door we’d come through warily, wondering if bootleggers were scheduled to arrive.
“Now, everyone, pick up those pens and the slips of parchment paper,” Ward said. “This is a silly game, a game of competition, to get the blood stirring before tomorrow. The items we’ll be bidding on are not available to the general public. They do not come with the proper paperwork. They come with strings, notoriety, and a grave responsibility. This is your chance. One chance for a piece of rarity you cannot live without.”
Freya stepped close to me, and our arms brushed together.
“On this slip of paper, truly decide what it is you crave. And be honest with how much you are willing to spend on it.”
Ward nodded at us to go—the guests were scribbling frantically as if they’d known for weeks what they wanted.
“What should it be, Birdie?” I asked quietly.
Freya took the slip of paper and the pen. She scrawled The Love Letters of George Sand and Alfred de Musset. I nodded my agreement.
“And how much?” she asked lightly.
One of the last cases Gregory and I had worked together had been busting an illegal art auction in an old shipping container in Brooklyn. It had held absolutely none of the flair of this Empty House circle—it was merely interested buyers who didn’t give a shit about authentication papers. It was motivated by greed, less by the desire to own a piece of history. The prices, however, had been staggeringly high.
I took the pen, wrote $1 million underneath.
“A paltry amount,” Freya mused.
I winked at her—which I’d never done in my entire life. She flushed.
Ward flipped his hat around. “In here now.”
We folded our slips, dropped them inside. The other guests were brazenly staring at me as they dropped their slips in. Thomas wouldn’t meet my eye. Roy dropped multiple pieces of paper, even though the directions had only been for one.
“Do you want to know what I wrote on mine?” he asked, sidling over to us. He looked bleary-eyed and flushed.
“Why not?” Freya shrugged.
“I wrote down where the fuck is Bernard?”
Freya’s eyes flew to mine. “Bold choice, Roy.”
“Just because he’s the leader doesn’t mean he controls us,” he said. “That’s what I most desire.” His words dripped with disdain. “If that man has been caught, I think it’s only appropriate to let us know so we don’t all go to fucking prison.”
Roy’s voice was slightly raised now, and the other guests were definitely listening. Ward was methodically opening each slip of paper, but I caught his lip curl at Roy’s words.
“How very interesting,” Ward cut in. “You all want the same item.”
“We all want you to tell us where Bernard is?” Roy asked sarcastically.
Ward chuckled darkly. “Oh, Roy. Any rancher can tell you there are strong members of a pack of animals. And weak members. Guess what happens to the weak ones?”
Roy, swaying a little, mumbled into his drink but kept quiet.
“Now,” Ward said sharply, “as I was saying, every single person in this room is vying for the same item. An item with a lot of attention right now.” He shuffled through the slips of paper and began reading. “$4 million, $875,000, $1 million, $1.5 million, $6 million, $550,000.” Another chuckle. “Your pre-bids are all over the map, ladies and gentlemen.”
I could see the point of this exercise now—if you were truly serious about bidding on a rare manuscript, would you hear the highest bid and try to out-bid it? Were the highest bids only mind games? Was Ward even reading the correct numbers or lying?
Which brought up an even more persistent question—who was the new seller and who stood to profit?
“Six million is preposterous,” a man grumbled from the corner.
Ward merely grinned. “That’s what everyone said last year. And yet I remember the highest bid for the rarest item standing at ten million.”
There were murmurs in the room, a few smug glances, some anxious posturing.
“Remember this is merely information to help you decide how far you’re willing to go tomorrow night. We won’t be the only ones there. Masks will be on. Lips will be sealed. Trust is the priority. Sleep on it, my friends, and come tomorrow prepared to pay for what you want.”
The waitstaff were rapidly cleaning up. Time was up in Philosopher’s Hall. It was already almost 11:00 p.m.
“We’ll give these folks another few minutes, and then we’ll all be exiting together.”
The guard opened the secret door, back into the tunnel, and I remembered what Freya had told me. I can’t go