The Last Hour Between Worlds

Book 1: The Echo Archives

by Melissa Caruso

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Time Travel

Synopsis

A whip-smart adventure fantasy packed with rival guilds, reality-bending magic, and sapphic pining, The Last Hour Between Worlds is the brilliant launch of a new series from David Gemmell Award-nominated author, Melissa Caruso.

Kembral Thorne is spending a few hours away from her newborn, and she's determined to enjoy herself at this party no matter what. But when the guests start dropping dead, Kem has no choice but to get to work. She is a Hound, after all, and she can't help picking up the scent of trouble. 

She’s not the only one. Her professional and personal nemesis, notorious burglar Rika Nonesuch, is on the prowl. They quickly identify what’s causing the mayhem: a mysterious grandfather clock that sends them down an Echo every time it chimes. In each strange new layer of reality, time resets and a sinister figure appears to perform a blood-soaked ritual. 

As Kem and Rika fall into increasingly macabre versions of their city, they’ll need to rely on their wits—and each other—to unravel the secret of the clock and save their home. 

For more from Melissa Caruso, check out:

Swords and Fire
The Tethered Mage
The Defiant Heir
​The Unbound Empire

Rooks and Ruin
The Obsidian Tower
The Quicksilver Court
The Ivory Tomb

Release date: November 19, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 400

Sample

It’s easy to fall into the wrong world.

It happens most often to children. Their grip on reality is loose to begin with, and when their imaginations wander, sometimes body and soul will follow. I’ve seen it happen. One minute the kid is there, playing in the dirt and whispering to themselves, and the next they’ve slipped down into an Echo. You have a tiny window, maybe five seconds, where they go a little transparent around the edges; if you spot it in time and you’re fast, you can catch them. Otherwise someone like me has to go in after them, and that’s dangerous work.

Adults can fall between worlds, too, though it’s rarer. If you stumble into a spot where the Veil is frayed or torn, you may suddenly find that all the familiar things around you have gone strange and wonderful. Since Echoes are confusing, you might not be sure when it happened or how to get back.

Echo retrievals were always my favorite part of the job. In my years as a Hound, I’d rescued dozens of lost kids and a good handful of adults. I was the only active guild member with a perfect success record. When I brought them back home through the Veil between worlds, they all got this same dazed look at first—as if wandering through bizarre reflections of reality had changed them, and it seemed impossible that the world they’d left behind was still the same.

I felt a bit like that now. Two months at home with a newborn wasn’t quite like falling into another world, but I’d had almost as little contact with my old life. Being out in public at a party surrounded by people felt strange as a half-remembered dream.

I haunted the buffet like a ghost of myself, stuffing candy-sweet grapes into my mouth more out of nervous reflex than hunger. I only had a few hours of freedom, so I had to make them count—but blood on the Moon, I’d forgotten how to talk to people.

It would be easier if Marjorie’s year-turning party wasn’t so… stuffy. Dona Marjorie Swift was on the Council of Elders, and her social peers packed the ballroom: the solid, serious merchants and bankers of the class that ruled the great city-state of Acantis, dressed in elegant tailed jackets or pale puffy gowns, all of them striving to impress. One of their pocket handkerchiefs probably cost more than my entire outfit, even counting my Damn Good Boots (a precious find, knee high in soft leather, practical and stylish). This was the first time I’d been able to squeeze back into them after my feet had swelled up so much while I was pregnant.

I searched the room for familiar faces, but it was hard to pick them out from the sea of muted colors. You’d think everyone would dress more festively to greet the New Year, but it was still the Sickle Moon for a few more hours, and that meant sober restraint was fashionable—so, drab colors and under-seasoned food. Not that I could complain; I’d been eating odd scavenged scraps since the baby came, with no time to cook or go to the market. I could hope Marjorie would break out more interesting fare after midnight. Some of the more fashionable partygoers would have brought a sparkling white Snow Moon gown to slip into when the year turned, or a jacket that reversed to flash silver and crystal in the lamplight. I might get about one hour of a livelier party before I had to go home.

Still. It was a party, and I was here. Without the baby. Which felt more than a little like magic.

I’d hoped to see some of my friends from the Hounds, but the one Hound I glimpsed was Pearson, who only talked to me when he had a mission to assign. There were a few members of other guilds around; they might be my best bet. The guilds didn’t care how much money you had or what quarter of the city you hailed from, only what you could do. I spotted a couple of Butterflies—a well-known actor in a silky cape talking to a friend who defied stodgy Sickle Moon fashion with his vivid iridescent eye makeup—and a vaguely familiar shaggy-haired youth with some kind of guild tattoo on their hand, maybe a Raven.

And… shit. There was Rika.

She’d cut her black hair along her jawline, but I’d recognize her anywhere. I’d seen that wiry back disappearing through windows or over walls too often. Been too late to stop those slender fingers from plucking some priceless object from its protections one time too many. Her gown was all smoke and silver, draping around her like she’d only just formed in this layer of reality from one of the Deep Echoes.

Rika was no Hound, sworn to guard and protect and seek and find. She was a Cat, light and nimble, velvet and hidden steel, and she was trouble.

She’d been chatting with an older woman in a violet gown, but she broke off, rubbed her arms, and glanced around as if she felt someone watching. Before I could look away, her grey eyes caught mine across half the ballroom.

Once she might have slipped me a wink or a wicked smile—but it was the first time we’d seen each other since the Echo Key affair. The usually mischievous bow of her lips flattened, and she turned back to her conversation.

The slice of cheese I’d just grabbed crumbled in my fingers. I wasn’t ready for this. Not now, when I was a sleepless mess of underbaked feelings. There was too much I’d been trying not to think about before I went on leave to take care of Emmi, and Rika was at the thick of it.

Why was she here? Rika would never come to a party this rarefied for fun. She must be on business. And that meant she was here to spy, or to steal something, or maybe even to kill someone, though I’d never heard of her doing blood work. I had to tell Pearson. I had to figure out what she was up to. I had to—

No. I was on leave.

I’ll take Emmi, my sister had said. Go to the party. You need to get out of the house. But I’d better not hear about you doing a lick of work, or I swear to the Moon I’ll put hot pepper powder in all your tea.

I was here to have fun. To talk to people. Right.

It would be nice if I had any idea how to do that anymore. Socializing was a mysterious activity that Past Kem had done, irrelevant to Present Kem, who primarily existed to make milk and desperate soothing noises. Sure, a few of my friends from the Hounds had come by in the first week or two to meet the baby, some of them bringing gifts of varying appropriateness (my old mentor, Almarah, had been excessively pleased to give Emmi her first dagger, never mind that it’d be years before she could use it), but after that… well, it had been pretty lonely.

Apparently my sister had been right when she said I needed to get out of the house. It was unfair; no one that bossy should be right so much of the time.

I nibbled my cheese and wished I could drink. But my sister said the wine would get into my milk and be bad for Emmi, so that was out. I’d have to remember how to make words and say them to people all on my own.

“Kem. Hey, Kem. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

It was Pearson. He had a rumpled, worried look, all stubble and shadows. There was only one thing that ever meant.

“I’m not working.” I gave it a bit of emphasis in case he’d forgotten. “I’m allowed to go to parties.”

“Right, right.” He laughed, as if I’d made a joke, and took a sip from his wineglass. “Listen, do you want a drink? Can I get you something?”

“Can’t,” I said shortly. “Nursing.”

He blinked at me like some sad owl, and I relented a bit. “How are the Hounds doing?”

Pearson leaped on the opening. “It’s not the same without you. We’ve got lots of good people, everyone’s great, but nobody like you.”

I grunted. “No one who can blink step, you mean.”

“Well, yes, but also not much experience on hand at the moment. A lot of our best are on assignment outside the city.” He licked his lips. “So, you know, I was wondering—”

“Did you see me on the active roster, Pearson? No. Because I have a baby, remember? Small, potato-shaped human.”

“Right, of course, of course.” He said it in the vague way you might acknowledge the existence of hippogriffs, or some other animal found in distant lands you’d only seen in woodcuts. “Motherhood. Splendid. Only we’ve run into something that looks like it might be big—just hints, but maybe some kind of power game stirring in the Deep Echoes—and we’ve got no one available with much Echo experience, so of course I thought of you.” He flashed a tentative smile.

I gave him a flat stare. “It can’t be urgent, or you wouldn’t be at a party.”

“Probably not, no,” he agreed quickly. “So you could look into it in your spare time.”

“My spare time.” I rubbed my forehead. “You’re not a father, are you.”

“No, no.” He seemed alarmed at the thought. “A bit damp, babies. And loud, I’m told. Not really my area of expertise.”

“All right then, let me explain to you in four small words.” I raised four fingers and then folded them down, one after another. “I. Am. On. Leave.”

He sighed, and his shoulders drooped. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

“I suppose not.” I lowered my voice. “Did you know that Rika Nonesuch is here?”

“Really?” He was good enough not to peer around openly, but his eyes darted about the room. “She’s bound to be up to no good.”

I shouldn’t ask. It was too much like work. But I couldn’t help myself. “Any idea what she might be after?”

Pearson scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Could be looking to rob Dona Swift. Or to spy on the other City Elders—I think there are three of them here. Or she could be after the clock.”

“Clock?”

He tipped his head toward the far end of the ballroom. “This supposed antique grandfather clock Dona Swift bought off a sketchy dealer. You only have to look at it to know it’s not from this layer of reality. Could be a good fake, but I’d bet cold money it’s from an Echo.”

“That’s just what we need.” I shook my head. “Well, good luck. I’m not going to go finding things out on purpose, because I’m not working, but if I hear anything useful, I’ll let you know.”

Pearson nodded. “Thanks. Can’t wait to have you back, Kem.”

I grunted noncommittally as he moved off. There was no sense letting him know how comments like that currently plunged me into a whole inner crisis. Of course I wanted to go back to work; I missed the Hounds, missed seeing my friends, missed the excitement of a challenging mission and the satisfaction of a job done well. Stars, I missed just getting to walk around the city without a fussy baby strapped to me. But I also couldn’t imagine leaving Emmi. I hadn’t been away from her for an hour and it already felt weird to have my arms empty, as if part of my body were missing. I missed her funny little face, her wide wondering eyes, her tiny grasping fingers.

At the same time, damn. Damn. I could do what I wanted, and nobody was depending on me for every single little thing. I was just myself again, existing only for myself, for these few hours at least. I felt light and giddy, as if someone had untied heavy weights from my arms and legs.

Now, if only I knew what to do with all this freedom.

Dona Marjorie swept toward me with the inevitable momentum and grace of a galleon in full sail. Acres of suitably subdued forest-green skirts puffed around her, sleeves and bodice trimmed with modest ivory lace; emeralds winked with a splash of cheeky color in the tower of elaborately coiled and woven braids of her iron-grey hair. Her round brown cheeks beamed, dark eyes sparkling. She always seemed so genuinely happy to see me, and I never could tell for sure if that was because I’d saved her son’s life or because she was just an absolutely delightful sugar puff who loved everyone. Probably both.

“Signa Kembral!” She threw her arms wide; I accepted her hug, a little embarrassed, as her voluminous skirts enfolded me. “I’m so glad you came. How’s little Emmelaine? Is she sleeping?”

“No,” I said, letting two months of despair come through a bit. “Not so you’d notice.”

Marjorie shook her head. “Oh dear. Do you want me to send someone over to take her for a while so you can rest?”

“She screams like she’s on fire every time I leave the room, and I doubt I could sleep through that, but thanks for the offer.”

“Well, you just relax and enjoy the party, then.” She patted my arm, then dropped her voice nearly to a whisper. “I’m glad you’re here tonight. Just in case.”

“What does that mean?”

Marjorie laughed, lifting her painted nails to her lips as if I’d made a slightly off-color joke. “Oh, you know, politics always get a little intense at the year-turning, that’s all. Everyone’s all fired up to charge out the gate with new legislation and new alliances as soon as it turns from a Sickle Moon to a Snow Moon, and the knives are out. It’s good to have level heads like yours around. Don’t you worry about it—focus on having a lovely night!”

My smile slipped from my face as she moved on to greet her next guest, her voice rising in welcome. Great. My first time in public in two months, and I’d picked a night when Dona Marjorie expected “politics” to get so wild my skills might be needed—and I doubted it was because she wanted a third at tiles. Maybe I should have worn my swords.

Suddenly a low, harsh, brassy music jarred the ballroom. It shook deep into my bones, reverberating in my teeth, seeming to come from the air itself. Just a handful of notes, each a deep bong like a punch to the stomach—and then silence.

A hush fell over the gathering, the kind that comes when a large number of people all hold their breath at once.

The clock. That had been the simple melody the city bells played before tolling the hour; it must be the grandfather clock Pearson had mentioned. He wasn’t kidding about it being from an Echo, with a chime like that.

The whole party waited, but no hour rang. The room’s other and more mundane clock, a marble antique on the mantel, still showed about ten minutes shy of nine o’clock in the evening.

A smattering of nervous laughter rose up, like a handful of pigeons taking flight to the ballroom’s high ceiling. The murmur of conversation swelled back into its usual busy clamor, everyone no doubt telling one another Oh, it’s just the clock.

I resisted the urge to go look at it. That would be too much like work. If it were dangerous, I’d feel obliged to do something about it; if it presented a puzzle, I couldn’t resist trying to solve it. No, I absolutely should not cross the ballroom, weaving between partygoers with one muttered Excuse me after another, waving away a servant offering a tray of drinks, nudging an errant chair aside with a swish of my peacock-tail scarlet coat. The last thing I wanted to do was lurk around waiting for the crowd drawn by its disconcerting chime to dissipate, giving me a clear view of it at last. And under no circumstances should I approach it so close that my breath misted on its glass face, staring at it in fascination.

Fine. Fine.

I could see what Pearson had meant. The basic shape of it was dignified enough, a grandfather clock with a cabinet of shining dark wood, its round face gleaming. But the carvings surrounding the face were twisted and phantasmagorical, with staring eyes and strange creatures climbing and writhing up into a spiked crown. Each number was in a different style and size, some of them crazily elaborate or tilted off-kilter. The three hands formed wickedly sharp spears of shining steel that patrolled the numbers menacingly, threatening them with impalement.

A single fine crack marred the face, running from top to bottom, starting at the number twelve and snaking down like a bolt of lightning. Iridescent colors showed in the silvery ribbon of broken edge embedded in the glass. I reached out, curious, and ran a finger down its length to see if I could feel it.

The glass felt slick and unbroken. But I pulled away a bloody finger.

I cursed and sucked it. That was stupid, Kem. What did I think would happen, petting broken glass?

“Well, well. If it isn’t Kembral Thorne, in the flesh.”

That was the last voice I wanted to hear right now. She’d come up behind me without making a sound, and it was too late to escape.

I forced myself to turn slowly, as if I wasn’t surprised, to face my nemesis, Rika Nonesuch.

My traitor pulse flared up, but I squelched the old anticipation before it could flare to life. We were not going to have some duel of wits and spend all evening trading flirty quips as we attempted to outmaneuver each other. That was over.

“Rika.” Her bare name was the closest I could come to a cordial greeting, after what she’d done to me.

“Here I thought you’d retired from polite society.” Her grey eyes traveled up and down the length of me, as if to assess my current condition, or perhaps my fashion sense.

I was already feeling a bit defensive about both. I’d done my share of recovery over the years—knife wounds, the deeper scars of Echo magic, you name it—but having your abdominal muscles stretched out and your innards squashed for months on end left its own kind of marks, never mind childbirth itself. And I’d discovered to my chagrin when I tried to get dressed for the party that nothing quite fit the same way now that Emmi had deconstructed and rearranged my whole body. I knew damned well I should be in somber Sickle Moon colors like everyone else, but my scarlet Blood Moon overdress had fit best—more of a coat, really, with split peacock-tail skirts going to just below the knee in front and trailing nearly to my ankles in back—so that was what I was wearing. The neckline was, ah, different with my milk come in, however, and suddenly I was very conscious of it.

“Not retired,” I said curtly. “You’re not so lucky.”

“That’s right. You’ll never retire. You’re probably back on the job already. Up to anything dangerous tonight?”

Her tone was too bright, its false surface ease covering an intensity beneath. A faint flush touched her cheeks, as if from drink or dancing, and one tendril of dark hair hung artfully awry—but I hadn’t seen her dancing, and there was no drink in her hand. What was she up to?

None of my damned business, that’s what. Rika Nonesuch was not my problem tonight.

“No. I’m on leave.”

“Your idea of a good time on a day off is to investigate some creepy Echo relic?” She shook her head. “You really know how to relax.”

It was too like what she’d said right before the star diamond incident. You need to learn how to relax. How to stop being a Hound for half an hour. I’d trusted her, like an utter fool. Heat flushed up my neck.

“The last time you told me that, I woke up under a pile of garbage in a tenement cellar.”

“Truth comes in a variety of astonishing guises.”

I had no patience for her games tonight. “Why are you here, Rika?”

She executed a delicate shrug that set complex shadows to playing across her collarbones. “Do you always know why you do things?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.” She laughed, and there was an odd, bitter edge to it. “I don’t know what fever came over me, thinking I should come talk to you, but it’s past now. I suppose I should see a physicker if symptoms recur.”

I’d been avoiding her gaze, but at that note of hurt I couldn’t help a quick glance to see whether it was real.

Our eyes locked together with an almost audible click. Tension bracketed hers, grey irises shining with some silent electric message. If I let myself fall into them, I could read it—the same way we’d once had a whole unspoken conversation across a room in little twists of expression at a boring political event we were both working.

It was so close. Whatever we’d once had, whatever heady combination of rivalry and teasing chemistry and connection, it was right there, prickly and alive and waiting just below the brittle surface of hostility, like water rushing beneath a skin of clear ice. I could pretend nothing had happened and slip into our old patterns; I could say something wry and warm and give her a little half-suppressed smile and hope things would somehow snap back to what they once were.

But I was flustered and grouchy and tired, and not ready to forgive her, and feelings were delicate things I no longer understood how to mend.

I covered the tightness in my throat with a scowl. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But whatever job brings you here tonight, you’d better not do anything against Dona Marjorie.”

“You always assume the worst of me, don’t you.” Her lips moved, but it wasn’t really a smile.

“Hounds always prepare for the worst.” I should have stopped there, but my anger at everything she’d thrown away between us surged up and spilled bitterly out of my mouth. “You should know that, after the Echo Key affair.”

Rika’s face went flat as a slammed door. Whoops. That might have crossed a line.

Cats weren’t supposed to be caught. That was, in fact, the entire point of the Cats. Sometimes they helped the downtrodden secure justice they couldn’t find within the law; mostly the city’s elite hired them for steep fees to sabotage, steal from, or spy on one another—all the sort of tasks they didn’t want sticking to their reputations, like mud on a fine silk cravat.

This meant Hounds and Cats had more of a direct rivalry than any of the other guilds. It was often a Hound’s job to stop a Cat from fulfilling her mission, but as a professional courtesy it was pretty common to do so without actually catching her. Especially if they had a long history of doing each other small, thoughtful favors when they weren’t striving to thwart each other—like returning a glove the Cat had dropped fleeing a burglary scene, or picking a lock so that a tired Hound on duty could get out of the rain. Or leaving each other little teasing notes if they were working the same building, or rescuing each other from annoying people at parties. In short, if they were friends.

Which, after the star diamond incident, we most certainly were not. So there was no reason I should feel a sudden rush of guilt, no matter how her face looked.

“I see.” Rika’s voice went sharp, losing all its usual silky richness. “That’s how you’re going to play this? Fine. I won’t coddle you anymore.”

She turned on her heel and stalked off.

I’d never once felt coddled in the presence of Rika Nonesuch. Either I’d scored enough points in our new enmity that she was taking the gloves off, or I’d been an asshole for no good reason and should go back home, curl up in a ball, and give up on talking to people ever again. By the sinking feeling in my stomach, I had an awful suspicion as to which it was.

A great shattering crash splintered my thoughts to pieces.

I jumped and reached for my knife. But it was just a drunken guest who’d staggered into one of Dona Marjorie’s staff, knocking over a whole tray of glasses. I let out a relieved breath as the inebriated tailcoat apologized with slurred speech, trying to help the poor man—Carter, his name was; I recognized his curling mustache—while he waved the young guest off with far more patience and grace than I could have managed.

My nerves still jangled. Between this and my reaction to an innocent clock chime, I might be a little on edge tonight.

Time to prove that I did know how to relax, damn it. I scanned the room in desperation, looking for a friendly face.

A sea of conversation lapped at my ears, nearly all of it in the drawling, refined cadence of old money Hillside or the clipped precision of new money Tower district, which only made me feel more out of place. Laughter rose up above the crowd with the loose, uncontrolled ring of inebriation—everyone sure was drinking like it was a Wine Moon tonight. There had to be someone else in that crowd who I knew and liked. Someone uncomplicated and easy to talk to, who wouldn’t leave me feeling like a mess of wet knots.

My eyes snagged on Dona Harking, talking to Marjorie over by the wine table. Ugh. He was the opposite of uncomplicated, all venomous elegance and a sparkling veneer of charm. Given what I knew about him—and the worse things I suspected—the only way I ever wanted to talk to the bastard was if it would get me the evidence I needed to land him in prison.

Pearson had made me back off from Harking. You got the kids back, Kem, he’d sad. You did what your client hired you to do; you’re not a city investigator. The job is done. Let it go.

I was no good at letting things go.

Harking’s gaze wandered and caught mine across the ballroom. He flashed me his classic wry smile and lifted his glass; I forced a small return nod. It was never a bad idea to maintain a certain level of politeness with City Elders, no matter what you thought of them.

The nod must have encouraged him, because now he was heading in my direction. It was far too late to act like I hadn’t noticed and drift away. Every muscle in my abdomen tightened. Here we go.

“Signa Thorne,” Harking greeted me. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here.”

“That’s me,” I said through a false smile. “Full of surprises.”

He did me the courtesy of a chuckle. “Is this your plan for retirement, then? Attending parties with the city’s elite?”

“I’m a bit young to retire.” I couldn’t keep an edge out of my voice. Leave it to Harking to discover something that annoyed me even more than Pearson assuming I’d come right back to work: assuming I was done with work now that I was a parent.

“So you’re staying in the business, then?” His dark eyes glittered, assessing. “Teaching, perhaps? I’m sure there are many who would line up at the chance to learn to blink step.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question. A lot of Hounds switched to teaching when they had kids, and to be honest I was considering it. But Harking’s tone of breezy assumption made my jaw tighten.

“No, I’m going to keep working in the field.” I threw it back at him with far more confidence than I possessed, out of sheer spite.

His lids dropped until his eyes were gleaming slits. “A pity.”

“Oh? Because I’ll uncover all your sketchy secrets?”

“Not at all.” His tone was lazy, unconcerned. “Because a field Hound’s work is dangerous, and it’d be such a shame if something happened to you, with your daughter so young.”

The bastard was threatening me. He must know or guess how close I’d come to uncovering his crimes, and here he was, standing bold as daylight in Marjorie’s ballroom and threatening me, because he was a City Elder and could get away with it. And he dared bring in Emmi.

I showed him my teeth. “I’m not worried, Dona Harking. I’m exceptionally hard to kill.”

“So I’ve heard.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Nonetheless, Signa Thorne, a dog with pups ought to be careful where she sticks her nose.”

“And a City Elder ought to know better than to try to intimidate a Hound. The guilds protect their own.”

“My dear Signa Thorne, whyever would you think I was trying to intimidate you?” There was nothing innocent in the cynical grooves of his face. “It was merely an observation. I’m sure you’d never dream of overstepping your guild charter and meddling in city politics, so it’s hardly relevant to your situation. Is it?”

And that was the crux of the thing. I couldn’t go after him without a client; the balance of power between the guilds and the League Cities was too delicate, governed very precisely by intricate charters. You didn’t mess with that. And the city would never investigate him so long as he remained rich and powerful enough to prevent it from doing so.

“Of course not,” I ground out. “How nice of you to spontaneously express concern for my hypothetical welfare.”

“Good, good. I’m so glad you’re sensible enough to know your limits.” Harking lifted his glass half an inch in a perfunctory salute. “If you’ll excuse me, Signa Thorne, I should give my regards to my fellow Elders.”

I glared holes into his back. Oh, I was not up to dealing with Acantis politics tonight. I itched to pick up my cold leads from the Redgrave Academy job and follow them right to the heart of all his nasty secrets, but even if I had a client, it’d be a while yet before I could go back to work. If I could bring myself to leave Emmi in someone else’s care and go back at all.

I was thinking about work again. I rubbed my forehead. Fun, Kembral. You’re here to have fun. There had to be one enjoyable conversation somewhere at this party.

And there she was, water in the social desert: Jaycel Morningray. Poet, duelist, socialite, occasional public nuisance, and an old friend from Southside. She was holding forth to a rapt audience as usual, wineglass in hand, with a loose confidence suggesting that said glass was neither her first nor her last of the evening. I started in her direction; Jaycel was an endless fountain of gossip and witty commentary, and she knew me well enough to understand when I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I could let the wonderful sound of adult human words wash over me without any pressure to make them myself.

As I navigated the crowded ballroom toward her, a skittering motion caught my eye.

Something small ran under a table—a mouse? No, it had seemed… shiny. I paused, my brow bunching into furrows. Surely I’d imagined that sparkling iridescence, a trick of my tired eyes.

Unease prickled the back of my neck. I reached for the white damask tablecloth.

“Kembral darling!”

Ja