Franny had finally made it to Paris.

He had glimpsed it briefly when Mollie had abandoned him in Talas, but now he was finally here. The guy who had never traveled any farther than Florida to visit his grandparents had now been in Talas and Tehran and Paris. He had to say Paris was better.

Figuring that Baba Yaga would only stay at the best, Franny had downloaded a list of the most expensive hotels in the City of Light. He had worked his way through sixteen of the twenty-five listed by Forbes. Hôtel Fouquet’s Barrière was next. According to the article the cost was $1,487 per night and that was before taxes. He couldn’t imagine spending that much on a place to sleep. Just buying a plane ticket had depleted his meager savings.

Shifting the floral bouquet into one hand he fingered the vial of Trump virus in his coat pocket, then touched the syringe in his breast pocket. He wasn’t killing her. Not really. There was a reason the trump was normally only used in Black Queen cases. Using it on a stable ace risked four possible outcomes—nothing would happen, their powers were stripped away, the virus reactivated and turned them into a joker, or death. Administering it to her wouldn’t make him a murderer. He was giving her a chance. It was more than she’d done for her victims.

Of course, once he found her he would have to deal with her guards. She would be guarded, he was certain of that. Even if all her mob competitors had died in blood and madness in Talas she still wouldn’t feel safe.

The hotel was on the Champs-Élysées. In the distance loomed the Arc de Triomphe. The building was white with a blue roof and shaped like the Flatiron Building in New York City. He walked past a line of black lion statues, under the red awning, and entered the hotel. The lobby flashed in shades of gold with crimson throw pillows and crimson rugs on the gold marble floor as accents. He approached the front desk that was fronted by gleaming crystal panels.

The supercilious desk clerk gave him the hairy eyeball. “I have a delivery for Mariamna Solovyova.”

“We will have it delivered to madam,” the man said. The disdain dripped off the accented words and Franny wanted to slug him.

He didn’t argue, just handed over the flowers. He walked away and used a fall of gold drapery as cover. A few moments later a bellmen arrived at the front desk and took the bouquet. Franny took a position where he could see the elevators, and watched the numbers light up. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.

He then ducked into the bathroom and dialed 17. He had ascertained that was the emergency police number for France. He assumed what the operator asked him was What is your emergency? so he started talking.