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Chapter 1
The only flaw in Lila’s plan was Tristan.
Again.
She cast a not-so careless eye toward the LeBeau militia gathered at the base of the auction house stairs. The dozen women and men tugged at the collars of their formal uniforms, the sweaty fabric chafing in the muggy afternoon. The LeBeau coat of arms, a scorpion with its stinger poised to strike, had been stitched in lavender on the breast of their summer-weight blackcoats, cut in ankle-length cotton rather than leather. The group chugged bottles of ice water, a balm against the late October heat wave, and fanned their coats to reveal tranq guns underneath. One of the militia whispered something. They all chuckled before separating once more to pace.
As the chief of her family’s militia, Lila had been party to such jokes for years. It was likely a barb against the paparazzi, or the so-called press behind the stanchions. Microphones in hand and cameras at the ready, they stood at attention while their flashing bulbs captured the scene. Of course, the joke might have been aimed at the heirs who flowed up the silver-carpeted stairs toward the auction house, wilting under their finery.
Predictably, the highborn had ignored the weather. The heirs wore their autumn dresses and well-tailored long coats while the men panted in their vests and coats and breeches, their cravats tied and pinned at their necks. Everyone wore their family colors. The highborn sparkled with jewels and sweat as they ran the gauntlet of press and photographers, vainly dabbing at their foreheads between photos and interviews, desperate to enter the cool lobby and the ballroom beyond.
And they all suffered.
All except Lila. She’d visited the family tailors, insisting they alter a dress from the year before. Obligingly, they’d scissored off half the blood-red fabric and dyed a pair of gloves to match. After all, she had to hide the stitches and bandages that crisscrossed her palms. She’d earned them the weekend before when she’d been trapped in the middle of a riot. Of course, few people knew the real story. She’d told everyone she’d been in a motorcycle accident. So far, everyone believed her.
The other highborn stared at her dress, half jealous, half grumbling that her clothes too closely resembled last year’s fashions. Her tailors had been clever, though, expertly tying together the trends. The bodice of her backless dress hardly covered her breasts, and the silken skirts barely brushed her skin. The slit had been cut as high as was proper, allowing for a delightful breeze between her legs. She’d balked at the matching gossamer coat, but it might have been woven by magical spiders, for it didn’t stifle her in the slightest.
With her dark hair set in tumbling waves and her makeup perfectly applied, she looked a great deal less like a militia chief and more like the eldest heir to one of the richest and most powerful families in New Bristol, and perhaps all of Saxony.
Which she was. Sort of. Only fifteen women in each generation could call themselves heirs in each family, all standing in line to become the next chairwoman. The current matron’s eldest daughter stood first among them. Despite being the prime heir by birthright, Lila had traded away her spot a decade ago in order to join the Randolph militia. She shouldn’t have been allowed on the silver carpet at all. Instead of an heir, she should only rank as a highborn.
Her mother would never suffer such an outrage, though. The Randolph family had only fourteen official heirs, but everyone understood who held the fifteenth spot, no matter how often Lila resisted the implication. And under the pretense of sparing her younger sister Jewel from failure on the New Bristol High Council of Judges, her mother had declared Lila the family’s emissary, forcing her to sit on a council made up of matrons and prime heirs.
The fact that Lila had never officially accepted her position as heir rankled the others.
The fact that everyone accepted it for her rankled Lila.
It also made everything about her annoyingly fuzzy—except her place in the auction house line. Only matrons and primes could skip them at highborn functions. As an heir, even an unofficial one, she had to wait, just like the others.
But waiting in line had been part of Lila’s plan, for it allowed her to study the LeBeau militia. She counted six blackcoats on the roof while another half-dozen kept the front secure. Lila couldn’t tell if the LeBeau chief had reinforced the alley, but Shirley watched from a neighboring building. The old woman had a keen eye, and an even keener mind for trouble. She’d let Tristan know the moment she found it.
Toxic would too. Lila had hacked the auction house security cameras. Toxic now watched every feed, including the ones Lila had looped and fed back to the LeBeau militia. Unfortunately, Lila couldn’t check them herself. She’d hidden her palm computer in her clutch, and she couldn’t remove the device while she tarried in line. Not around the nosy highborn heirs.
With the way the afternoon had unfolded, the heist might be over before she even got into position. Too many heirs had shown up later than usual to escape the heat, tying her up outside when she should already be inside.
Until then, Tristan and his people were on their own, and that was never a good idea.
“Chief Randolph?” came an overly cheery voice on the opposite side of the stanchions. The voice belonged to a pale, slender blonde in an off-the-rack dress, holding a worn palm.
Lila tried not to frown. Every heir knew Marion Carpenter, a leading journalist for the New Bristol Times, and every journalist knew that Lila Randolph didn’t give interviews. Giving one meant that Lila had officially taken up her role as heir, and, more importantly, it meant any news outlet could run her photo without consequence. Lila enjoyed her anonymity far too much to destroy it. She also enjoyed the gaping loophole it created. The Randolph militia chief was completely off-limits to the press. No photos. No videos. Not even a sound bite.
“An unofficial word,” Ms. Carpenter pleaded.
Lila gripped her clut
ch tighter and motioned her forward. It was good for the Randolphs to court the local press, officially or unofficially.
Ms. Carpenter hopped the rope and rushed over. “You look quite healthy, chief.”
“I feel healthy.”
“So there’s no truth to the rumor that Peter Kruger shot you in the chest last Friday?”
“I’m wearing a backless dress, Ms. Carpenter. I think you’d notice the bullet hole.”
The journalist’s gaze dipped to the low bodice of Lila’s gown. “There were reports you were taken to Randolph General.”
