Page 65 of Captive of Outlaws

I flip him the bird. He laughs.

“Ready,” Tuck says.

“Ready to hit thebar,” Will remarks.

“Let’s just get it over with,” LJ grunts.

“Agreed,” I add.

And we’re in.

Walking through the front doors sends a wave of nostalgia cascading over me, and it’s not even entirely unpleasant. The imposing steps of the grand staircase, the dark maroon of the wallpaper, the sparkles of the chandeliers, the cigar-and-brandy smell of the inside with the notes of bougainvillea potpourri skating over top...

It’s like I’m six years old again, here for a very special dinner with my parents.

My heart seizes, and I try not to stumble on my heels as we slip in.

“Where are we—” Will asks, but I cut him off.

“The grand ballroom’s to the right,” I say, nodding. “That way.”

Fortunately, it’s packed. The ballroom is a massive atrium, windowed on every side with a distant ivory dome of a ceiling above us and candelabras dangling every few feet above our heads, but right now there’s barely any breathing room. Almost immediately, we’re shoulder-to-shoulder with men in tuxes, women in furs (ew), and waiters bearing precarious platters of champagne coupes and canapes.

And everyone in a mask. From carnivale-inspired with bright colors and feathers to pale white Phantom of the Opera.

If I know anyone here, I won’t recognize them at a glance.

And, hopefully, vice versa.

“Damn,” LJ mutters. “They go all out.”

“You have no idea,” I murmur back.

“Be normal, you two,” Rob whispers, putting a hand on my bare shoulder and leaning in to my ear. “We’re just blending in.”

“Blending in and scoping the joint,” Will adds. He jerks his head subtly to the left. “Over there.”

I follow his lead over the heads of the crowd and spot a long table off to the side, draped with a white tablecloth and stacked with various auction items: the usual gift baskets, fancy bottles of wine, and bad oil paintings done by some society matron who thinks she’s Rembrandt, but also more than a few display cases with shiny valuables winking out at us: necklaces, earrings, coins.

Rob nods, eyes gleaming behind his mask. “Let’s drift that way, shall we? Fan out around the table and we’ll observe.”

As we slip through the crowd, I keep my head on a swivel, looking out for any kind of danger, but no one seems to be paying any attention to me. Advantages of a mask, I guess. Everyone looks equally out of place.

Someone taps my elbow, and I jump.

“Champagne?” It’s Tuck, offering me a coupe.

I press a hand to my heart. “Jesus Christ. You scared me.”

He smiles, lips curving under the wolf face. “Deep breaths.” He takes my hand, gently, and places the stem of the glass into it. “Just blend in. Browse some of these auction items, you know?” He puts a hand to the small of my back and guides me forward. “First rule of shapeshifting: act like you fit in, and you fit in.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Shapeshifting?”

He laughs. “You know what I mean. Just play the part.”

I nod, and let him lead me the rest of the way to the table. The other three are circling it, too—Will seems to haveobtained a few fingers of whiskey in the meantime—and so I follow suit, holding my glass artfully, tipping my head as if I’m actually considering putting down a bid on a pair of ruby earrings or a sapphire tennis bracelet or—

My breath catches in my throat when I see it.

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