While Petra went after the flowers, Luc started rifling through the supplies on a bar cart. “Mint . . . lime . . . it’s for cocktails, not spells, but one must do what one must do.” He pulled out bundled mint and cherries and citrus rind, snatched a pawn from one of the chess sets, used it as a pestle to grind everything together, then emptied the concoction into a cocktail shaker. The sound of rattling ice jangled Anouk’s nerves.
She combed her fingers softly through Rennar’s sweat-soaked hair. “Hang on. You’ve survived centuries. You can pull through another few hours.”
He coughed, and the gashes wept more black-streaked blood. She ripped off a scrap of his cloak and dabbed it around the glass shards. Rennar couldn’t die. She needed him. She rested a hand gently on his chest, felt his heart struggling to beat beneath her palm.
Luc peered into the cocktail shaker and muttered a prayer. “This is either a delicious potion or a terrible martini. Here.” He thrust the shaker at Petra, who sipped it hesitantly.
Her eyes lit up. “Delicious potion, definitely. Do I detect a trace of amaretto—”
Anouk smacked the empty shaker out of Petra’s hand, and the room filled with the smell of mint and cherry. “Petra, cast the spell! He’s dying!”
“And we’re certain we need him alive?”
“Petra!”
Petra rolled her eyes but set to work. She rested a hand a few inches above Rennar’s heart and whispered. There was a gravitas to her movements that hadn’t been there before the Coal Baths.
Rennar suddenly let out a sharp cry. His eyes moved rapidly back and forth beneath closed eyelids, but he didn’t wake.
Petra frowned. “The smoke is tangled up with some kind of dark magic I’m not familiar with. I can’t expel it.”
“But you’re a witch now,” Anouk said.
She rubbed the back of her neck uneasily. “For less than a week! Give a girl a break. I just figured out what I want my moniker to be. I don’t even have an oubliette yet. That leather bag is on loan.”
Anouk tried not to let her frustration show. It wasn’t Petra’s fault that Rennar was dying amid the billiard balls. And yet, if Rennar died, she’d never be able to keep her promise to the Goblins, and the Coven would spread . . .
“Silly little things,” said a voice at the doorway. Queen Violante strode into the billiard room with that easy grace, eyeing Rennar on the table.
“Violante!” Anouk exclaimed. “The smoke . . . it’s in his body. It’s poisoning him. Can you—”
“Of course I can.” The queen gave a pensive frown. There was arrogance there, as Anouk was used to from the Royals, but also a wrinkle of concern. Rennar had alluded to a history between them. Anouk could only imagine. Decades traveling the world together, enchanting waves to rise and fall at their beckoning.
Anouk ran her finger over her lips. She still tasted the champagne Rennar had served her.
“Move aside,” the queen said emphatically.
Anouk, Luc, and Petra took several steps backward. From the leather seats, Hunter Black and Viggo watched. Anouk tossed a billiard ball from one hand to the other anxiously. Violante picked up the spilled cocktail shaker and sniffed at it.
“Who made this?”
Luc’s hand snaked toward the ceiling.
“It’s good,” she said begrudgingly. She eyed his baron’s crest and then let out a harsh laugh. “For a beastie, you pass well as a Royal. Was that you who absconded to the coat closet with the Minaret girl?”
Luc thrust his thumbs through his belt loops, turning a little red.
Queen Violante tipped up the glass to drain the remnants. She considered the taste, supplemented Luc’s elixir with her own powder, and then began to whisper. She sang, more than spoke, the Selentium Vox. The billiard ball went still in Anouk’s hand. She’d never heard anyone pronounce the Silent Tongue like that. She knew what an opera was but had never heard one; Beau sometimes sang show tunes while he washed cars, but angelic wasn’t exactly the word to describe his voice.
The smoke began to work itself out of Rennar. His skin rippled and his body buckled, convulsing until Anouk was afraid he’d break the table, and then he suddenly eased back with a strange sigh as ribbons of smoke curled from his ears and mouth. Queen Violante pitched her voice upward and the smoke pooled itself tidily into the empty cocktail shaker, then she quickly screwed on the lid, trapping it. She leaned over Rennar’s body and traced a long fingernail over the bridge of his nose, inspected his eyes and gums for
any lingering trace of smoke. Her fingers seemed to know every dip and rise of his face.
“He’ll live.” She signaled to Luc. “You. Potion-smith. When he wakes, he’s going to be weak. Give him fresh blood from that one.” She jabbed a long fingernail in Viggo’s direction; he rested a hand on his hip and snorted. “Oh, sure, drain the witch’s boy.”
But if he thought he’d get sympathy, he was wrong. Luc started digging through the bar cart for a sharp knife.
Anouk pressed her hands together and stepped toward the queen. “I don’t know how to thank you—”