Bronze Gods (5 page)

“Are you asking about my financial status?” the choreographer asked.

“You don’t have to answer their questions.” The words came in a deep, near-strangled growl from the shadows in the doorway.

Shifting, Ritsuko glimpsed a tall figure in a black greatcoat, shrouded even indoors. The man wore the collar up around his face, almost like a highwayman’s cowl, and an actual masquerade mask covered the top of his face. In the dimness, his eyes resembled black holes, bottomless and impenetrable.
This must be Leonidas the younger.

“We’ll get to you soon enough,” Ritsuko told him. “As I advised Miss Wright, our questions are pursuant to an official investigation, and if you decline to cooperate, a magistrate might construe it as belligerent obstruction of justice.”

“By all means, carry on then,” the Royale owner said, sounding amused. “I’m only belligerent and obstructive on Tuesdays.”

“Don’t believe him,” Miss Wright put in. “He’s always belligerent and obstructive. Just ask him about replacing the fixtures in the lobby and see for yourself.” But her tone was gentle, and Ritsuko saw that she had some affection for the man she teased.

“See if I attempt to protect you again,” Leonidas muttered, slipping away as quickly as he had come.

“We’ll need to speak to him later,” Ritsuko said.

“Good luck finding him. I swear this place was built on a labyrinth. But you were asking about my financials, I believe?”

“I won’t need them yet,” she answered. “But we do need a list of everyone you’ve hired in the past six weeks.”

“Why?” Ah, she’d reached the point at which Miss Wright could no longer give out information blindly.

“A girl has gone missing,” Mikani interjected. He’d stood when Leonidas had entered: he remained standing by the door, leaning heavily on his cane. By his weary expression, the exchange had been taxing . . . and informative. “We believe she may have ties to the theater.”

“Oh, of course. I have the work assignments somewhere.” In a lithe movement, Miss Wright leaned forward over her leg, sorting the papers on her desk.

Ritsuko nudged her partner, indicating a cosmetic case that sat in the bin of props. After receiving a
go-ahead
nod, she went to work quietly, opening the case and collecting a sample. The case was in full sight, with a clear connection to their investigation; they needed no special dispensation beyond their discretion in pursuing the investigation. But they wouldn’t find out what they needed to know for several days, unless she charmed Higgins a bit more. Oddly, she didn’t altogether mind the prospect.

“Here.” Miss Wright proffered the roster, and Ritsuko took it, skimming the names before surrendering it to her silent partner. “Am I being accused of something?”

“If I thought you guilty, Miss Wright, you would be bound and on your way to HQ.” Mikani spoke absently as he perused the list. He hesitated, frowned, and glanced up. “I apologize if I seem brusque, but we
are
pressed for time.”

Ritsuko considered hitting him. “I second the apology. Sometimes, Inspector Mikani forgets that citizens greatly ease our way with information they provide.”

“Do you know Cira Aevar? She’s a House scion who disappeared recently.” Mikani flashed the black-and-white image in a heart-shaped frame.

Miss Wright shook her head. “The name doesn’t ring any bells, and I can say with certainty that she’s not part of my cast. It’s possible she may have been hired as an assistant by one of the department supervisors, though.”

Ritsuko could always tell when Mikani was finished with . . . whatever he did. He rose, paced a few impatient steps in the small room, then patted his pockets for a cigarillo that she wouldn’t let him smoke in here anyway. He seemed to realize as much; his hands fell quiet, but his face didn’t lose its faint discomfort, like he had one leg caught in a trap.

“We need to ask around, then. Who would have access to your makeup kits? Do you maintain your own, or do you keep them in the theater?” Mikani was nearly out the door, asking over his shoulder.

“Anyone. We’ll be using theater facilities, all across the board,” Miss Wright said. “Perhaps you’re unaware, Inspector, but I’ve never staged a show. Choreographed, but not staged. So I don’t have anything that’s my own, besides the script.”

“Excellent. We shall start with the interviews, then. There may be more questions later . . . for now, however, we’re finished. Thanks for your time.”

“I appreciate your assistance, Miss Wright. I wish you much success with the show.” Ritsuko stood, shaking hands with the woman before stepping into the wings.

Once they left earshot, she smiled and elbowed him. “You remembered your manners. I’m proud of you.”

“A result of your sterling influence, no doubt.”

“I can only dream of such grandeur. What did you get from them?”

His dark blue gaze met hers, filled with resigned amusement and pain in equal measure. It was quite unfair that a scoundrel like her partner should enjoy lush, curly-tipped lashes that would’ve looked too feminine if not for his sizable nose and his stubborn jaw, constantly in need of shaving. By the look of things, it had been three days since he had bothered to make use of his razor.

“She wasn’t hiding anything.” He motioned toward the nearest knot of people, a dozen dancers watching with suspicious eyes. “So far as I could tell, she’s trying to put on a show, and that’s all. So if Cira’s disappearance is connected with the Royale, she’s not a part of it.”

“And from her champion?”

Mikani frowned. “He’s an odd one. Definitely in pain; though whether it’s emotional or physical, I can’t be sure. He’s surprisingly good at blocking, so I only received trickles from him.”

“And that’s unusual?”

“Very,” he said, sounding troubled. “People only learn to shield if they have something significant to hide.”

Ritsuko lifted one shoulder, philosophical. “We’ll do it the hard way. Interview them all, one by one, and see if anyone knew her.”

“Why don’t you take the technical crew? I’ll talk to the dancers.”

His innocent expression made her laugh despite the weight of the investigation. “Are you sure it’s not too great a sacrifice? So many young women, so little time.”

“I’ll endeavor to bear up under the burden.”

“Excellent. When we’re finished, I’ll meet you down front.” So saying, she descended, immersing herself without delay in a sea of men, most wearing bad haircuts, spectacles, or both.

Around them, the rehearsal went on as scheduled, except for those they were questioning. Miss Wright ignored their presence as best she could, opting to focus on the dancing. By the time she’d conducted a dozen interviews, Ritsuko was heartily tired of being propositioned by the crew, as they assumed her presence in the workforce meant she was a woman of loose morals and “game for anything,” as one hopeful put it. A stern look and a harsh word quieted most of them down, though she had to show one man her restraints to remind him she was a CID inspector.

The fourteenth person she spoke to finally offered some useful information. This woman was the head of the costuming department, older and painted as if that would disguise her years. Her red lip rouge had smeared onto her teeth, but Ritsuko observed the fluttering grace of her hands as she spoke.

“Oh yes,” the woman said. “I know her. I hired her three weeks ago to help with costumes. Dab hand with a needle and so eager to please. If I gave her two sheets and a length of rope, I do believe she’d try to sew me a ball gown.”

So she worked at the Royale.
The occasional donation would be acceptable by House standards, but bronze gods forbid she turn her hand to actual work. Pleased with the break in the case, Ritsuko soldiered on. In the end, six people recognized Cira Aevar’s photo. They all agreed that she was a quiet girl who seemed to derive pleasure by proxy: watching her costumes onstage. Everyone liked her, no one had seen her in days, and all were concerned about her.

Ritsuko was completing her last interview when Mikani approached. “This is Mr. Gideon. He’s managing lights . . . and he says Cira was a costumer on the last show he worked, too.”

Helpful revelation, that. At least we know Miss Wright’s production wasn’t her first foray into the workplace.

“Did you know her well?” Mikani asked.

“I’m afraid not. As I was telling Inspector Ritsuko, she kept to herself. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“Thanks for your time.” Ritsuko turned to Mikani, drawing him away from the curious cast and crew. “Did you finish the dancers?”

He arched a sardonic brow. “Must you be so lewd? I’m only a mortal male.”

“You are incorrigible.” Only Mikani could make her laugh with such an inappropriate remark. Anyone else would receive the icy death stare she had perfected over years of clawing her way up the hierarchy.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“More than.” As they walked out together, she glimpsed a swirl of movement overhead, fabric, perhaps, from the reticent owner. “Why do you suppose Cira went to work in the theater? She didn’t need the money.”

Somber for once, Mikani replied, “For love. Why else? And I suspect she died for it as well.”

CHAPTER 4

T
HE NIGHT SMELLED OF DAMP WOOD AND DISTANT SMOKE.
Earlier that evening, a conversation with Aurelia’s mother had unsettled her enough that instead of seeking her bed afterward, she’d wandered into the garden maze behind the Acheron Club. From beyond the stone walls that encircled the property came sounds of passersby, those with lives less complicated than her own. There was an inviolable air about Aurelia as she paced; she’d once been told she resembled a nun at prayer, but the likeness was superficial. Aurelia Wright believed only in herself.

After all, when you’re sent into exile, you have only yourself.

She certainly couldn’t depend on her family. Her beautiful, cool, remote mother, who didn’t understand fear of madness, probably never had a nightmare.
I wish you would see someone.
So easy, so predictable that counsel, but, of course, Aurelia was no longer even permitted within the confines of the main house. For the crime of working at what she loved, she had been banished from the complex, forbidden to see her relatives or use the family name. Her mother had broken the rules of exile by arranging that furtive dinner, but Aurelia came away feeling as though she’d disappointed her mother yet again.

By refusing to see a specialist and declining to come home.

“I don’t want to know if there’s something wrong with me,” she’d protested. “If I’m mad.”

Longevity took some people that way. Despite the gift nature had given their bodies, their minds were not equipped to deal with the sheer volume of memories. Years, after a certain time, became burdensome. Aurelia feared to know if her mind had begun to give way beneath the weight, for there was no cure; there were probably other explanations for the occasional bad dream and the sense of foreboding that had plagued her recently. As she wound through the twists and turns of the maze, she wished she could be sure she was imagining the sense that someone was watching her.

Not at the moment, however. Her father’s club was safe; the Acheron Club was a private establishment that catered exclusively to gentlemen. Food and service, cards and companionship—it was an escape from their wives, daughters, and responsibilities, where they could smoke and act as if they hadn’t a care in the world. It cost more than most men would earn in a year to buy a membership, and the manager, Hargrave, only sold so many new vouchers. It was a way of keeping the riffraff out.

She hadn’t wanted to live here initially, but like most of her father’s arguments, his reasons were too compelling to ignore. He’d whispered to her of kidnappings and lack of privacy and reminded her that in a normal building, people would notice too much about her and begin to talk. It would attract attention he knew damned well she didn’t want. In the end, she caved, though after her official exile, she’d had little choice. His offer of rooms had presented a safe solution to her dilemma, and she did love the maze. The hemlock hedges had offered solace more than once, a place to pace away her cares.

Just then, she had a surfeit of them, between the stumbling show, Leonidas’s increasing paranoia, the sense that she was being watched, and pervasive loneliness. Nobody had ever warned her that pursuing her dreams could cost her everything. At least, not until it was too late.

There came a noise nearby, or something less than sound—more an impression. A frisson along her spine whispered that someone else shared her space. Chills rose on her arms, for she’d had that impression more than once, coming home late from the theater. That feeling had never arisen here. She’d told herself it was nothing, an overactive imagination, but it hadn’t stopped her from glancing over her shoulders, listening for an echo of a careless footfall, the movement of a shadow that shouldn’t exist.

Tonight had been no exception.

Now, apparently, the danger or delusion had followed her home. Heart thudding in her ears, she called out, “Is anyone there?”

“Such a question is often offered. Human nature, I believe.” It was a man’s voice, soft and sibilant, as if sand slid against silk.

Aurelia shuddered. There was art in his voice, flavored with an accent she found hard to place. Now she recalled myths of mazes, maidens, and the dark creatures to which they were sacrificed. If she possessed a grain of good sense, she would walk back the way she’d come, avoiding the owner of this voice at all costs.

But he couldn’t be the silent stalker she had sensed before; otherwise, why announce his presence when he had so successfully eluded detection ere now?

“I was not calling out to God,” she said quietly, moving in what she judged to be his general direction. “But to you, whoever you are.”

“Alas, I cannot claim a divine aspect. I am but a traveler, come to the end of my journey, perhaps. Such is writ where I cannot read it.”

With the slow grace of opiate dreams, the man stepped into sight. Above, the moon hid her face behind a wall of clouds, and the stars were no more than tiny dots of light, seen through a wispy veil.
Not
only
a traveler,
said her quiet self.
Though that is true, as far as he has spoken.
It did not reassure her, for there were many ways to lie, and she was familiar with most of them.

With a long, narrow face, he was not handsome, and something in his bone structure suggested that the veneer of civilization ran thin. Impeccably groomed raven hair and a trimmed goatee softened some of the sharpness though he still possessed shades of the potentate. Tall but not gaunt, the stranger emanated power from the tailored cut of his coat to his manicured hands.

“Either your feet have trod this path before, or you had need of refuge,” she returned, concluding her study.

“Either, or,” he agreed. Careless and languid, he stopped three paces distant, giving her a smile, ivory against olive skin. “Fortune has smiled upon me that I behold such beauty. And how shall I address you?”

The formality of his manner told Aurelia he was very old indeed, even if his face did not agree with his eyes. An ancient part of her soul thrilled to life, recognizing his fey strength. He might be full Ferisher, the way she felt in his presence. But no, they were gone. Those who had not interbred with the immigrant population had passed from sight and were now lost spirits, unable to touch the world that once belonged to them unless they were called through various rituals.

He drinks the light.
Her nerves jangled as if she stood on the edge of a great precipice.
And he speaks in riddles, frosted with flattery.

“In the dark, I daresay you have little idea whether I might break mirrors with my face. But I will forgive your lapse this once. I am Aurelia.”

“I have sharper sight than most. And I should stand by my words against any challenger.” His gaze slid from her face as if reluctant.

“I dislike being praised for a merit which was none of my doing.” Her smile was a bright, fleeting thing.

“Call me Theron, should you choose to address me. What do you name this place, then?” His attention settled back on her, light as a shadow, and as revealing.

“This is the Acheron Club. Do you realize you’re trespassing?”

“Ah.” His gaze rested on her still, her pallor reflected back to her in his eyes, and he ignored the question. “Do you often wander this maze, Aurelia?”

She arched a brow. “That answer depends on why you ask me.”

“I ask that I might know.” Apparently sensing her growing impatience, he added, “If you are here often, you might direct me to the exit.”

“You found
me
, easily enough,” she murmured, “and moments ago, you boasted excellent sight. Thus, I doubt you need rescuing. But I have no reluctance to play the part since you seem to want it so.”

With that, she took his arm and began to walk, negotiating the first turn. Aurelia was aware she had not answered his question any more than he’d answered hers; such dissembling annoyed her, but she was not her father’s child for nothing; nor had she come away empty-handed in guile.

“You shall be rewarded for your kindness.” He matched her pace easily. Slow as his movements seemed, each step devoured distance, her hand resting in the crook of his arm. “Too long have I spent already wandering, after all.” His smile was tinged with rue.

Aurelia contemplated his words as they walked, paring them away to the smallest kernels of truth. Thus, in silence, they completed the rest of the turns that carried them beyond the hemlock hedge. Once they reached the stone path of the garden, Aurelia paused, looking up into his face, and she gave him an uncharacteristically gentle smile.

“You look most weary,” she said. “And having wandered, are no doubt happy to find yourself home again.” The words were instinct, no more, based on the intuition that familiarity led him here. “That being so, I offer you the hospitality of the club, Theron.”

“Home. No.” As he turned to her, the gaslight danced in his eyes, granting an infernal aspect. “But I gratefully accept your invitation.”

A few words with Hargrave granted temporary access to the club. Her companion would not be permitted inside any of the members-only areas, but even though she had yielded all claims to the family name, she was still her father’s daughter, and it counted for something here. Perhaps, like Leonidas, she had grown paranoid, but with courtly manners, she’d led this stranger into the light in hopes of learning whether he harbored ill intentions. The longer they spoke, the more she could gain a sense of whether he prevaricated.

You see enemies everywhere,
her mother’s voice said.

While that might be true, she had managed to survive for years where other exiles died once they were ousted from the safety of their nests. Granted, the club provided more security than most could manage outside a House compound, but she didn’t remain here all the time. And while traveling back and forth from the theater, there was no doubt she was at risk.
Possibly from someone like this,
she thought, glancing at Theron.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Rather.”

She led the way into the public dining room, preferring to discover his reasons for lurking about the maze under the safe observation of multiple witnesses. Aurelia swung open the heavy door. A dearth of windows, wood paneling, and muted lights in brass fixtures encouraged the semblance of privacy. Each table was edged three ways by a wooden screen, and at the center of the room, a stylized stone fountain burbled away, drowning conversations to all but its principals. A brown-and-gold carpet softened their steps as they followed the host to the table. Near a solid wall, the booth she chose was quieter than most, set with a white rose. A few members noted her entrance, but they had been advised by her father not to interact with her.

Treat her as if she’s not there.

It was his version of enforcing her exile. Both he and her mother hoped she would change her mind, return to the fold, and resume her rightful place in the natural order. But she’d tasted freedom, so returning to a gilded cage was no longer possible. At first, the silence and ostracism stung, but she’d formed other friendships that weren’t reliant on prestige or stature.

“Agreeable,” Theron said. “What do you recommend?”

Without glancing at the menu, she signaled the waiter. “For two: spinach salad with the vinaigrette to start. To follow, the lemon herb chicken with asparagus. Turkish coffee to finish.” Then she turned to Theron. “Whatever you prefer in the way of wine. The cellar is excellent.”‘

“Chardonnay. I believe Thorgrim still has the best vineyards on the isles.”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve long since given up pretensions as to superiority. I only know what I like.”

“Then order it.”

Smiling, she did.

They made desultory conversation while she attempted to read him, mine his secrets, but he held them close and tight. That indicated a disciplined mind. From the intensity of his gaze, Aurelia rather thought he was taking her measure as well; though for what purpose, she had no idea. Idly, she wondered if Theron had been engaged by her father to pose as a suitor when he was, in fact, a paid minder. There might be some new threat of which she was unaware; from time to time, people sought to use her as leverage in negotiations. Her exile didn’t mean he had stopped loving her.

Before she could delicately craft a question, the waiter returned. She glimpsed herself in the raised dome of the silver platter in his hands. Her own face seemed paler than usual beneath the brass fixtures; she was a creature of plain lines and stark hue. Aurelia glanced away, not caring to consider how many years were
not
written in natural passage on her skin. Theron watched with eyes dark as sloe, hooded and slightly foreboding. Possibly, as in the old stories, she should not have invited him in, but she preferred to keep potential enemies close.

The salad was crisp and tangy, the chicken succulent. After the servers arranged the meal before them, artfully displayed on white china, quiet descended on the table. As they ate, the only sounds were the distant fountain and unintelligible murmurs from other tables. And when Aurelia added the cream to her cup, she smiled, providing the signal that she was ready to resume the conversation.