Page 131 of Winterveil

Julian leaned closer, heart racing. He heard the catch of Klaudia’s breath. But she didn’t shrink back or pull away. In another moment, if he continued on this course, their lips would meet.

The screech of a microphone sliced the air. The music stopped. Julian flinched. Klaudia jumped.

Chane had clambered up onto the stage. His hair was mussed and he panted loudly into the microphone. The guests all turned their attention toward him as he said, “Julian Joyce-Young the Third and Klaudia Shimonova, everyone! What a performance!”

He clapped fervently, and the audience gave a scattered, hesitant round of applause. Instinctively, Julian tightened his grip on Klaudia. The room suddenly felt overly warm.

“Great, great,” Chane went on, face sour under the effusiveness of his words. “How about we bring them up onstage?”

Julian glanced down at his watch—it was not quite eight. Had they made enough of a scene for Klaudia’s plan to work? And would they be able to get to the roof on time? He couldn’t find Nadiya or Giselle in the crowd, which was either a good sign or a terrible sign. His pulse raced.

Klaudia broke away from him first. She began to walk toward the stage, like a prisoner to the gallows, and Julian followed. The guests parted to let them through. From up above, Chane smiled frostily.

And then someone shouted, “Hey! Stop!”

Julian whirled. It was one of Chane’s security guards, darting out from behind his plant. His arms flailed, and Julian saw Nadiya at last. She elbowed the guard in the stomach and, in one fluid motion, snatched the gun from his hip.

She drew it, and the guests uttered a collective gasp. The security guard charged her, and to Julian’s shock it was Giselle who stopped him, kneeing him hard between the legs. The guard slumped to the floor, groaning.

Through the panicking crowd, he caught Nadiya’s gaze. She gave him the quickest of nods, gesturing upward with her stare.

Julian understood only a split second before it happened. He grasped Klaudia’s arm and pulled her to the door as Nadiya pointed her gun at the ceiling and fired. They managed to make it through the threshold just as the chandelier plummeted to the ground, shattering on impact into thousands of shards of crystal and glass.

Chaos. Julian all but dragged Klaudia down the corridor. The guests were screaming, footsteps pounding the floor as they scrambled toward the exits. Nadiya’s idea was brilliant—the stampede would trap Deckard and the guards inside, leaving them enough time to get to the roof.

Brilliant—as long as Nadiya and Giselle managed to find their way out, too.

Julian pushed the worry from his mind as the hallway unspooled in front of them. The elevator door was in sight.

Klaudia stumbled along with him, holding the train of her gown. Julian paused to allow her to regain her balance; the thin heels she wore were making it difficult to run. Her eyes were glazed with panic, her chest heaving with exertion.

“Come on,” Julian urged. “We can do it; we’re going to make it.”

Klaudia nodded and straightened. In another moment, they were running again.

Julian didn’t allow himself to think of all the things that could still go wrong, chief among them being, what if Fikret didn’t come?

They were mere steps away from the elevator when someone entered the corridor in front of them. He and Klaudia skidded to a halt, and when Julian saw who it was, his heart briefly stopped.

“Dad?”

It had to be a hallucination, a dream.

His father’s expression was dark and completely familiar. It was the same look he’d given Julian when he’d arrived to pick him up from the police station, shouldering through the crowd of protestors. Now his scant remaining hair had been combed and gelled, and he wore a tuxedo with a white tie, attire too formal for anything his father did in his daily life.

Had he been at the party? How? Why?

“Julian,” his father said. Three brusque syllables, perfectly cold.

“What are you doing here?” Julian choked out.

“Just business.”

Business? Julian’s mind raced. He could only vaguely feel Klaudia’s grip on his hand tighten.

There was a commotion behind them. Three of Chane’s guards charged down the corridor, blood on their faces and guns drawn.

“Come with me, Julian,” his father said. “We’re going home.”