My eyes start to close—
—but not before I recognize someone on the balcony above us.
“She’s here,” I breathe.
For a moment, Rook doesn’t respond, his eyes still on my lips, his grip on me tight. Then he shakes his head as if to clear it.
“Who?” he asks.
“Hecate.”
Rook pulls back. He starts to turn around, but I grab his face to look at me. The movement is too rough, likely to draw attention, and I make myself relax. God, I’m no better than him.
“Don’t look,” I say lightly through a forced grin. “Laugh like I said something witty.”
He smiles wanly. “I…I’m not good at pretending to laugh.”
I burst out in fake giggles. This is bad. This is very bad.
There was no hint that Hecate would be here tonight. These sorts of events are beneath the Titans. There’s nothingforthem, watching bodies possessed by the Dead dance and flirt and drink toexcess. But there’s no doubt it’s Hecate on the balcony, looking down on the decadence.
Hecate is the only Titan who ever shows her face. I don’t even know what the rest of them look like. But Hecate loves the attention.
She’s tall and thin, her features angular. Sharp chin, sharper cheekbones. Pale skin and jet-black sheets of hair cascading over her shoulders. She’s in a long dark gown with a V-neck down to her belly button and two slits to her hips. There are silver cuffs around her biceps and silver straps running up her shins. She’s beautiful in the most intimidating way possible.
Trying to steal the grimoire right out from under Hecate is risky enough, but we have another problem—she might recognize me. If Adam Waring recognized me in the Reapers’ hideout, who’s to say the other syndicates don’t already know who I am?
“We need to regroup,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?” Rook asks.
I grasp his hand to pull him toward the exit. But just as I step forward, all the lights in the courtyard turn off. For a second we’re in darkness, the only light coming from the stars and the flickering torches. Then, slowly, the lights turn back on one by one. Tolliver’s signal that he’s in the security system.
There are a few gasps and applause, but then people start running toward the entrance, where a crowd has gathered. People are shouting, cameras are flashing, and I tense. The crowd parts and reveals the couple who has caused the commotion.
Poppy and CJ.
Fifteen
On most jobs, Tolliver is stuck in the Beforedeath while the rest of us are traipsing around the Afterlife. His skills—and interests—are limited to alchemy and alchemy-adjacent pursuits. This isn’t most jobs, though.
There were limited options for how Tolliver could be involved, given that the most important thing about running a con—or a heist—is the ability to lie, and Tolliver’s face is basically a billboard advertising his thoughts and feelings at any given moment.
But the idea of sitting this one out did not sit well with him.
“If Rook is going, I’m going too.” Tolliver had sulked, arms crossed, sinking into my living room couch.
“We don’t need Miracle Max for this part of the job,” I argued.
Tolliver rolled his eyes. “I can make more than just Miracle Max.”
I stiffened. “I don’t think Juliet—”
“I’m not talking about Juliet,” he snapped. “I’m analchemist. Tell me we don’t need potions for this job.”
“We don’t need potions for this job,” I said. “You’re helping Poppy with the book—”
“Codex,” Poppy said.