The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)

by Roshani Chokshi

For Aman, who said: “Say something cool about me.” Nope.

In the normal course of things, she did not care for punctuality. Punctuality, with its unseemly whiff of eagerness, was for peasants.

If she arrived too late, she would invite rumors. Which were a great deal more pesky and unseemly than punctuality.

The ring’s power made her feel like a goddess cinched to human shape.

Her heel caught on her dress, tripping her. The ground did not rush up to meet her. But a knife did.

And though House Nyx would win, that artifact was going home with Séverin.

“You hid me in a minotaur? Why couldn’t Tristan make a hiding dimension in a handsome Greek god?”

“So it was either the minotaur or an Etruscan vase decorated with bull testicles.” Enrique shuddered. “Honestly. Who looks at a vase covered in bull testicles and says, ‘You. I must have you.’?”

“Still waiting on my thanks, you know,” huffed Enrique. “It took me ages to research and assemble that.” “It would have taken less time if you didn’t antagonize Zofia.” “It’s inevitable. If I breathe, your engineer is prepared to launch warships.” “Then hold your breath.”

Acquiring was what he called his particular hobby. It sounded … aristocratic. Wholesome, even.

After that, he’d offered his acquisition services to international museums and colonial guilds, any organization that wished to take back what the Order had first stolen.

“You’re doing it again,” said Enrique. “What?” “That whole nefarious-whilst-looking-into-the-distance thing. What are you hiding, Séverin?” “Nothing.” “You and your secrets.” “Secrets keep my hair lustrous,” said Séverin, running his hand through his curls.

She was not normal.

Sugar and flour and salt had no memory. Here, her touch was just that. A touch. A distance closed, an action brought to an end.

Oh, I also need a new drawing board.” “What happened to the last one?” Zofia inspected the icing bowl and shrugged. “You broke it,” said Laila. “My elbow fell into it.”

Laila shook her head and threw Zofia a clean rag. She stared at it, befuddled. “Why do I need a rag?” “Because there’s gunpowder on your face.” “And?” “… and that is mildly alarming, my dear. Clean up.”

“Don’t worry. You know these things take time. Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you something to eat.” Tristan shook his head. “Maybe later. I have to check on Goliath. I don’t think he’s feeling well.” Laila did not ask how Tristan would know the emotional states of a tarantula.

Enrique scowled as he held apart the bear’s jaws. “Remember when you said, ‘This will be fun’?” “Can this wait?” Séverin grunted through clenched teeth. “I suppose.”

“By all means, take your time. I love a good slow, painful death.”

“No need to seduce the thing,” cut in Séverin. “I’m appreciating it.” “You’re fondling it.” Enrique rolled his eyes. “It’s an authentic piece of history and should be savored.” “You might at least buy it dinner first,” said Séverin, before pointing at the metal edges.

Zofia, who never quite grasped how to find her way through a conversation, simply felt grateful someone could do the work for her.

“You’re covered in blood.” Séverin glanced down at his clothes. “Surprisingly, it hasn’t escaped my attention.”

Tristan barged into the room, his hands outstretched. “Look! I thought Goliath was dying, but he’s fine. He just molted!” Enrique screamed. Laila scuttled backward on her chaise. Zofia leaned forward, inspecting the enormous tarantula in Tristan’s hands.

“Please take it away, Tristan. I beg you.” “Aren’t you happy for Goliath? He’s been sick for days.” “Can we be happy for Goliath from behind a sheet of glass and a net and a fence? Maybe a ring of fire for good measure?” asked Enrique.

Tristan made a face at Laila. Zofia knew that pattern: widened eyes, pressed-down brows, dimpled chin, and the barest quiver of his bottom lip. Ridiculous, yet effective. Zofia approved. Across from her, Laila clapped her hands over her eyes. “Not falling for it,” said Laila sternly. “Go look like a kicked puppy elsewhere. Goliath can’t stay here during a meeting. That’s final.”

“Must you creep up on us like that? I didn’t even hear you come into the room!” “It’s part of my aesthetic,” said Séverin, dangling a Forged muffling bell.

“This is nothing we haven’t seen before,” tried Séverin cheerfully. “Remember that underwater Isis temple?” “Distinctly,” said Enrique. “You said there wouldn’t be any sharks.” “There weren’t.” “Right. Just mechanical leviathans with dorsal fins,” said Enrique. “Forgive me.” “Apology accepted,” said Séverin, inclining his head.

“Think about what this could mean for us. It could bring us everything we wanted.” Enrique dragged his palm down his face. “You know how moths look at a fire and think, ‘Oooh! shiny!’ and then die in a burst of flames and regret?” “Vaguely.” “Right. Just checking to be sure.”

“He can’t. He doesn’t have you.” When Laila’s eyes widened, he caught himself and gestured to the whole group: “All of you.” “Awww…” said Enrique. “What a sweet sentiment. I shall take it to my grave. Literally.”

He paused in front of Séverin. “Remember…” And then Enrique hooked his thumbs together and made a strange waving motion with his hands. “You’re a bird?” “A moth!” said Enrique. “A moth approaching a flame!” “That’s a very alarming moth.” “It’s a metaphor.” “It’s an alarming metaphor too.”

Séverin hadn’t forgotten. The day he said that was the day he realized some memories have a taste.

“I don’t want to be their equal. I don’t want them to look us in the eye. I want them to look away, to blink harshly, as if they’ve stared at the sun itself. I don’t want them standing across from us. I want them kneeling.”

“I had to do something to pass the time while you were making eyes at my historian.” “Wait. I was bait?” demanded Enrique. “You’re flattered.” Maybe a little.

You’ll like working with me, I promise! I’m fabulous at parties, have excellent taste in menswear, et cetera, et cetera,”

The moment he spoke her name, Wrath backhanded him. He did it over and over, demanding that he say “Kahina” until blood replaced the fairy-tale taste of his mother’s name.

“Your imagination hurts you far worse than anything I could ever do,” he once said.

I PROTECT YOU. One promise. One promise, and he couldn’t even keep it.

Tristan placed his hand over Séverin’s, stacking their scars before saying: “I protect you.”

Nothing was invincible but change.

To be fair, you would have done the same.

He was haunted. Not even by people, but the phantoms of sensations—firelight limning the outlines of his fingers, a cat with a fluffy tail who napped at the foot of his bed, orange blossom water on Kahina’s skin, a spoon dipped in honey and smuggled into his waiting hand, wind on his face as he was tossed into the air and caught in warm arms, words that sank into his soul like growing roots steeped in sunshine: “I am your Ummi. And I love you.”

He wished he didn’t know what he had lost. Maybe then every day wouldn’t feel like this. As if he had once known how to fly, but the skies had shaken him loose and left him with nothing but the memory of wings.

As he walked out the door of his study, a phantom ache curled between his shoulder blades. As if they craved the weight of wings.

Laila, who moved like a sylph among them, watching them with those eyes that said she knew their worst secrets and still forgave them.

He could sense all of them, and it terrified him.

Enrique whined, “Séverin doesn’t think I’m pretty.” “Séverin, tell him he’s pretty,” said Laila. Séverin crossed his arms. “Zofia, tell him he’s pretty.” Zofia didn’t look up from her tea. “I am personally undecided, but if we’re assessing based on objectivity, then according to the principles of the golden ratio, also known as phi, which is approximately 1.618, your facial beauty is mathematically pleasing.” “I’m swooning,” grumbled Enrique.

“Wait. Do you want me to break into the exhibition?” “Of course not—” “Thank God.” “—Zofia is going with you.” “What?” said Zofia and Enrique at the same time. “I work alone,” said Zofia. Enrique rolled his eyes. “Most women kill to be alone with me.”

It was a faint scent … one he’d only caught when his lips had skimmed down her neck.

Being loud in one life allowed her to be quiet in others.

No distraction was worth death.