Page 16 of Heir of Illusion

“Coming?” he asks, one brow arched.

Offering him a sneer, I take off down the street and ignore the slight temptation that blooms in my stomach. There’s a reasonmendaxhave a bad reputation. What they do can be addictive. Many of their customers waste away, spending every bit of coin they earn on another illusion.

Imagine escaping all your problems and living in a world where you have everything you’ve ever wanted. Your loved ones who’ve passed on are returned to you. Your biggest regrets are wiped away. Whatever you desire is yours for the taking. But then you wake up in the real world, and everything has gone back to the way it was before.

That crushing disappointment is exactly why I never partake in it. I know once I start, I’ll never stop.

My calf aches as I push down the busy street. I would have preferred to let the wound fully heal before traipsing through the city, but unfortunately, this couldn’t wait. I pull my cloak tighter, keeping my chin tucked as I pass two patrolling guards.

Suddenly, the contents of my satchel feel much heavier.

Distracted, I almost stumble into a group of people waiting outside Bryne’s Bakery. The mouthwatering scent of their famous chocolate-filled pastries wafts through the air, bringing a smile to my face. Morwen’s fiancé, Nolan, owns the bakery with his family. He often sends her to work with treats for me and Alva.

As much as I love their delicious creations, I’ve never actually been inside the bakery. There’s only one reason I come to this part of town, and I try to remain unseen while I’m here. If any of their customers recognized me, they might be able to notice a pattern in the timing of my visits, sparking unwanted connections to certain illicit activities.

Slipping past the crowd, I duck into a narrow passage and hurry down the L shaped path. By happy coincidence, Bryne’s Bakery shares a back alleyway with another business one block over.

MASQ, situated on the Midgarden side of Aogan’s Cove, is one of the most successful clubs in Solmare. It’s mostly empty this early in the day, but I still wouldn’t risk entering through the front. Steel is cold against my fist as I deliver exactly six sharp knocks before slamming my open palm against the door. It’s a simple code, but we’ve found it effective.

Only a few seconds pass before I hear muffled shuffling, followed by several dull thuds as someone unlatches various locks and deadbolts. When the door swings open, a stunning woman with warm brown skin stands on the other side.

“Come in,” Della orders. “Quickly.”

Her eyes scan the alley behind me as I slip past her into the large kitchen. Once she’s sure I haven’t been followed, she immediately closes the door behind me, her hands deftly moving over the locks to seal it shut. Releasing my illusion, I lower my hood and use my fingers to comb through my hair and smooth the wayward tresses. I don’t bother to remove my cloak since I won’t be staying long.

“I got your message.”

“Obviously,” she says, her tone blunt. “I didn’t think you were stopping by for a chat. But you’re late.”

I roll my eyes, unbothered by her rudeness. Della has a right to her resentment.

“I was detained,” I tell her.

Huffing at my vague explanation, she turns without another word and exits through a long hallway on the other side of the room. Used to this kind of behavior, I follow without complaint. She may be annoyed by my tardiness, but if I told her the real reason for it, she’d be furious. The mere mention of Baylor gets her hackles rising.

As she walks, her dark curls bounce against her lilac dress. For such a stern woman, her appearance is the complete opposite. Standing at only five feet and two inches, even with shoes on, she barely reaches my shoulder. Her big doe eyes radiate innocence, despite the fact that she’s anything but.

Dellaphine Cardot is a walking contradiction.

“We need to make this quick,” she tells me as we reach the door to her office. “I’ve got guests upstairs who will be waking soon, and it’s best they don’t see you.”

Overnight guests aren’t rare at MASQ. There are over a dozen guest rooms on the second and third floors, each available for a fee. While most guests pay by the hour, some prefer to spend the night.

“It must be important if Morwen risked giving me the signal in front of a witness,” I probe, curious what this meeting is about. “Alva could have seen her.”

My sweet mortal maid has no idea about any of this. And it needs to stay that way.

“It’s time sensitive,” Della says, offering no further explanation.

The front rooms at MASQ are styled in a sinful, dramatic aesthetic, but back here in Della’s private quarters, the decor is soft and feminine. The warm glow of the fireplace casts an inviting warmth onto the cream settee. I notice that there’s a fresh canvas on the easel next to the window and a few stained brushes laid out beside it.

Like always, my gaze is drawn to the painting that hangs behind her desk, featuring a dark-haired woman coyly glancing over her shoulder. Only half her face is visible, a sly smirk curling her lips while her eyes are cast down. There’s something haunting about the image, something that makes you want to lift her chin and see her full visage for yourself.

But I don’t need a portrait to remind me of what she looked like; her face is seared into my mind with perfect clarity.

I push those thoughts away as I settle on the sofa while Della heads for the desk in the corner. She lifts the silver key that hangs around her neck, using it to unlock one of the drawers. Thunder rumbles in the distance as she pulls out a piece of paper before relocking it.

“It’s good to see you’re alive,” she says as she sits down next to me.

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