Page 92 of The Mask Falling

Kornephoros wore his chains like jewels. The flowers woven through the links constricted his aura, keeping him weak. When he saw me, his eyes ignited, still red as a sunset. Keeping well out of reach, I took a seat in front of him and set the flashlight down on the floor.

“It must be past your bedtime,” Kornephoros said, satin soft. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I’m here to make you an offer.”

“I do not trade with your kind.”

“Why?”

“If a Rephaite breaks a true oath, they must live with the ramifications for eternity. They will be known forever as a liar, a backstabber. Humans have no understanding of consequence. A broken oath is nothing to you. You die too quickly to plumb the depths of guilt.”

“Other Rephaim have made deals with me.”

“Other Rephaim were fools.” He observed me like a hunter. “Does Fitzours know you are here?”

“No.”

“So these are secret dealings.” His voice was lazy. “I knew you would return. My suffering troubles you, even though you believe me to be allied with Nashira.” He leaned toward me as much as his chains would allow. “I trust you, then, with the truth. I am no servant of the Suzerain. I am Ranthen.”

“Ranthen.” I tried to keep the skepticism from my voice. “What are you, a spy for them?”

“No. My Ranthen-kith are unaware that I survived the war,” he told me. “I fought alongside them in the Waning of the Veils. Arcturus knows me well.”

“He’s never mentioned you.”

“Likely he thinks I was destroyed. Likely it pains him,” Kornephoros said. “We were . . . close.”

I checked the time on the transceiver. Quarter of an hour until the accomplice in the kitchen finished her shift. Whatever I did next, I needed to do it fast.

“Paige.”

The sound of my name on his lips raked my spine.

“Paige,” Kornephoros said again, spinning out the syllable. “An archaic word for a messenger or servant, as I understand it. Incongruous, since you appear to resist authority. Or perhaps you were named for a leaf of paper, blank, its tale yet to be written. Which is it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “My mother chose my name.”

He regarded me.

“Help me, Paige Mahoney. You are a friend to Arcturus Mesarthim. If he were here now, he would release me. I have lived for months in agony and darkness. I beseech you,” he said in a whisper, “let me out of this prison. Let me return to my Ranthen-kith.”

“I came down here to make a deal,” I said. “You were meant to take a job as a keeper in Sheol II. If you tell me where it is—what name the city had before—I will release you.”

Kornephoros leaned back against the wall. “That is all you want?”

“Yes.”

“Then you mean to be rid of it,” he surmised. “Compromise another of our fortified havens, and not only will we be more likely to become Emim, but those that already exist will no longer be drawn to a congregation of us. The colonies are a beacon. Without them, the Emim will scatter across your world. Is that what you want?”

“Some risks are worth taking.” I raised my eyebrows. “Do you want to stay in here for eternity, Kornephoros?”

His eyes smoldered, and I knew I had him. This Rephaite was a fellow opportunist. I was a golden opportunity.

“A city lies to the west. It hides a hall of many reflections,” he stated. “The Sun King held court there before the fall of his dynasty.”

“Versailles,” I breathed. “The Château de Versailles.”

I should have known. I could haveguessedthe answer. There could be no more perfect seat for the Rephaim in France than the long-abandoned seat of the House of Bourbon.

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