Chapter 18

Eighteen

A fter taking two separate cable car lines, Quinn and her friends assembled in the Gold Quarter, searching for the reporter's apartment. She didn't want to go with only the prince.

The streets glittered, the gold surface shining in the sliver of sunlight that poked out from behind the clouds. The metal appearance was created by the Mirror of Molten Gold.

The streets were also filled with celebration from the second night of the Festival of Blood. Everywhere you looked was art, dalliance, and wine. The bohemians of the Art Sector hosted the event, but all parts of the city joined in on the fun, from the rich of the Estate district to the craftspeople of the marina.

On Quinn's left was the Queen's Royalle Ballet, gilded in all of its glory. She always imagined herself standing here in the company of the rich and famous. She imagined standing in this very spot, being honored and respected. She wanted to be the greatest ballerina the Royalle Ballet had ever seen. Then, she would finally be enough. She would be accepted. She would be whole. The world would know her name.

Deep down, she always wanted the Playboy Prince to respect her, too.

"I think his apartment is somewhere around here," Giselle said, scrunching her eyebrows and looking at a map. Directions were not her forte.

Quinn shook her head. She never should've allowed her friend to navigate. They could be in the completely wrong district. "Let me see the address," Quinn said, holding a hand.

Within seconds, she pointed them in the correct direction. The reporter lived in an opulent apartment building three streets off Union Square.

When they arrived, without hesitation, the group rushed into the building and presumably up the elevator with the attendant's assistance. But Quinn's shoes were glued to the golden street, her palms sweaty, and her heart racing like a cheetah trying to catch its prey. Her bag gently fell off her shoulder and sank like an anchor dropping to the sidewalk.

The Gold Quarter might shine with glamour and merriment, but Quinn's soul fractured with dread.

Starring up at the tall building, she gulped. Anticipation siphoned at her self-control. The reporter might be the key to unlocking Jane's murder. Unlocking—

No, she wouldn't let herself think about the rest. Quinn needed to focus on either catching Jane's murderer or finding the second Blood Mirror because if she failed either task, Quinn would be the next victim.

Noticing that she hadn't followed, Emrys stepped back through the rotating doors.

Slowly, as if walking on shattered glass, he approached. "We will go in together."

"Together," Quinn whispered back, took the offered hand, and forced her feet to move.

Without another word, they entered the building and the elevator. The operator cranked nine floors up before opening the doors and letting them out. Emrys flipped a sienna at the attendant as he exited.

Halfway down the hall, a door hung ominously open. Unease gathered in the shadows around the door. Something was terribly wrong, or Quinn was overreacting. Her friends being inside was probably why the door hung ajar. Tentatively, Quinn stepped through the entry and was met with disaster.

It was like entering a windstorm. Papers littered the floor, creating a sea of disorder. Books, picture frames, and clothes, among other items, were stacked high on the couches. Every surface of the apartment was covered in some type of mess. It made Giselle pristine in comparison. Excrement laced the floor, and jars of yellow liquid sat on shelves. This room was an explosion of chaos.

Giselle knelt in the middle of the room, poking through a box with a pen. Even she was disturbed by the disaster. Constance stood stunned at the kitchen entrance.

"Where is Jevon?" Emrys asked at Quinn's side.

"He's searching for the reporter." Giselle didn't glance up. Instead, she searched through the box's contents, looking for something. "I think he is in the kitchen."

As if summoned, Jevon stepped out of a doorway, his complexion ashen and eyes wide. Quinn was immediately on edge because of the unfamiliar expression on his normally bored face. His mouth worked as if unable to communicate his thoughts to the rest of the group. Instead, he pointed into the room.

Quinn rushed past and stopped in her tracks as she spotted what stole Jevon's words.

A dead body lying face down on the kitchen's marble floor.