Chapter 13

Thirteen

A fter the crime scene, Quinn and her friends split up to wash off the mud and get ready to go to the Russet, the Les Fant?mes gang's casino.

Dripping wet and holding a towel, Quinn froze in her tracks.

At the center of her bed was a small white box, the size of a croissant. Slowly, she approached, her body on full alert. It could be from the killer. After all, they'd already sent her a threatening note.

Maybe it was insurance.

Sucking in a breath, Quinn opened the box, her fingers trembling. Two items rested inside. A key and a note. The key was bronze with intricate loops carved into the handle. And the note read:

My Dearest Quinnevere,

If you're reading this, it means I am dead. I've spent the last couple years trading in secrets that were meant to be kept buried. If I am right, then you are in grave danger. I am sorry for all the riddles, but I cannot write clearly in case this ends up in the wrong hands. I am so sorry to involve you in this.

I leave you my inheritance and my secrets. This key will lead you to both.

Your Loving Sister,

Jane

P.S. Keep your necklace close.

Translating the words to meaning took far too much effort because the handwriting was curved and rushed. Quinn's brain had to work four times as hard to understand, and when she did, she fell on her knees to the floor. Unshed tears licked at her eyes and burned.

Quinn crumpled the note between her fingers and threw a pointe shoe at the wall, then a ballet slipper. Agony building in her chest, she threw anything she could get her hands on. Tutus, anatomy books, pillows, clothing. One of the pointe shoes hit the makeshift wall of her bedroom with the force of a small boulder, shaking it.

But she didn't stop. She hurled books, clothing, and bed sheets around. Her heart was a crescendo, and her breathing became stilted.

Jane was dead, and Quinn couldn't cry.

Jane had called her sister. She'd thought of her as her true family, and Quinn couldn't even cry.

There was something fundamentally broken inside her. Normal people cried. Normal people could read without struggle. Quinn was such a fool to believe she could solve her friend's murder because she would never be smart enough or good enough to do it.

And if she didn't solve the murder, she'd die.

Nine days .

To solve the murder or uncover the mystery of the Blood Mirror.

Nine fucking days.

It wasn't enough.

Quinn huffed. She was surrounded by chaos, yet she felt empty. She shivered at both her ineptitude and the mess. Disorder was the enemy.

Everything was so out of control.

"Quinnevere, what are you doing in there?" Uncle Matias asked from the other side of the makeshift wall. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she called back but pulled her legs into her chest and let her head rest against the wall.

He slid open the divider and said, "You don't look okay." He eyed the scene, disgust flashing on his cheeks. He did not tolerate disorder either. "You look like you got into a fight with the ballet."

"I may have." She shrugged off the evidence of her emotions.

"Should I be concerned that auditions are not progressing as you had hoped?" he asked, holding a tray of food. "I hope you're doing well," he added to her continued silence.

His expression seemed genuine, but it was hard to tell. He desperately wanted Quinn to set aside her foolish pursuits —his name for dancing. After all, he never wanted her to audition in the first place. In his mind, she must focus on the morgue.

"It's going fine, except tomorrow's auditions are canceled because of the . . ." She inhaled sharply. "The murder. The Royalle Ballet director loved Jane, and he wanted to postpone a couple days to respect her memory."

A letter had arrived saying as much before Quinn's bath.

"Oh, I am sorry. I know you cared for Jane." Uncle Matias's voice was a melodic tenor as he placed his tray down on the kitchen counter.

A wellspring of emotions gathered in her throat, and she was unable to speak, so she simply nodded.

He rubbed his hand, clearly not knowing what to say or how to comfort her. He settled on practicality. "Well, I do hope you clean up this mess."

Perfectionism ran in the family. As did the lack of emotional expression.

"And, Quinn, you better not be looking into that murder."

Quinn stilled. "Why?"

"Because I said so." And as usual, that was the end of every argument between them.

The group was running a half hour behind to Les Fant?mes's gang casino because Giselle was late. As usual. On the way, Quinn told the group about the threatening note she found during the autopsy, and she showed the group the key. It didn't make sense to keep things from them. No one knew where the key came from. So, they decided to check the casino for something that might fit.

The plan was that Constance and Jevon would ask around about Jane at the bar, and Giselle and Quinn would search for a door that fit the key.

When the entire group had finally arrived, they walked to the entrance.

In keeping with its mysterious, enchanted theme, the Russet entrance was in the back of a dark, dank alley. The rickety mahogany cellar doors creaked as Constance lifted the latch, exposing a set of claustrophobic stairs leading to darkness and shadows. Although Quinn had been to the Russet many times, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. There was something about walking into pure darkness that deeply unsettled her.

Constance, on the other hand, bounded down the stairs like it was nothing. Following, Quinn held the rail so tightly that white spread across her knuckles. Giselle and Jevon made up the rear; neither of them seemed to mind the dark at all.

As Quinn stepped onto the landing, a glowing light confronted her senses.

"What has a head, a tail, is silver and has no arms or legs?" asked a petite bouncer with vibrant purple waves that danced a Lindy-Hop atop her head, bouncing and twirling in a manufactured wind.

Was it a mirror consequence or wish?

Quinn shuddered. Either way, magic always unsettled her. They reminded her too much of the mirrors and what they could do. Nightshade purposely set her up to fail. He wanted her torture.

Dirty fucking mirrors.

The only way to enter the Russet was to solve a ridiculous riddle. Quinn appreciated good riddles but often found them to be useless and trivial things. As she pondered it, the light emanating from inside the cave blinded her. The vast difference in the atmosphere, temperature, and surroundings caused her vision to blur, and her knees buckled under newborn fawn-like legs.

"A sienna coin," Giselle said in a disinterested voice, as if the riddle was the easiest and most boring thing she had ever heard.

"Welcome into the land of sin. Best of luck on your adventures herein," the tiny girl said with a triumphant yet mystical voice that made Quinn's insides burn.

The group stepped into a vast, watery cavern. Clinging from the cave roof were stalactites formed like crystal icicles, dangling like stars' tears falling through the sky. Lighting up the entire room were thousands of magical fireflies buzzing across the ceiling and the water glowed with a gradient blue and purple pattern, illuminated by the Russet's enchantments.

The place glistened like a river of ornate diamonds.

A jazz singer graced a wooden stage, singing a somber and smooth melody, setting a calming yet chilling ambiance. Wooden walkways allowed patrons to cross the cave to platforms housing liquor, tables, and gambling. Gondola boats floated on the water as couples shared romantic moments.

Quinn turned to her friends. Giselle's eyes were wide, and she visibly shook. "You okay?"

"I . . . it's been fifteen years since I've been here," Giselle said, nervously, her eyes darting around like a trapped rabbit. "A lot has changed. My father is in prison, and I don't even know who is in charge."

It was rare to see Giselle shaken, and Quinn was at a loss for words. This wasn't in Giselle's nature. She was addicted to danger and adrenaline, and she never faltered. So Quinn had no idea how to help.

"It's going to be okay. You won't even have to speak to anyone," Quinn said, trying to give comfort in some way.

Giselle nodded but still looked utterly uncomfortable.

Quinn wrung her hands. "Constance, make sure you are discrete."

"Discrete." Constance laughed before completely changing the subject. "Shouldn't you be the one looking for the Fox?" Constance glared at Giselle. "He's your old friend."

Many of Les Fant?mes went by code names, and Fox was the name of Giselle's childhood friend that she hadn't seen in fifteen years. Not since her mother forced her to leave the gang at ten.

"So would you like to be the one to pick the locks?" Giselle asked.

A smile soaked in golden mischief spread on Constance's face. "I'm sure I would enjoy trying."

"I'm sure you would give up after a second," Giselle said under her breath.

Constance rolled her eyes. "Fine, we all know I am much better at forcing information from people anyway."

Quinn clenched her eyes shut for a moment. "You did hear me say discretely, right?"

Constance merely winked at her friend before pulling Jevon by the hand onto a bridge that led to intoxication and excess .

That did not bode well.

"Shall we go?" Giselle's gaze tracked her friends.

Quinn nodded with a gulp, and anxiety built in her stomach. She was about to break into Les Fant?mes' private rooms. Something that went far out of her comfort zone. She was a bitter rule follower. She didn't break in, lie, or steal.

All of which she would have to do tonight.

The wood creaked beneath Quinn's feet as she walked across a bridge past the Shadow-Prince tables. Her skin tingled. She longed to play the cards. Quinn was uniquely good at Shadow-Prince because she'd learned to spot patterns in the cards at the age of six. She might be a terrible reader, but she was uncommonly good at recognizing patterns. Her brain worked in sequencing. She saw things others did not. She understood things others did not. So much so that people often accused her of jumping to conclusions too quickly. But more often than not, her original guess was correct.

The girls walked the darkened path behind the stage. Along it were nooks, presumably for a lover's tryst. The songs echoed off the walls and dampened any spoken words. As the path continued, the stalactite crystals formed deeper, and Quinn had to maneuver her head around the crooked daggers slicing from the ceiling.

"There are wooden doors over here." Giselle pointed to a fork in the walkway.

When they reached the doors, Quinn pulled the key out of her pocket and tried to match it to a lock, but none of the doors worked. So instead, Giselle pulled the pins out of her coiffure, chose a door at random, and picked the lock. In seconds, she had it open.

"Shall we?" Giselle said, her hair falling down her shoulders.

Inside was a brilliant blue, yellow, and orange thermal pool. The heat and steam radiated off the water. Across the cavern, ice crystals surrounded boxes—thousands of boxes .

The juxtaposition of the extreme heat and cold was jarring. And magical.

But there was no visible way to get to the boxes.

"We should take a peek, don't you think?" Giselle walked over to the side of the cavern. Before Quinn could respond, she hooked her feet into makeshift foot holes on the rock wall and began to traverse the cave.

"Giselle, that pool's probably hot enough to melt your skin off."

"Well, what is living if you don't take chances?" she called back, still fully focused on her task.

Quinn clenched her teeth, causing her face to hurt. Her friend was insane and watching stunts like this was always nerve-racking. But within seconds, Giselle had made it entirely across the room, jumped down onto the ledge, and started opening the boxes. Giselle was all curves, but with her years of acrobatic training, she made climbing look as easy as breathing.

"What is it?" Quinn called.

"Blood bags. Hundreds and hundreds of blood bags." Giselle held one up.

"What in all the fucking mirrors?" Quinn whispered.

But she didn't receive an answer because the door burst open, and five Fant?mes poured in and pointed their guns at Quinn.