Heart surging into a gallop, I tap into the tracker app. Poppy has yet to discover the device I slipped from her old jacket to her new one. On the map grid, the pink dot blinks at a traffic light half a mile from Morgenstern Manor. She moves at a hurried pace, taking the highway toward the city outskirts.
A single thought emerges:Leviathan has her.
Panic curdles my stomach, and I lurch to my feet as everything I consumed threatens to come back up. “Excusez-moi, ma chérie.Grease and coffee don’t mix well.”
Quinn nods, grimacing as I nearly sprint out the morgue. I pause halfway up the stairs, swallowing bile as I call Emi.
“Brontë? What’s—”
“Is Poppy with you?"
"No. I haven't even spoken with her today. Why?"
"I need eyes on her.Now.”
What I like most about Emi: she doesn’t ask questions. Seconds of listening to her bash her keyboard later, she reports, “Got her. She’s on her bike, heading north.”
My knees weaken with relief. Leviathan doesn’t have her.
But I feel my hackles rise. Why would she lie to me?
“Where is she going?”
“Let me load her maps. If we’re lucky, she’s using GPS…” Another grueling minute of listening to Emi’s frantic typing. “Huh, that’s odd.”
“Quickly losing my mind over here,mon amie.”
“Sorry! It’s just—she’s headed to St. Aurelius’s.”
“The cemetery?”
“The academy. There’s a masquerade tonight in celebration of the founder.”
Clarity blooms in my cranium. “Putain.”
“What?”
“Leviathan. She’s heard from them, and she’s going in alone.” I take the stairs two at a time, sending Quinn a half-assed apology text for abandoning the rest of my shift. “Watch her, Emi. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to finish what I started ten years ago and hunt the little devil down.”
COSMETICS
Poppy
The Old Main of St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts is a sight of majestic grandeur unlike any I’ve ever seen.
The ancient behemoth is a harmonious blend of architectural styles: Norman, Arab, Byzantine, Gothic. Lush gardens surround the building, flourishing in the first yawns of spring. Dew coats petals like liquid diamonds. Grand statues of angels and warriors upon chariots and soaring pegasuses balance the pops of color with somber notes of gray.
It reminds me of Morgenstern Manor, and I’m even more curious about my ancestor who supposedly attended this academy.
Ahead, ushers and security guards linger around the grand arched doors open to guests pouring in from their parade of Jaguars and Teslas. Someone was pompous enough to bring a horse-drawn carriage. Buttery firelight spills from inside, Victorian music along with it. I doff my helmet and suck down a lungful of spring’s balmy breath, idling at the line’s rear.
This is it. No more waiting, no more planning. No more chasing dead ends.
I have one shot to right my worst wrong.