deserts of North Africa and dazzling palaces of Indo-Chine.
“Thank you for bearing witness to this extraordinary exchange. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Order, our spring auction is at its close,” announced the auctioneer. The other two symbols had been carefully lifted out of the design. The symbols of the remaining two Houses of the French faction hemmed him on all sides. He fought not to look at the walls, but failed. On the frescoed ceiling, dead gods fixed the crowd with flat stares. Séverin glanced at the clock: two minutes left.Īround him, the masked members of the Order of Babel whipped out white fans, murmuring to themselves as they eagerly awaited the final auction bidding.
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