She was the golden-haired girl in a sea of men. My gaze had skipped right over her, and then I’d seen those eyes of hers, colorless and cold and strange.
Quickly, I backtracked and grabbed another cup, sloshing cranberry juice into it with shaking hands. She seemed fine, I told myself, she’s talking, she’s happy, it’s fine, and I tried to summon up the confidence I’d need to wander into a room full of strangers and pull her out. Where was August? I couldn’t see him. I didn’t know what her cover was, or what she was doing—or God, even if she would come with me if she saw me.
I approached again, slowly. I didn’t want to scare her off. At the edge of the crowd, I dodged the waving arms of a bearded guy ranting about Banksy, and put myself into Holmes’s line of sight.
She didn’t seem to see me. As I watched, she plucked an offered cigarette from its pack. “Anyone got a light?” she asked in her low, hoarse voice. These artists spoke English, then, or at least recognized the gesture, because three different men fumbled out their lighters. Holmes leaned forward into someone’s gold-plated Zippo, and for the barest second, she locked eyes with me. Mouthed not yet, jerked her head.
August must have read the signals, too. “I didn’t think this was your kind of scene,” he said loudly, emerging from behind me to take the cup from my hand. “Thanks for getting me a drink.”
“I lost you in the crowd.” One of the men ran a finger over Holmes’s bare shoulder, and she giggled. “Is this your kind of scene?”
“No,” he said, low in his throat, and it wasn’t in response to my question. “I know that man. Michael!” August called with a wave.
The closest man to Holmes, the one with the most muscles and the least gray hair, saw August and gave him a cursory wave back. He clearly wasn’t interested in anything August had to say; instead, he bent to whisper in Holmes’s ear. She beamed up at him. “Ooh, where?” I heard her ask.
“That’s Hadrian’s bodyguard,” August murmured. “His personal bodyguard. He doesn’t work for Milo. I didn’t know he’d be here tonight.”
“Is that how you know this place? You’ve been here with your brother? Hadrian?”
August nodded, the barest movement.
“Is your brother here?”
A hesitation, and August shook his head no.
He had been. He had been talking to his criminal cretin of an older brother all this time, under our noses, and I could feel my hands seizing at my sides, wanting to strangle him. If we weren’t in public—
“Michael,” he said to me, loud enough to broadcast, “come on, let’s go get a drink.”
The giant man held up his cup in response as he walked away. Holmes was already tripping after him, her fingers tangled with his.
“Call your brother, you jackass,” I told August. “Tell him to get his bodyguard home. I’ll follow her.”
I felt torn in a way I couldn’t remember feeling before. In the past, I’d always respected her boundaries, especially when she was in disguise, trawling for information. Either I followed her lead or stayed out of it entirely. My stakes in this situation were lower; my stakes were always lower. My father may have asked us to ask after Leander, but he wasn’t my uncle. I might have been in Holmes’s house when it happened, but it wasn’t my mother that Lucien was poisoning.
I had tried to convince myself that it was our mission. I was wrong.
But it was my best friend who was raped, my best friend who did coke and oxy and anything else that wasn’t bolted down. She was also the one who could always take care of herself, but here she was, following the giant German bodyguard into what looked like a small square room repurposed into coat closet (In an graffiti-covered art squat? a tiny part of my brain asked, A coat closet—is it art?), and dammit, dammit—
Because it was December, or because it was an art installation (who knew?), this closet was filled with coats. I hid myself behind a floor-length fur, and though I couldn’t see anything, I heard the two of them talking just fine.
“I’ve watched you since you come in,” he was rumbling. “You bright up the room.”
“It’s hard to miss you, too, you know. God, you must work out—look at your arms! You’re so much stronger than my bodyguard. And better looking.” She giggled. “Do you want a job?”
I couldn’t make a diagnosis. I’d never seen Holmes on coke; I didn’t know what it did to her. What it did to anyone, actually. What happened, in the movies? Didn’t it make you talk quickly, feel more confident? Was that heroin?
“I have many years’ contract with my employer. He is . . . angry man.”
“Oh, I’m just teasing! He isn’t here, is he? I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Sometimes it made my head spin, thinking how much of Holmes’s spywork had to do with telling stupid men what they wanted to hear.
“Tonight, no. He send me to check on a man who paints for him, but he is not here either. He is stupid. Does not return his calls, and he owes him work. This will get the man into trouble. I will go to East Side Gallery after, since sometimes he is there.” A rustling sound, like he was backing her into a rack of coats. “You come with? After, we party.”
“This is a party. We could party now,” she murmured. My head washed with static. She can handle this, I told myself. She always handles it.