Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

B allet auditions were still postponed for another two days as an act of remembrance, but Quinn still needed practice. It was hard to dance now with Jane dead. It felt wrong. So much so that Quinn considered stopping altogether. But if Jane were alive, she'd force her friend to complete the week of auditions.

Jane wouldn't let her quit.

So, Quinn threw her hair into a bun, in the process scratching the bald area at the nape of her neck. She groaned. So that was real. She wanted to study her reflection and see the extent of the damage, but she didn't want to do it in front of her friends.

And if that's real, then so was the necklace. Quinn clutched it tight, its cage cutting into her skin. It was alive. A soul. A brunette woman. She shivered and pulled the chain over her head. Maybe she shouldn't wear an alive soul around her neck. After a moment, she pulled it back over her head.

Jane told her to keep it close. So, she would.

Quinn shuddered and turned her eyes to her friends. Emrys sprawled on the studio dance floor, flipping through autopsy reports that he inconspicuously "borrowed" from Uncle Matias. Constance rested against the studio mirror and sewed her deep olive pointe shoes to her specifications. Ballet dancers went through at least three pairs of pointe shoes in a week, and each new set had to be broken in and tailored to the specific dancer. Giselle had her nose deep into a book, and Jevon stood slightly in the corner, observing the scene, and flipping Jane's key through his fingers. As usual, he was quiet, reserved, and examining.

Quinn practiced with precision and grace. Her arms fluttered and floated, painting a nightmare across the room. A nightmare embodying death's embrace. Her dancing was like broken promises, last kisses, and shattered dreams. Her feet glided and glittered along a field of corpses clawing at her toes.

Everything matched the tone of the dance—everything except probably Quinn's face.

She gritted her teeth and tried to show her character's sorrow and horror. Unfortunately, Quinn's version of distraught felt more like a mild case of irritation.

Her left leg tingled as she finished her pique turns, sweat flowing down her body. The Realm of Death variation from Lover's Lost was taxing in almost every way imaginable.

"No. No, no, stop," Constance called, the needle in her hand still moving even though she wasn't looking at her task. "You need to feel terrified and devastated. You just lost your husband and will forever be trapped in the land of the dead."

"I am trying," Quinn huffed. "This is my devastated face."

"No, that is your constipated face," Constance said. Despite the harsh words, her tone was warm and soft. It was the somber calmness that she typically had when dancing. In fact, Constance always seemed to be in a less energetic mood around Emrys.

He chuckled, his face now deep in the Ashelle murder autopsy report.

"Perhaps it is my I am gonna murder someone face ." Quinn glared at the top of Emrys's raven hair.

Giselle's ruby lips rose with amusement. "If that is your murderous face, it will scare absolutely no one."

Pain rippled through Quinn's calf. It wasn't until she stopped dancing that she felt the deep agony in her leg. She shook out her numb calves to try to release the tension. "That's probably true. Thankfully, I don't plan on being a murderer."

"No, you just plan on investigating them." Constance's maple wood eyes flicked back to her pointe shoes as she folded the toe, trying to break them in.

"Well . . . hopefully not," Quinn pouted. But even that lacked the proper childish emotion. Quinn didn't need to actually see it to know her acting was bad. "Hopefully, I'll be dancing in the Royalle Ballet for the next five years."

Emrys wrinkled his nose.

Constance's eyes narrowed. "Do you ever rest?"

"Of course, she doesn't," Giselle chimed in, turning a page of her book.

Quinn crossed her arms and huffed. "I'll rest when I am dead."

A wicked grin danced on Emrys's face as he looked up for the first time all practice. "Let's hope your death is more restful—"

Constance hit him with her shoe, cutting him off. "Let's stop talking about her death."

His entire body sparkled with mischievous amusement, and he shrugged as if discussing Quinn's death was as normal as discussing the weather.

Constance pursed her lips. "Back to work, Quinny. And try to imagine what it would be like to lose the love of your life," Constance commanded, still glowering at Emrys.

"Perhaps she needs to know what it is to touch a man before she can accurately pretend to lose a great love." Emrys winked before ducking his face back into his report.

All three girls glowered at him. He held up his hands in surrender. "If you are looking for a murderous face, you should copy the one you have right now. It is grand."

The fire burning inside Quinn deepened to a poisonous gas, spreading, and suffocating him in his place.

"See." His playboy smile grew. "Precisely my point, you're withering." Emrys's eyes returned to his book. "But you really should find yourself a gentleman and learn to . . . love from experience and return to your lessons in passion." He winked and emphasized the word love as if he meant an entirely different word.

Horror ruptured in Quinn's stomach while Giselle hit him over the head with her book. "Watch yourself, princey, and go back to your reading."

He shrugged. "I am just saying—"

"Why don't we go over what we know about the murders." Quinn cut him off. It would be an excellent way to put non-offensive words in his mouth.

"Great idea, Gingey," he said.

Quinn sighed. Again, with that stupid nickname. He was doing it at this point to bother her, and they both knew it. "Stop, calling me that. It is not accurate."

Her issue was the accuracy more than the nickname itself.

He held up his hands again in defeat. "So, Quinnevere, where should we start with the evidence?"

"From the beginning," Quinn said. "We know there is a serial killer out there, possibly a vampire, who has been killing members of the Blood Council and specifically members that have some connection to the Blood Mirrors." Once Quinn was finished, she started the variation again, dancing as the others continued.

"Blood Mirrors that hold the vampires' greatest secret," Giselle added, placing her book on the floor.

"So, the motive is the mirrors, but how does the key figure into all of this?" Jevon added.

As Quinn spotted him, she saw that he crossed a leg in front of him while leaning against the wall nonchalantly. Jevon was normally so still, so quiet, so observant that sometimes he blended into the scenery like a chameleon, which is why everyone's eyes except Quinn's landed on him.

Breathless and doing pas de bourrée steps, Quinn said, "I have no idea. Jane was trying to tell me something, so maybe it led to another clue. If only we could figure out where it goes."

"Can I see it again?" Giselle asked.

As Jevon walked to hand the key over, Quinn did a double pirouette that went into attitude, her leg high in the air before finishing in a plié with her leg still extended out. It was a hard turn to complete, but Quinn had no issues with the steps. No issues except the pain dripping from her leg like acid.

"Hmm, it looks familiar. It didn't open any of the rooms in the casino . . ." Giselle studied the key, sliding a finger across it. "Do you mind if I hold onto it for a while?"

"No, go ahea—" Quinn choked out as she jumped into a grand jeté across the floor. Quinn made the movement look smooth and elegant, but jumping with her legs in a full split across the floor took skill and dedication.

"Is there any evidence that might help us?" Constance asked, finally setting her shoes down.

Quinn ignored the question, running across the floor and trying to make her arms look as if she were chained and being dragged away. She poured every ounce of emotion into the movements. Stopping and clutching her side, she said, "Well, there is . . . the feather, sequins . . . and prints."

Quinn gulped for air, so out of breath that she was barely able to answer the question. One should not dance and speak. It was too much. She collapsed beside Constance, sweat dripping from her forehead.

Once she finally was able to compose herself, she told them about the matching fingerprint on the feather and Jane's corset, along with a print lifted from St. John's neck. The victims were killed by the same person, and they had the fingerprints to prove it.

"So, we're missing suspects. But you have the killer's fingerprints . . . so all we need to do is find some suspects and check their prints," Giselle said, rose buds blossoming on her bronze cheeks as excitement grew on her face. "You know what this means, Quinn." Yes, she did. Quinn gulped, knowing precisely what her best friend would say next. "We're breaking into Castle Hill and attending that council meeting so that we can figure out a list of suspects."

It made sense to gather fingerprints at the council meeting because they had the greatest connections to the victims.

"Precisely what I was thinking," Quinn agreed, but her stomach churned with anxiety. She hated breaking the rules. But her preferences no longer mattered. "Not only can we get a list of suspects, but we could also gather fingerprint samples."

"No, we absolutely are not going to break into Castle Hill to watch a council meeting. If we get caught, we could go to jail." Constance stood up as if to make her position clearer.

"You know, Constance, sometimes you seem like two different people." Giselle glowered at her friend. "Most days, you would die for a bit of excitement and fun. And then other days you're just . . ." Giselle thought on the appropriate word, finally finishing with, "boring."

"I might be boring, but at least I am not foolish. We are talking about the palace and the queen," Constance said. "We're not going."

"I agree with Constance," Emrys cut in. "It is not safe to be at Castle Hill tonight."

The argument continued for a long time, and Giselle and Quinn finally agreed that they wouldn't try to sneak into the palace because the prince didn't approve. But knowing Giselle, they were absolutely going to break into the Royalle Palace.

Quinn crossed her arms. "If you don't want us to go, fine, but Emrys, you'll need to gather all of the fingerprints from council members."

"Absolutely, but for now, I must be off. Castle Hill business." Emrys bowed to the group before sauntering over to Quinn and clasping her hand. "Do remember to stay far, far away from Castle Hill tonight." He winked.

Lifting it to his lips, he kissed the back of her hand while simultaneously slipping a paper between her fingers. Then he disappeared out the door and into the night .

Quinn unrolled a parchment that held five words:

Red River.

Meet me after.

Her brain stumbled through the possibilities of what those words meant. Clearly, he wanted to meet her after the council meeting, but the Red River meant very little to her. It wasn't a place anywhere in the city or the country.

And then it hit her.

It must be the password to the golden gondolas that floated up to the palace.