Eli adjusted his earpiece, then his tuxedo as he mentally ran through the locations of his team members. All exits were covered, his tech van was parked a block away, and he had three agents undercover as servers. As long as they didn’t get roped into cleaning up champagne or pointing someone to the bathroom, that gave him the entire second floor free to observe and listen.

And look for Ambrose Beake.

The museum was filling quickly as celebrities finished their posing and preening on the red carpet and filed into the lobby. From the second floor balcony, Eli could watch them mingle, pose for a second wave of greedy photographers, then melt into the maze of bars, table tops, and dancing. Because it had been some organizer’s idea to make the gala masquerade-themed, half the attendees wore masks, each one more ostentatious than the last.

“Ridiculous, right?” a female voice muttered in his earpiece. He glanced over to Dawn, who was stalking the first floor in a black tuxedo. “You think they’re gonna keep those things on all night?”

Eli smirked as a woman came strutting in from the red carpet, the peacock feathers on her mask brushing against the top of the doorway. “No way,” he mumbled. “They’re gonna pass them off to their assistants as soon as the press leaves.”

“Hm. Any sign of your blue boy?”

“Not yet.” Eli paused. “And he’s not my blue boy, why do you keep saying that—?“

“I thought I told you not to be late?” a voice said next to him.

Eli whirled around and reached for his gun—but halfway through the motion, he felt his limbs slow, then stop, as if the air had turned to ice. He could no longer move, not even bat an eyelash. A hand tilted his chin up so he could see the culprit.

“I thought you might try that.” Ambrose Beake stared down at him, a white ring of light fading in his blue irises. “Would you like for me to tell you why that’s a bad idea?”

Ambrose let go of his chin and stepped away, allowing Eli to see what the criminal had chosen to wear for the gala. At first glance, it was a simple, if well-tailored, tuxedo—but his simple move into the light betrayed the detail. A geometric black-on-black pattern rippled down the fabric, while multiple rows of glittering black beads cut sharp lines down the lapels. The layered darkness only made his blue hair and eyes stand out more, striking in their intensity despite the pastel hues.

If Eli could have spat on the man, he would have. Surely all his finery was financed by the murder, extortion, and theft he was known for.

Not that Eli was entirely positive on how exactly murder financed a suit, but he was sure it factored in somehow, so he remained angry about it.

“Right. Let me explain.” Beake neatened his onyx cufflinks as he spoke, while Eli remained half-twisted in the air, teeth gritted. “You have twelve agents on the first floor, three of which are posing as servers. Yes, they do have the exits covered, and your tech van is all ready to go on the corner of Ninth and Oak. It’s actually parked quite close to the taco truck on the corner, so she might as well take advantage of that while she’s there.” He straightened. “Every member of my team is trained on every member of yours. If you call it in now, there will be a bloodbath, and I cannot express how much I do not care if the attendees below are caught in the crossfire.”

“Valenz? You copy?” Dawn’s voice crackled at Eli’s ear. He felt a bead of sweat drop down the side of his forehead.

Ambrose waved a hand, and the white ring of light in his eyes flashed once more. Eli’s limbs all dropped at once, and he grabbed the railing to catch himself.

“Valenz?” Dawn repeated. Eli searched Beake’s face, as smooth and unemotional as porcelain, then looked down at the attendees.

If Beake wasn’t bluffing, he couldn’t risk it.

“Copy,” he muttered.

“Everything all right up there?”

“Fine. Move to the east wing.”

He watched as Dawn shifted her path and disappeared under the opposite balcony, then turned to Beake. “What do you want?”

“Have you forgotten so quickly?” Hands clasped behind his back, Beake strolled up to the railing. “If you’ll indulge me and recall what we discussed last week, you’ll follow that man there, in white.”

Eli caught sight of him right away—an old man in a gaudy white tuxedo, half-hunched as he took a photo with a model over half his age. Follow the money, Beake had said.

The man in question was Mr. DuPont. If anyone here was money, it was him.

“Who knows,” Beake murmured. “If you track him, you might even see me again.”

He strode off and around the corner. By the time Eli could gather his wits and follow him, the man had disappeared, though no doors nor stairs were nearby.

Eli let a curse echo in the empty wing. First a freezing spell, now this. How many of his illegal potions had the man taken to pull those stunts in quick succession? If he could just catch him before he took his alchemic boosts…

He returned to the railing in time to watch Mr. DuPont mingle his way towards the bar, flanked by a bodyguard. The old money looked frail, like a strong breeze would snap him in half.

Eli tapped his fingers on the railing, then headed for the stairs. Fine. He’d follow the money, if it meant getting another shot at Beake.