Chapter 30

Thirty

F ormalin and crusted blood laced the air. On the exam table lay a corpse with lacerations caused by broken shards of glass. A Mirror-Blessed dancer. The only person to die in the aftermath of the second Blood Mirror being destroyed.

A dancer like herself, except Emrys saved her, blocking all the shattered glass from impaling her, too. He saved her, but she didn't know how to feel about it or what to do with that information.

Quinn's throat worked.

At least no vampires died in the attack. Which was a blessing and a curse because it meant the killer must have gotten the paintings out before they shattered the mirror.

Quinn rubbed her eyes, tired from lack of sleep. It was hard to get any rest when adrenaline from the attack coursed through her body. She yawned as if to prove the point, and her uncle glared in her direction. He disapproved of displays of weakness, including tiredness. But at least Uncle Matias said nothing about their fight or the council meeting. As if ignoring the whole situation would make it disappear. Just another example of how her family avoided emotional conflict.

The family motto: don't talk about it .

Or perhaps he was too eccentric and busy to bother reprimanding her again. He'd been a surprisingly distant parental guardian.

Leaning over a table, Quinn checked and cross-checked the fingerprints from the council meeting again against the fingerprints from Jane's murder and the reporter. There was no match. She knew this, yet she couldn't help herself. She needed something to cling onto because anytime she got anywhere with the investigation, everything was ruined.

The murderer was truly one step ahead . . . always.

Quinn didn't know if she was still in danger. The murderer had destroyed the second mirror and gotten what they wanted. Technically, she'd played her part and led them to it. She had to assume they were watching her—following her. Somehow. Maybe with Mirror-Blessed magic? Quinn swallowed past the lump in her throat. It was all her fault.

All of it.

The victim on the table.

The dead mirror.

Everything.

The events also seemed to have shaken Emrys. He had held her trembling in his arms, protecting her from flying glass for far longer than was decent or necessary. Frozen in defeat. They'd failed. Spectacularly.

But currently, the prince sat in the corner reading a romance novel. It seemed that he also liked to suppress his struggles—with reading. The cover of his book read something like A Rogue of One's Own or The Rogue Not Taken or something similarly themed. She never imagined he'd be into romance, but he was so utterly confident, even in that.

After about twenty minutes of useless checking, Quinn huffed and dug her fingers into her temples.

"Find anything interesting?" Emrys asked, pocketing his novel, and pulling out a set of gloves .

"Nothing." She sighed. "We have nothing. Just like always. We take one step forward to take a thousand steps back."

Emrys examined the prints, his fingers shadowing her own—too close.

A bird in her heart fluttered against its cage, and she trembled. His closeness stirred sensations in her body, ones especially inappropriate in this situation. She needed to be impartial and not care—evidence required to be respected and cherished.

What she didn't need to do was imagine how his fingers would feel against her neck or how his lips would—

Pull yourself together.

Quinn gulped, and her breaths grew ragged. "Do you think it's vampires?"

"Yes." He pulled back and caught her gaze, misery pirouetting in his eyes. It was as if the weight of the Looking Glass rested on his chest. "It has to be. The illusions last night, blood rain, fog, and lights are all within our power of persuasive illusions."

Quinn's intestinal tract solidified, causing deep guttural pain. "I have no real suspects." She rolled out her neck and cleared her throat. "I am not sure what else to do. More people keep dying, and I am nowhere closer to the truth."

"I know the feeling." Emrys's voice cracked. "Maybe we're going about the investigation wrong. We've been looking for the murderer, but maybe we should try finding the last mirror and lure them into it."

Quinn tried her best to sound clinical and uncaring, but her voice had a slight tremor. "That involves finding the mirror."

"Perhaps your necklace or another mirror could help with that."

Quinn's mouth worked as Jevon opened the lab door carrying a package. Emrys stepped away from the examining table, putting space between them.

"Mr. Yale, you're not allowed in here," Uncle Matias said, eyes focused on his microscope.

Jevon flashed an innocent smile that oozed charm like magic. " I'm deeply sorry, Dr. Thyssen. Someone left Quinn an interesting package, and I figured I'd bring it in. Of course, I'll leave as soon as I give it to her."

"Fine, fine." Uncle Matias waved him off.

Jevon strolled over to his friend and whispered from the corner of his mouth. "Find anything?"

"More of the same," Quinn said. "A package for me?"

"Yes." He handed her a box.

Stepping away from the samples, Quinn placed the package next to the sink before she removed her gloves and washed up. As she started to open the package, Emrys cautioned, "Wait. It smel—"

But his warning came too late.

Blood exploded all over Quinn's face and chest. She coughed, and it spilled from her mouth. Her whole body shivered, and she began to gag. It was caked everywhere, dripping from her chest and onto the floor, creating a river.

Quinn sucked in a breath and held her hands out, frozen. Shock cascaded through her bones, and she had no idea what to do.

Emrys was a stone statue. Inhumanly still.

Quinn turned to the sink and tossed water on her face and into her mouth, trying to get the blood off her skin and eyelashes. Appearing at her side, Emrys handed her a towel. She snatched it and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed her face.

Emrys was only inches from her now, watching with preternatural stillness. "Has anyone ever told you that you look amazing covered in blood?"

She wasn't sure if he said it to break the tension or if he meant it. He stroked a finger along her collarbone, scooping up a stream of crimson. She shivered. Emrys placed his finger in his mouth, tasting the blood.

"Oh, god. I hope that wasn't diseased." She coughed and pinched her fingertips together.

"It wasn't. "

"How would you know?" Quinn snapped before realizing that as a vampire, he must be able to tell from tasting the blood.

Emrys cleared his throat and crossed his arms, leaning against the table. "I just know. But if you don't believe me, you can live the next couple of years in terror if you would like."

"Right," she whispered, fiercely scrubbing her skin raw. "What in all the mirrors was that? Why would someone send me a box of blood?"

Emrys returned to the box with gloves and picked up a note wrapped in a plastic bag.

"Sweet Quinny, good work leading me to my prize. You have until the Suitor Ball to find the third Blood Mirror. If you fail to find it in time, I will murder one of your friends. And remember, I am always watching."

Emrys read the note, his voice coated with a plague.

Her knees buckled, and she braced the sink for support. The walls felt like they were closing inward, trapping, and crushing her—the Mirror of Terror's warning. Four fears would come true. Her friends' dying was one of the fears.

She wanted to vomit.

"Fucking shattered mirrors," Quinn cursed, her fingers grabbing the sink so tightly her knuckles grew white.

"They're threatening you." Jevon appeared next to Emrys, glancing down at the note. Quinn shuddered. She'd entirely forgotten he was there.

The man truly was like air, impossible to see but somehow always around. If Constance was the wraith of the group, Jevon was the mist. She might have been able to disappear into the night, but Jevon was the night. Always hidden in plain sight.

Quinn inhaled sharply. "So it would seem. "

Emrys set down the note, removed his gloves, and stepped away again, putting a significant amount of space between them.

"Quinnevere Igretta Ashelle, you better clean that up," Uncle Matias said, far more concerned about the mess than the fact that his niece was covered in gore. It would have been upsetting, except Quinn had once accidentally exploded bowels, blood, and stomach contents all over the place.

Emrys glowered. "Go take a shower, Quinn. I'll clean this up."

"Wait." Lightning struck her heart. She'd forgotten. "What time is it?" she asked, her eyes wide and probably wild.

"3:15 pm."

"Oh, bloody mirrors . Ballet auditions," she whispered as tears pooled in her eyes. The one thing that possibly wasn't going wrong in her life was about to slip through her fingers. Auditions were at 3:30 pm, and she was covered in blood, and the lab was a mess. "I am going to miss them."

"No, you won't. You will get cleaned up and go."

"No, you don't get it." Venom churned in her stomach—eating away her insides. "There is no time. I cannot wash up and get there on time."

Emrys's eyes lit up with pleasure, and a wicked smile played on his face. "Don't worry. I'll make you some time."

"How?"

"I am the Playboy Prince. I was made to be a distraction."