Raising the Stakes - Part Three
pairing: Sylus x fem!reader cw: suggestive, guns wc: 5.5k author’s note: finally! there will be one more part to this. read part one here and part two here. description: the moment you’ve been working for, time to complete your mission at the mysterious N109 auction
There’s only one thing on your mind tonight: the Aether Core.
You touch up your lip gloss in the mirror before taking a step back, locking eyes with your reflection and giving yourself a nod. You can do this.
It certainly looks like you can–the dress Sylus left in your room does magical things for your body, the fabric colored like port wine drapes over every dip and curve in an effortlessly flattering way. The dress’ neckline is lower than you’d pick for yourself, but you’re just happy that with all the exposed skin, there aren’t any marks or bruises left over from that stupid sparring match. You vow to never let him beat you again.
Sylus is in the hallway buttoning the cufflinks to his black, form-fitting suit when you emerge from your room.
“Ready?” you ask, fingers tight on your clutch.
His eyes glance up to yours, but their impatience is immediately rectified, as they travel right back down to take you in again, his gaze roaming up from the floor-length hem of your dress to its plunging neckline, only then settling on your face.
You cross your arms over your chest. You’re not used to wearing something like this and you’ve never had someone look at you like that.
“You’ll give me a spin, won’t you?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and start walking down the hallway. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
There’s a limousine out front, which is better than the motorcycle you expected. Sylus gets the door for you and you sit yourself onto the dark, leather seating wrapping around the back of the car.
Sylus enters from the other side, settling across from you before taking two glasses from the in-limousine bar, a level of luxury you’ve never seen before.
The car rolls forward smoothly and Sylus pours the glasses full of sparkling champagne.
“I can’t drink tonight,” you say, “I need to be focused.”
“Sweetie, and don’t take this the wrong way, but if you walk in there as stiff as you look right now, you’ll stand out immediately. I’m trying to help you not blow our cover.”
You press your lips together. “I’m not stiff.”
He gestures the bottle to your figure. Your arms and legs are crossed, your back rigid, and a scowl is ever-present on your face.
You amend your statement, “Maybe just around you.”
Sylus places the bottle back in the bar and gathers the glasses. “And why is that?”
You return a scoff instead of the answer you won’t even admit to yourself. Still the response satisfies him, and he smiles as he offers you a glass. You take it, because as much as it pains you to concede to him, he has a point.
He reaches his own glass forward. “To an unlikely team?”
“The unlikeliest,” you say, clinking your glass with his.
The following sip of bubbly champagne settles on your tongue, greeting you with a dry, pleasant flavor. “So, is there anything I need to know before going in there?” you say, holding the champagne flute down by your lap.
“Talking business so soon?” Sylus tilts his head. “You haven’t even finished your first drink.”
“I prefer to be prepared.”
“Of course.” Sylus places his glass down on the table and folds his hands in his lap. “If you want to retrieve the core tonight, you’ll have to outbid the others.”
A goal easily accomplished with the financial support of the Hunter Association; you have your card–untraceable–tucked away in your clutch. “That is the plan,” you say.
Sylus chuckles. “Indeed, sweetie. However, in the N109 zone, auctions are blind.”
You purse your lips. “So, I won’t know what other people bet for the core?”
“Precisely. Which is why you need to determine the previous bids to ensure you place a higher one.”
“All right, sure,” you say, “I can make that happen.”
“I expect nothing less from my tenacious little Hunter.”
You let the comment roll off of you–priorities. “And so you’ll be tagging along for the ride?”
“As much as I’d love to focus on being a good date, I’ll be dealing with another problem I expect to arise.”
“And what’s that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
You raise an eyebrow, so he adds, “Events like these attract all those who call the N109 zone home, and it’s simply impossible to be friends with every one of them.”
“Right,” you say. Whatever, Sylus can deal with the many enemies he certainly has, it’ll spare you from more time with him.
The car slows to a stop and Sylus looks out the tinted window. “We’ve arrived,” he remarks, “Any questions?”
“I guess not,” you say. It seems straightforward enough: get the intel on the bids, place a higher one, and take the core home tonight.
“Perfect,” he says, placing his champagne glass on the counter of the bar and leaving through his side of the car.
With him gone momentarily, you let out a shuddery breath. Staying with Sylus has been challenging enough, and now you’re trying to blend in with his peers, the elites of the N109 zone? You just hope you can pull this off.
The door opens so you grab your clutch and shift in your seat to face the exit. You’re about to step out of the vehicle when you look back to the half-full champagne flutes sitting at the bar. You reach over and down the first one. And then the second.
You scooch back over to the door and take Sylus’ hand, letting him help you out of the limousine and into the fresh, crisp air of the night. The full moon illuminates the crowd of well-dressed individuals flocking from the street to the museum looming in front of you. A gentle snow has begun to fall.
You go to pull your hand from Sylus’ grip, but his fingers tighten around yours. “Appearances, darling,” he tuts before placing a kiss on the top of your knuckles.
“Sylus!” you hiss, in spite of the warm shift in your stomach. Must be the champagne.
“If you want your bid to be taken seriously tonight, I need to appear as the one backing it,” Sylus remarks before closing the door and extending his arm to you. Biting back a scowl, you loop your arm through his and let him guide you up the stairs into the museum’s entrance.
The doors open to a glamorous sight—high ceilings and gorgeous chandeliers up above and Greek statues and old-fashioned paintings scattered around the lobby’s blood red carpet. Each artifact is complete with a little table and a folded card displaying a faint-worthy price. In the center of the hall, there’s a large, extravagant staircase, and an older man a few steps up grins when he sees you enter.
“Ah, there you are, Sylus!” The man approaches with outstretched arms. You unlink yourself from Sylus and the man embraces him, his arms having difficulty reaching all the way up your date’s broad back to pat it. “I haven’t seen you in forever, my boy.” He pulls back to look up at Sylus with kinder eyes than you’d expect from someone in the N109 zone. “I didn’t expect a public appearance so soon.”
The comment reminds you of a detail from Sylus’ file, that there was a recent change to the bounty on his head, upping the price to 90 million dollars. He’s risking a lot to accompany you to this auction.
“Circumstances changed, Mr. Whiffletrop,” Sylus says, “I’m glad to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine, my boy. Well, there must be some reason you came. May I venture to guess it's the lovely lady you brought with you?”
“You’d be correct.” Sylus turns his body towards you and introduces you by name.
“Hello, Mr. Whiffletrop,” you say, welcoming and warm.
The man shakes your hand with vigor. “My, what a beauty! How lucky you are, dear Sylus.”
“Lucky indeed,” Sylus agrees. He’s really laying it on.
“You’re too kind,” you say, dropping your head and smiling with an appropriate amount of bashfulness.
“Ah, young love,” the man says, placing his hands over his heart. “I wish my husband could see you both. He’d paint such a pretty picture.”
“I’m sure he would’ve,” Sylus says.
The old man is lost in thought for a moment before snapping back to you, “Well, I’ll let you two turtledoves get to it. The dance floor is right over there; it would be a dream to see Sylus and his lovely lady on it!”
“Of course, we were just about to head over there,” Sylus says.
“Oh, you’ll make my night!” the old man cries.
Dancing with Sylus was not part of the plan. Being pressed up against his warm body, his hand interlocked with yours, and those crimson eyes staring down at you–you were trying to avoid such a situation. But the two men are looking at you expectantly, and if you’re going to keep up this charade with Sylus, you’ll have to find a way to manage.
“Yes, we were just about to go on the dance floor,” you say with a smile that hurts your cheeks. “I just–well, Sylus was about to get me a drink before, right Sylus?” You add a gentle squeeze to Sylus’ forearm to say ‘this is the only thing that’ll get me over there.’
“Right,” he says, “Mr. Whiffletrop, would you be so kind as to entertain my date while I go fetch her some champagne? You can ask her all about our relationship.”
“But of course, my boy! And do I have questions!”
You want to take another stab at killing Sylus, but you instead force a smile for the excited museum owner in front of you. Sylus leaves with a genuine, triumphant grin.
The old man pulls your hand into his grasp, eyes locked on yours with unwavering attention. “So, tell me, how did you meet?”
You shift your weight. “Uh, through work, actually.”
“Really?” he says, “Tell me the story! Don’t hold out on the details either!”
“Mr. Whiffletrop,” you say, hoping your smile doesn’t look too uneasy, “I don’t want to keep you from your guests, really. You must have so much on your plate hosting an auction as lovely as this one.”
“It’s no trouble at all! Unless”–the grip on your hand loosens–“Unless I’m asking too many personal questions and you want to be done with it all!”
“No, it’s not like that,” you disagree, weakly.
“Oh, it is, isn’t it?” The old man drops your hand, “I didn’t mean to be a bother,”
“You weren’t–”
He goes on, “It’s just that I’m so happy he’s found someone. The whole world runs away from him, but he has such a kind heart. Got me out of some steep trouble with one of N109’s finest, Mr. Nightcliffe. The bastard tried to take my museum. Well, I won’t bore you with the details but”—he opens his hands and gestures to the bustling gallery around the two of you—“I got to keep my pride and joy!”
“That’s great,” you respond flatly. You didn’t know Sylus was such a patron of the arts.
“It’s great, it’s grand!” the man says, “So please excuse my enthusiasm, I am just truly so happy the boy’s found someone. You’ll at least tell me how long you’ve been dating?”
You’ve only known him for a few days now.
“Two months.” You smile.
“Ah, yes, the honeymoon phase! I should’ve been able to guess from the way he looks at you.”
“The way he looks at me?” you repeat.
“Drinks?” Sylus says, arriving with three flutes of champagne.
“Ah, thank you,” you say, avoiding his eyes when you take your drink.
You sip on your champagne as the old man catches up with Sylus, who occasionally looks over to you, checking on how you’re doing. You give a tight-lipped smile and nod every time. It’s not like he has to babysit you. You scan the room as they chat, making note of any suspicious behavior, but your eyes keep wandering over to your date, who’s now saying goodbye to Whiffletrop.
Sylus links his arm in yours, “Ready for the dance floor, darling?”
The old man gives you a big grin and a thumbs-up, so you respond, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Thankfully, Sylus is a good teacher, guiding you around the room with enough grace for the two of you. And the music is pleasant enough. It’s all almost…enjoyable.
Eyes on the prize, Hunter.
“So, where is the Aeth–you know what. The only thing in here are dusty old paintings,” you say.
“These old paintings are quite magnificent, and they’ll tell you their secrets if you spend some time with them. But as I’ve learned, you have tunnel vision.”
“You mean I’m focused on my mission? Yes, I am. God forbid I try to get my job done.”
“Ah yes, well, the devil is in the details, of which you have few.”
“So tell me,” you implore. You stumble at the next move, but Sylus flawlessly integrates it into the dance by following your misstep.
“What you’re looking for is a special class of item, and the auction of such artifacts is housed in a hidden wing of the museum."
“And where can I find that?”
He’s now pulled you a bit closer than the dance requires, your chest brushing against his as you sway to the music.
“Well, sweetie, I’ve satisfied our deal by getting you in here. I think I’d want a little more before giving you precise locations of the core.”
You look up at him, eye contact now more of an effort due to the proximity. “Sylus, you’re supposed to be helping me.”
“But it’s so much more fun playing with you,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, sending heat to your cheeks.
“It’s not fun when I’m trying to complete my mission,” you hiss.
“Then it’s good that my information comes at a very low price,” Sylus responds, dipping his head down so he can speak into your ear, “and I think we can both walk away satisfied.”
His low voice sends a shudder through your system that you cover up by pulling away, returning to the far less intimate version of the waltz. He tilts his head, amused, before spinning you. Maybe a better hunter wouldn’t be so scared to play ball to get the intel you need, but you can’t risk getting yourself into another situation that’s too close for comfort.
“I’m not playing any more games with you,” you decide.
“But, sweetie, you don’t even know what I’m asking for in return.”
“Sylus,” you say, “I’ve already gotten what I need from you. I’ll be able to handle the rest myself.”
“Is that so?” Sylus says, “You’re certain you don’t want me to at least point you in the right direction?”
Your mouth hardens into a line. Saying yes here means being called upon your debt later. You restate yourself: “I don’t need your help.”
“You make yourself clear.” Sylus chuckles, a sound that quickly fades when his eyes go over your shoulder, staring a hole into whatever’s across the room. You turn to follow his gaze, but he places a hand on your shoulder that keeps you in place before saying, “So, I’ll get out of your path. Find me once the bid is in.”
Then he walks past you, leaving you alone on the dance floor. When you turn to watch him leave he’s already vanished into the crowd of elegantly dressed dancers. So you shuffle over to the side of the floor, eager to get off and hug the wall. A waiter offers you another drink and you take it, sipping on it while listening in on surrounding conversations.
“Hah! And so I told him: ‘if you’re not going to buy it for me, I’ll just find someone who will!’”
That’s not helpful. Next.
“I think it might be a UTI. Yeah, I know. Dirty dick.”
Jeez. There’s a few more conversations like that, dripping with gossip but dry on intel.
So, you’ll just have to search for the secret auction. It has to be somewhere someone can easily slip off to unnoticed, which rules out the crowded main hall. You stroll around, it could be the bathrooms, but that would require two entrances dependent on gender, which isn’t practical. You continue past the hall’s main staircase, entering into a quieter passageway. You open a janitor's closet and look around, but find nothing particularly suspicious.
Quiet places, where are quiet places?
It can’t be Whiffletrop’s office, no one would have a good excuse if caught in there. Still, you try the handle anyway—it’s locked.
The next room over is a library, with no one in it. Promising.
Could it be a mystery novel contraption where pulling a book breaks the wall two, revealing a hidden chamber? No, the encounter has to be brief, allowing you to disappear in under three seconds. Quick and easy.
You scan the room. There are two armchairs, a tall lamp between them, a fireplace, and shelves upon shelves of books. There’s only one wall not entirely consumed by books, where the shelves are split by a painting straight through the center. Always paintings, Mr. Whiffletrop’s husband, Sylus preaching about secrets hidden in the art…
You take a step forward, the painting is rather tall, and close to ground level. Committing to the inspection, you walk over and feel your fingers up the sides of the golden frame, freezing when your fingertips run over a raised section. A button.
Pressing on it frees the painting from the wall with it hinging on one side like a door. You pull the artwork back to reveal a candlelit passageway. This must be it.
You slip through the entryway and pull the handle on the back of the painting to close it behind you. Quick and easy.
The candlelight is dim, so you keep one hand on the side of the cold, stone wall as you stalk through the hallway. There’s a sharp turn before the passage opens out into a small chamber humming with low chatter. The grey of the stone floor transforms into a brilliant red of carpet splitting the chamber in half, each side of the crimson lined with glass displays showcasing floating protocores of various colors. There’s a few people interspersed with the displays, and none of them take notice when you enter. You're just another guest.
Your eyes flick around the room as you appear to appraise the different cores in the displays, taking note of people’s faces and a black curtain dividing a “staff only” section from the rest of the chamber. You bet you’ll have to get back there to find the current bids on the Aether Core.
You walk through to the far side of the hall to the final display that the protocores have been leading to, except, there’s not a matching glass container on top of the ornate column. There’s a sign beneath the empty space:
Aether Core
Starting bid: 1,000,000
It’s not here?
It could be getting cleaned, though you’re not sure that’s physically possible. Then maybe it’s too valuable to have on display–but it’s the main draw of the auction tonight. There’s a blond man in a black vest and bow tie stepping behind the staff-only curtain. You’ll have to ask him. Just as you're about to take a step towards the curtain, the conversation of two men leaning on a pillar catches your ear.
“I can’t believe the core’s already been bought.”
“Yeah, and so early in the night. I don’t know why we bothered coming.”
You turn towards them. “Excuse me,” you say, as sweetly as you can.
“Ah, hello, Miss,” the taller one says, straightening up and tipping his top hat, while the other one’s gaze spends a little too much time on your chest before arriving at your face.
“My date, the monster, left me alone on the dance floor, so I was hoping you two handsome gentlemen could keep me company instead.”
“That is just unforgivable,” the taller one says.
“He must be out of his mind,” the shorter one adds, “Of course we’ll take care of you.” He smiles, gummy and lecherous.
“Thank you so much,” you say. “I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of your discussion on the Aether Core.” You purposefully mispronounce it.
The two look at each other, before the man in the top hat smiles, “Ah yes, the Aether Core. We were just lamenting its recent purchase. That blond auctioneer just told us about it.”
But the auction just started. Most of the bids aren’t even in yet.
“Snatched right out from under our noses,” the other one adds.
“How horrible!” you say, adding a dramatic gasp. “How could something like this happen?”
The men laugh at your antics, which you hope they’re taking as sincere though ridiculous.
“Apparently the buyer offered ten times what anyone here would ask at this auction to purchase it directly. I suppose the museum couldn’t refuse.”
“Wow, this is just fascinating,” you say, shaking your head with wide eyes. “You must be very smart to be so in-the-know about what’s going on at such an elite auction.”
“Well, when one’s been in the trade this long...” The taller man grins.
“I’m just so curious as to who the buyer could be,” you say, putting your finger to your chin to emphasize your utter cluelessness.
The men fall over themselves to prove their intelligence.
“There’s only two people in the N109 zone who could afford a purchase like this,” the shorter one says, self-assuredly.
“Well, there’s only one who can purchase from the museum," the taller man corrects. “Mr. Nightcliffe has been banned since Whiffletrop made nice with Onychinus.”
“I still see his people around,” the shorter one retorts, “In fact–”
The top hat man leans towards you. “Well, you can’t blame them for trying to get their claws back in. It’s a great spot, this museum, strategic, too.”
The stout man objects, “It’s not the best base in the city. I’d much prefer—”
You bring the conversation back onto the rails. “So, if not Mr. Nightcliffe, who would be able to spend such a large sum on an artifact like this?”
The men look at each other, a little surprised at your obliviousness.
“Well, the leader of Onychinus, of course.”
Your heart stutters. Sylus.
“Why, yes, of course!” you say, weakly laughing, “The richest man in the N109 zone.”
“And the most well-connected,” the top hat man states, “I’m sure the museum would be happy to bend rules if it meant staying in his good graces.”
Right, Whiffletrop.
You finish the last three-sips of your drink in one gulp. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you both, but I need to powder my nose. I hope to see you lovely gentlemen later.” You give a tight smile and leave before they can respond.
Two hard realities hit you at once: the object you so desperately seek has been pulled from your reach, and the person likely responsible was supposed to be your closest ally. Your lip curls, he agreed to help you! No, just like he said, he’d rather play with you like a little ragdoll until he gets bored and tosses you away.
Rage is building up within you like a forest fire, and the additional glass of champagne you down while walking towards the exit doesn’t douse the flames, it feeds them.
Fuck, was this his plan all along? Sending you on some wild goose chase for bid counts, holding out on the core's location, all to create enough delay so he could take the core for himself? You knew in your heart you didn’t trust him, and still you let him slip off on the dance floor to seal the deal. He’s probably escaping with the core right now!
You hurry back through the passageway, not bothering to close the painting behind you, and re-enter the main hall. Your head whirls around the room, but it’s too crowded to see anything but styled hair and tailored suits. You hurry over to a nearby staircase, getting up the first few steps and nearly tripping over the next one. Fuck, the champagne here is strong.
You steady yourself on the railing and scan the room. Just flashes of color, people dancing, talking, and then you see him entering through a door on the far side of the room. You pick up the hem of your dress and shove your way through the crowd, following him into a dining room and then back to a personal library. He’s just about to place his hand on the frame of the ajar painting when you close in on him.
“I was just looking for you,” Sylus says, turning to see your face, “Kitten, what’s wrong?”
A couple is entering the library, so you grab his arm and pull him through another door, “C’mere,” isolating him within the walls of a private study.
You lock the door before shoving him against it and pressing down on his jacket pockets. There’s nothing in them so you push his jacket from his shoulders, revealing his black button down. Nothing.
“I never thought I’d see you so excited to undress me,” he says, “What’s gotten into you?”
“Shut up.” He’s fucking flirting with you again, no doubt a tactic to manipulate and disarm, and one you fell for. You crouch down to his pants to search. You try to get your fingers inside his pockets, but your fingers are missing their expected dexterity, so you pat instead. “Where is it?” you snarl.
“Are you confused? You know our little brooch bet is over.”
You stand up and, with both hands, grab his collar and pull him down to your scowling face, “Where is the Aether Core? I know you have it.”
“Kitten, you’re mistaken,” Sylus says.
“No, I am not, someone has it already!” you cry, tightening your grip, “And they said it could only be you.”
“Who said that?” Sylus says, tilting his head, “You’re not making any sense.”
“An anonymous buyer bought the core with a shit-ton of cash! You're the only one with enough money to do that!”
Sylus’ brows furrow. “Someone already bought the Aether Core?”
“Fucking keep up, Sylus!”
“It wasn’t me,” Sylus says, enclosing your wrists with his fingers. His touch makes you want to drop your guard, makes you want to believe him, so you pull your hands away, stepping back and crossing your arms.
“Well, from what I heard, it can’t be Nightcliffe, so my money’s on the man who’s basically Whiffletrop’s son.”
Sylus swears as he turns to the side. “Nightcliffe?” he repeats. “That’s why–” He looks back at you. “Yes, Whiffletrop. Let’s go speak to Whiffletrop.”
“Sylus, what?” you say, throwing your hands out in exasperation. “Did you not hear what I said? You have it!”
“Darling, I can assure you that I do not.” Sylus steps forward. “Somehow, and I intend to find out how, this is Nightcliffe.”
“But they said–” Your head is starting to hurt now, like the gears are turning without oil. You drop your hands by your sides. You don’t know what to believe.
Sylus continues on, “The Aether Core needs stabilizing before transit, and the staff certainly won’t let them take it away yet, not until the event is over,” he says, “I’m sure the museum will be open to some re-negotiation. But we’ll have to go now.” He opens the door, but you remain where you are, a mix of emotion threatening to spill from your hardened expression. “Sweetie?”
“I just–I don’t know.” You look down, lips pressing together. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious, Sylus. I can’t tell if you’re on my side,” you say, “I’m so confused.”
This is so embarrassing, pleading for clarity from the man you convinced yourself was an enemy–someone who could very well still be your enemy. It’s like you can’t stop making the wrong calls. You’re not cut out for this job, far too weak, pathetic and–
Two large arms wrap around your body. Your muscles tense at the contact, ready to fight yourself out of a boa constrictor's hold, but you're soon disarmed when he begins stroking your hair in slow, soothing motions. This enemy-ally isn't trying to hurt you, he wants to comfort you.
With a whirlwind of rage, sadness, and self-doubt swirling within your heart, you give yourself a moment’s reprieve, closing your eyes against his chest and listening to the thrum of his heartbeat. Then, he gently pulls himself back, soft hands remaining on your shoulders as he looks into your eyes to say, “I am with you.”
You accept it, a lot because you have to, and a little because you want to. “Okay.” You take a step towards the door before halting, turning back to the white-haired man. “But if you fuck me over, I can and will kill you this time.”
Sylus chuckles, “Understood, sweetie.”
The two of you find Mr. Whiffletrop back in the main hall chatting with a few of the auction attendees.
“A moment, Mr. Whiffletrop?” Sylus requests.
The man turns with a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, anything for you, my boy!” He turns back to his guests. “If you could please excuse me.”
The older gentleman steps away from his conversation to face you two. “How can I help?”
“We had some questions on tonight’s main pull–the auction of the Aether Core.”
“Sylus, if you’re trying to ask me to rig the auction, you know I won’t do it! I am a man of integrity after all.”
“Of course I wouldn’t ask that of you, Mr. Whiffletrop. I merely meant to inquire about the permanence of the selling of the core. It is rather early in the night.”
“I’m not sure I understand your question,” Whiffletrop responds, “Nothing is formally sold until the end of the night–after all the bids come in.”
“Apparently, the core has already been sold,” you explain, “It’s not on display anymore.”
“That can’t be right,” Mr. Whiffletrop says, eyebrows knitting together, “I-I’ll have to go see it for myself.”
The three of you enter the hidden wing of the museum, and your words are confirmed by the empty pillar center-stage.
“Where’s Alexei?” asks Mr. Whiffletrop, “He’s supposed to be down here, running this section of the auction.”
“Oh, the blond guy? Last I saw him he was going behind the staff curtain.”
Mr. Whiffletrop looks at you with sharp eyes. “Alexei isn’t blond.”
You all step behind the curtain to see Whiffletrop’s Alexei unconscious against the wall. As Whiffletrop calls for medical services to attend to the poor victim, Sylus and you hurry back through the passageway once more to the main section of the museum. You grab Sylus’ hand and pull him to the staircase, this time holding onto the railing as you ascend.
There’s little to no blond flashes throughout the sea of hair spinning and swimming through the room, so he must’ve made his way out of the building already. You fly down the stairs and nearly collide with the doorway on your way out. It’s begun to snow, white flurries blocking your vision. Even so, you’re able to catch a flash of pale blond hair down by the sidewalk. He’s hailing a sleek black car to his side of the street.
Sylus is behind you; he grabs your arm. “Sweetie, more trouble than good will come out of confronting them here. Let me handle it.”
At this point, there's only so much faith you can put in others. This could be your last chance to get the core.
“I need it back,” you say, wrenching your arm away and hurrying down the countless stairs onto the street. Once your heels hit the cold concrete of the cracked sidewalk, you draw your gun from your purse and aim it at the escaping blond.
“Stop!” you yell, but it just hastens the pace in which the man hops inside the car, which takes off with a screech.
You start to run along the sidewalk, slipping and sliding on the newly-formed ice. Sylus is shouting from behind you, but you can’t make it out with the wind howling in your ear.
You aim your gun towards the retreating car’s back tires, finding it hard to see straight, but let off a shot anyway.
The car doesn’t stop, but a window rolls down and an arm sticks out of the gap.
Two shots ring out, of which you make no attempt to take cover from, you just keep running.
“No, stop!” you call again weakly, stumbling. The car turns the corner with a squeal and disappears into the foggy night. It’s gone, the Aether Core is officially gone.
You crumple down onto the cold sidewalk, red fabric pooling all around you. Sylus is on you in a second, arms wrapping around your shivering frame. “Are you hurt? Let me see, did they get you?”
“I’m so stupid, so fucking stupid,” you mutter.
After a quick assessment, Sylus scoops you up from the street and walks you to his limousine. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, fighting to keep the tears from falling.
You had one goal going into this night–and you failed.
