“I want to be with you,” she said, and expected a lot of fuss.
Devin smiled, though. “Thought you might. You haven’t got a bulletproof dress, do you?”
She’d been good and braced for a hard no; getting the green light filled her with such sudden, shocking relief that she could have kissed him. “Give me five, and I’m sure I can fashion something.”
She chose to believe that his proud look was genuine, and not another Devin Green façade.
~*~
The sound of the bolt woke him. Toly was too tired, dehydrated, and defeated to bother with startlement. The lights were still on – he’d been awake for a while, feeling their heat on his closed eyelids – so he rolled his head to the side and cracked his eyes open a fraction to see which “toy” Rosovsky had brought with him this time.
But it wasn’t Rosovsky at all. Toly tried to blink the grit from his eyes, sure he was hallucinating. But, no. The figure who eased the door open and stepped into the room was Ilya’s younger brother. The little one. Pavel. Pasha.
He scanned the room before his gaze came to Toly, and then he walked up to the table and stared down at him, face screwed up in disgust. “Traitor,” he said like a greeting.
Toly could barely get the words out, but managed to croak, “Where’s Rosovsky?”
Pasha’s gaze slid down to his toes, and though his face stayed blank, something flared in his gaze before it returned. “Serge is keeping him busy.” He took a step back. “Don’t say we were here.”
“But why–”
“Don’t.” He backed to the door, then slipped out of it, and the bolt slid home with a hard thump.
Toly rolled his head so he stared up at the ceiling, until the glare of the lights made his eyes water. He fell asleep like that.
Thirty-Four
Raven hadn’t sewn in longer than was seemly to admit, but she did know how, she did have a host of black dresses from which to pull materials, and the boys did have a spare flak vest which they cut up to get to the ceramic panels inside. The end result was a high-necked, corseted gown with a sky-high slit up the side. Paired with tall boots and severe up ‘do, it was actually rather smashing, in a Xena Warrior Princess sort of way. It earned a whistle out of Devin, which in turn earned him a smack on the arm.
Ian, in full Jean-Jacque de Jardin regalia, was playing her date for the evening.
Both of them were armed to the teeth.
Fox and Devin had said they’d worm their way into the club somehow, and she didn’t doubt them. Pongo and Miles were standing guard in the alley between the club and the office building next door – owned by “Mike” as well, according to Connie. And to Ilya, who claimed to have gotten inside earlier and verified Toly’s presence.
For a moment, on the sidewalk in front of Nouveau, she felt a tug at her breastbone, drawing her toward the drab building next door. He was in there; he wasmetersaway.
But she had a part to play, first.
“Ready?” Ian whispered, in his real accent.
She nodded, and when they stepped forward, both of them were playing a part.
“Raven Blake,” she said, coolly, to the man at the door with the clipboard. “And Jean-Jacque de Jardin. We’re expected.”
She half-expected to be barred – Mav had only finalized the details with Misha an hour ago – but the clipboard man nodded, unclipped the rope, and ushered them through.
The interior was done up like an art gallery, as Devin had said, but with a reversed color palette. Nearly-white concrete floors, and black-painted walls; paintings in gilt frames hanging behind ropes, lit by overhead sconces. The ceiling was black, too, and set with revolving, diffuse colored lights that turned everyone’s teeth neon. Patrons stood in drifts and clumps, sipping drinks. She could feel the low thump of the music more than hear it, as they made their way slowly past art displays and conversation groups, moving toward the music.
They passed the bar – a long, antique number with brass footrails and posh, tufted stools loaded with posh, wealthy people – and arrived, finally, at a dance floor just as wild and gyrating as any Saturday night hot spot. The people were a little better dressed, sure, but they were all some combination of high and drunk, arms waving like flags overhead, hips thrusting and gyrating. With the swirling colored lights overhead, the sight of it left her a bit dizzy, and she gripped tight to Ian’s arm.
He laid his hand over hers on his sleeve and patted the back of it. His posture was bored and disinterested, though, in character, as he nodded toward a distant staircase that led up to a viewing platform. “I think that’s VIP,” he shouted in his French accent. “Shall we go?”
“He is expecting us, after all,” she shouted back, careful to sound put out with the scene before them. Anyone might be watching or listening to them, and the only way to ensure success tonight was to play it cool.
It took at least three full minutes to pick their way around the edges of the dance floor, agonizingly slow, but when they hit the bottom stair and started up, Raven felt rushed and wished for more time. She had this. She had this, she had this, she–
“Names, please,” a young woman in a silver ballgown asked, and Ian offered them up in a bored tone, and Ravenhad this.
