they will. The longer she stayed in their minds, in any capacity, the better.
After the concierge unlocked the suite’s door, he gestured for both to enter as he gathered Kallia’s bag. Aaros staggered in, stopping dead center in the common room. “Zarose.”
Small chandelier lights hung from above, matching the dark golden furniture and thick curved metal of the glass side tables and stools. Even the walls were lined with patterned gold, delicate filigree designs embroidered all over like gilded borders of playing cards. Kallia devoured each detail, breath held. She’d grown up in the luxury of Jack’s estate, but there was something much more precious to this space. Even more than her greenhouse.
This suite at the Prima, she had earned. It was hers.
“I hope this room will do,” the concierge said before bowing out, swinging the door quietly behind him.
“Will this do?” Aaros parroted, slack-jawed. “Hell, this suite alone is bigger than all the places I’ve ever been in my entire life put together.”
“Start getting used to it.” Kallia clapped a hand over his shoulder. “Stick with me, and we’ll be richer than kings and queens.”
Aaros couldn’t even muster a witty reply, only an amazed shake of his head. “You’re truly willing to share this with me? Why?… I don’t even know your name.”
Kallia had withheld her name, waiting to see how the audition would unfold. She hadn’t realized how valuable an asset Aaros would be, or how soon she’d grow to like him so much.
Another lie stood at the edge of her tongue, another life. She could take a new name and banish everything from before. But the idea of erasing herself, her name, pulled at her. Her name wasn’t owned by the House or by Jack—it belonged to her, and no one else.
“If this arrangement is going to work between us, start by closing your jaw before it falls to the floor,” she ordered, crossing her arms loosely. “And please, call me Kallia.”
The night was cold, but young. The club, alive and well.
The master watched on as masked patron after patron entered the doors, foolishly hoping she’d be among them. But she would never come back like this—in a flood of people looking to lose themselves and revel in the loss. More than usual lined up outside the door that night, but the master instantly knew which top hats to stalk.
The boisterous group swaggered into Hellfire House, eyes devouring every inch of the club. A few pointed and gaped as though they’d entered an impressive dream; the majority regarded their surroundings as if it were a sumptuous gift for the taking. Even beneath their white masks, newcomers always made themselves known.
This group all but hooted and hollered their way to the bar. Other guests parted a path for them.
Frowning, the master followed. He vanished into the crowd before swiftly reappearing behind the bar, in a new slick suit and a mask to match. Like he’d been there all this time, cleaning glasses with a small rag. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
“Champagne,” the blond man among them crowed over the music. “As many bottles as you can spare!”
The master procured only one from the bed of ice below, setting it on the black marble counter to unwrap the jade-green foil. Without warning, the entire top popped off, but the master had already conjured a flute to catch the fizz spilling over.
Laughter instantly roared around him.
“Good reflexes,” the same man said smugly, foil crumpled in one hand and cork in the other. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”
The master gritted his teeth, but continued filling glasses. “You’re a magician?”
“We all are,” another one in the group stated with a grin. “We’re competing in a grand magician’s show. Spectaculore.”
As he disposed of the empty bottle, the master hid his sneer. “Sounds very exciting.”
“Oh, it will be.” The man with the tallest top hat reached for a flute. “And it’ll be over terribly quick when I wipe these gents across the stage.”
Someone knocked his top hat off, spurring another round of raucous laughter and shoving of shoulders. They began regaling their skills and repertoire of tricks, as though the best magician could be proven by boasts alone.
“Let’s have a toast.” The blond man lifted his glass, eyeing the others. “To knocking you boys out of the ring. Cheers.”
The magicians booed and cackled, drinks sloshing as they punched the blond man in the back. The master wiped down the surface, counting the rungs of his brass knuckles as he counted his breaths, close to throwing them