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Instead of obsessing over thread counts and wind resistance, I cave and take a shower, releasing the tension in my neck by freeing my tightly leashed pheromones. The detachable shower head washes my stink without ruining what’s left of last night’s makeup mask.
It’s nine a.m. and I’m pacing, playing with the throat of Serafina’s only high-neck top when someone finally knocks.
“Yeah?”
“Your dresses, Miss Redfang,” a familiar female voice answers. “Could you have your guards let me in?”
“Let her in.” I rush to the door.
In a pantsuit and red lipstick, with her hair flowing in fat curls, Elyse pulls a garment rack into the foyer. I catch a hint of piña colada and the moonstruck guards before she slams the door, jamming her rack in front as a barricade.
“You are so fucked.” That plastic smile melts, her voice fraying to a hiss. “Every Redfang in the city is camping the hotel.” She tosses her hair and sticks out a manicured hand. “Give me the laptop.”
“And then what?” If the SAS is seriously going to abandon me, I’ll chuck it off the balcony without a sheet-chute.
“Stay undercover.” Elyse unzips the rack, revealing a row of terrifying white gowns. “Serafina’s guards cracked. Tonight’s some kind of party for her. Nikolaj will be there in person to escort his baby girl. Commander needs you to fake it until then.”
“No. Even if I can pass off her mannerisms, her scent—”
When Elyse yanks out a zippered case, my stomach drops to The Barrington’s wine cellar.
“Serafina made a visit to Doctor Brandon’s lab. He synthesized her perfume for you.”
“Please tell me that’s lotion.”
“Syringes. Doctor says you’ll need to inject every two to three hours to maintain the scent.” Her eyes sparkle. “Want me to give you the first jab?”
“If I do this—”
“You don’t have a choice. We have no way of getting you out without starting a war, and—Well, you already know.”
Commander Fissure wouldn’t start a war for me.
Commander Fissure wouldn’t cross the street for me.
I take the case.
“Give me her laptop and phone.” Elyse makes a grabby motion. “Simon geared me up to unlock everything. Then shoot up while we jailbreak, because we’ve got maybe twenty minutes before my pheromones wear off and your guards realize I’m not your party planner.”
Wet-swallowing, I head to the bathroom.
The case passes as a clutch or oversized phone wallet. It’s black and semi-rigid, with a length of heavy-duty elastic that can be looped for a discreet wristlet look, or wound through inserts for a more covert, thigh-holster, classy drug-smuggler vibe.
Unzipped, it looks like a girl’s on-the-go makeup kit, holding eyeliner, concealer, gloss, and a pouch of green contacts.
It could pass a search until I unstick the false back.
A pen-shaped cartridge, spare needles, and dozens of vials the size of pencil erasers are hidden beneath. Each glass shimmers with a few concentrated drops of piss-yellow pheromones.
Popping a vial into the slot is no harder than filling a candy dispenser, but instead of giving me a treat, twisting the cartridge reveals the stabby end of the finger-length needle spring-loaded inside.
Finding scent glands is easy. Just rub until you hit the sensitive spot on either side of your neck, right beside the pulse.
All I have to do is aim and tap the plunger.
Easy as clicking a pen.
Only, my numb thumb refuses to finish the job.
