There are few things more satisfying in life than watching your enemies fumble in confusion while you sip tea in a lace robe. I should know. I was doing exactly that when the second inquisitorial letter arrived. This time, it was pinned to the breastplate of a dead courier with silver nails.
"Lovely," I murmured, stirring honey into my cup. "They've upgraded to theatrics."
Roderick dragged the body into the back with a grunt. He muttered something about needing stronger wards on the perimeter. I, meanwhile, was admiring the calligraphy on the parchment. Whoever penned this threat clearly took pride in their penmanship.
"The Church does not bleed, but it burns."
"A bit dramatic," I said aloud, tapping my quill against the rim of my cup. "But then again, so am I."
Elian appeared at my elbow like a seductive ghost. He leaned in close, warm breath on my neck, and whispered, "Do you think they'll try to burn us tonight, or wait for the full moon?"
"Full moons are better for martyrdom," I replied. "More romantic lighting."
He giggled and draped himself over the divan across from me. His thigh peeked out from a slit in his gown, just enough to make me lose track of my thoughts for a few heartbeats. Damn him.
The brothel—sorry, companionship house—was thriving. Our clientele ranged from lonely barons to disillusioned priests, and every coin we earned added another layer of security to the Velvet Court. Still, the threat from the Church loomed like a stain on silk.
We needed leverage.
And as luck would have it, it came in the form of a mysterious visitor.
Ash stood at the front, hair tied back, skin radiant from his recent transformation. He was practically glowing with divine rebellion. He opened the door with a flourish, and in stepped a stranger wrapped in burgundy velvet, face veiled with lace.
"Invitation only," Ash warned.
"I have information," the figure said, voice delicate and laced with nerves. "And I'm looking for Cecil."
That would be me.
I emerged from the parlor in full regalia: silk robes, slippers, and a monocle I wore only when interrogating. It made me look both wise and dangerous, which is really all I've ever wanted.
"And what does the blushing stranger have to offer?" I asked, swirling the end of my feathered pen through the air.
The figure lifted her veil. No, his veil. Beneath it was a delicate face, smooth and freckled, framed by crimson curls.
"My name is Marius," he said. "I was an archivist in the Cathedral. And I know where they plan to strike."
We took Marius into the reading room—a converted study lined with candles, books, and seductive lighting that made even my bad angles look sultry. He sat on a chaise, legs crossed nervously, eyes darting between me and Jules, who had chosen to perch atop a shelf like a seductive gargoyle.
"They've been watching you," Marius said. "The Velvet Court is considered a moral blight."
"I'd be insulted if we weren't," I replied. "Do continue."
"A purge squad has been assembled," he said, voice low. "They're planning to burn the brothel and everyone inside during the Winter Solstice parade. It'll be blamed on revelers."
Clever. Very clever. And horrifyingly plausible.
I stared at the pen in my hand, my favorite instrument of subjugation and erotic justice. A purge squad meant soldiers. Soldiers meant conflict. And conflict meant...
Opportunities.
That night, I stood on the rooftop terrace, overlooking the flickering lamps of our district. Ash joined me, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"Do you believe him?" he asked.
"I do. He trembled just enough, and his eyelashes fluttered when I leaned in. That's the universal sign of truth or arousal."
Ash chuckled. "Both, probably."
"Hopefully."
We stood in silence for a moment. Then I said, "I'm going to mark him. Not now. But soon. He could be useful."
Ash turned to look at me. "Is that all it takes? Usefulness?"
"And beauty."
He didn't smile, but I felt the air between us shift. Perhaps it was the wind. Or the tension. Or maybe I was imagining the way his eyes lingered on my lips.
I should have kissed him. I didn't.
I'm terribly restrained, you see.
The next morning, I announced our new plan over breakfast: eggs, fresh rolls, and strategic seduction.
"We are going to infiltrate the Church," I said. "We need information, allies, and possibly some juicy gossip."
Jules raised a brow. "How?"
"Marius still has his old robes," I said. "And with a little glamour and a lot of leg, Elian can pass for a choirboy."
Elian choked on his tea. "I will not wear a cassock."
"You will if I bedazzle it."
Roderick groaned.
In the evenings, our salon resumed its regular rhythm: sultry glances, whispered poetry, and the occasional moan behind a velvet curtain. I sat behind the front desk, flipping through ledgers, watching as Ash escorted another nobleman upstairs.
He was taking well to the work. Too well.
I caught myself watching the sway of his hips. The soft line of his jaw. The way his eyes gleamed with mischief whenever he looked back at me.
Damn him too.
"You stare like a man with regrets," Elian murmured, appearing beside me.
"I stare like a man with a plan," I replied.
"Liar."
I smirked.
Later that night, I found Marius in the reading room, poring over an old map of the Cathedral's underground passages.
"You really were an archivist," I said, surprising even myself.
He looked up, eyes wide. "I didn't lie."
"No," I said, stepping closer. "But you are still hiding something."
His breath caught. He stepped back against the wall.
I raised my pen. "Do you want to join us? Truly?"
He nodded.
I marked him, slow and deliberate, tracing the quill just above his clavicle. The skin shimmered. His moan was quiet but devastating. I leaned in close, whispering the word.
His knees buckled. I caught him, held him against me for a moment too long.
His freckles were lovely up close.
The brothel was our castle, our sanctuary, our stage. But it was also our trap.
The purge was coming. I could feel it in the air. We had maybe a week. Maybe less.
We needed defenses. We needed allies. We needed a miracle.
Or, failing that, a distraction so overwhelming they'd forget to burn us down.
"We're going to host a masquerade," I told the others. "Invite the noble houses. The clergy. The merchants. Everyone."
Jules clapped.
Roderick groaned again.
"And during the festivities," I added, "we'll infiltrate the Cathedral. Get the names of the inquisitors. Find out who the real enemy is."
Salem, who'd been silent all morning, finally spoke.
"This will make us targets."
"We already are."
He looked at me, eyes soft. "Then let's make it worth it."
I smiled.
"I never do anything that isn't."