Page 51

I look to the stage across the room, where a woman spins on a thick black ribbon. The ribbon covers her most sensitive parts, but even I’m impressed by her performance–it’s borderline erotic–evident by the interest from a table of young men near the front. I’m sure they’ll be requesting a private show in one of the back rooms before the night is over.

“Drinking alone now, old man?”

I look up and see Pace Ashby standing by the table with a knowing smirk.

The Ashbys are one of the growing members of new Royals that know my true identity. One word from him and the club would know that the man behind the mask isn’t Clive Kayes, but Timothy Maddox. But even this one, with all his impulsivity, is aware that some secrets are for a reason. It’s better for all of us for mine to remain unknown.

“Is that a crime?” I reply, glancing around the smoky club unable to shake the sense that although nothing is out of place, something is different. The same intimate tables fill most of the floor, and Monroe, of course, is manning the bar. The crowd is a touch younger, but that happens every fall, as men turn twenty-one and are eager to step into the club. Drinks are being served by beautiful young women. The uniform has been altered slightly, with tight short shorts that cling to their firm butts and thighs. The sequined vests are new, too, although seemingly a little more modest, but the V-necks provide a hint of what’s below. Their smiles feel a little less forced. Their movements less strained. “It feels different in here.”

“Fuck yeah it does,” he says, leaning against the edge of the booth and crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “That’s the sensation of what it feels like to get rid of a hundred-and-seventy-five pounds of toxic bullshit.”

Ah, yes, Rufus.

“That could be it.”

I’d long suspected the girls working at the club were afraid of Rufus, possibly here under some sort of duress. Regina often came with me to my meetings, and she’d sit stiffly next to me, like she knew something I didn’t. Pace may be right, the removal of one thing can spark a full transformation.

Trudie arrives in the club, handing her suede coat to one of the servers. She takes no notice of the show on the stage or any of the other attractions in the room. She’s a force to be reckoned with, a rarity in Forsyth, a female with power not based on royal status, but rather money and connections. It’s how Armand ended up in my initiation, deservedly or not.

Mommy pulled strings.

I lift my hand to get Monroe’s attention, but a waitress is already at the table, setting down her drink of choice–a dry martini. Two olives. My club soda is replenished, and soon we’re alone.

“I can only assume this is about my son.” She picks up her glass and takes a quick swallow. “What’s he done now? Groped one of the whores you keep down in your crypt? Snorted an eight-ball of Scratch? Caught skinny dipping in your fountain?” She plucks out the toothpick holding the olives and bites off one with her teeth. “You knew his reputation when you agreed to take him on. What’s that saying? No backsies, even for a king.”

Her flippant attitude about her son tells me enough about howandwhy he found himself sliced to death on his own weapon. He’s impulsive. Entitled and most of all enabled. I’d allowed him in not just as a favor to his mother, but because he had access to corners of Forsyth that I didn’t. But the last thing I need among my ranks is someone weak. I’d already been betrayed by one Shadow. I couldn’t risk it again.

“This is about Armand,” I tell her, “and I hate to report to you that he’s dead.”

She’d just bitten off the second olive when she gasped in surprise. Eyes wide, she coughs, or attempts to–her airway blocked. Hands flailing at her throat, I give her a long, slow blink, trying to decide if I allow death to take her, or do I intervene?

“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing I can’t have two Stein’s deaths on my hands and I rise, circling the table to drag her from her seat and wrap my arms around her, plunging my fist against her diaphragm… once, then again. The olive ejects, flying across the darkened room. Body shaking, she gasps for air. Pace Ashby takes that moment to pass by with an eyebrow raised at our positioning. “You two need a room?”

“Get her a fucking glass of water!” I roar, releasing Trudie and strengthening my jacket. “Are you okay?”

With a hand to her throat she nods, and the waitress rushes over with a glass of water. Trudie drinks, more liquid spilling from her trembling hand than she swallows. “Sit,” I direct, while jerking my chin at the waitress to leave. She leaves. Trudie sits. “Your son is dead. He attempted to betray me during the initiation ceremony. Foolishly, by the way. Taken out by his own weapon.” I shoot her a withering look.

“I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t believe that he attempted to betray me? That he intentionally violated my rules?” My hand clenches under the table. “The oneand onlyrule, I may add.”

“He was young.” Tears build at the corners of her eyes. I’m not sure if they’re for her son or because she almost choked. “Impulsive.”

“There are witnesses,” I continue, although the story given to me has inconsistencies. Inconsistencies that I plan to follow up on. “And in light of that act, it’s a good thing he was extinguished before I found out, because the consequences would have been far, far worse.”

We stare at one another, all the smugness and bravado she carried in with her long gone. The tears have dried up, confirming those were more about a physical reaction than an emotional one. What Armand tried to do was enough to cause a war, and she’s a woman without an army. Reaching past the water for her martini, she takes a shaky-handed swallow before adding, “I want his body.”

“It’s already been delivered.” Her jaw sets, and I see the hard lines of age against the sides of her mouth and eyes. “Thirty minutes ago. The official story will be that he died in a tragic accident during the Hunt, beyond that, I expect there to be no discussion outside of this table.” I run my fingers over the damp sides of my glass. “That includes the truth about his betrayal.”

She nods, wanting to say more but smart enough to keep her mouth shut. Slowly, she collects herself, finishing her drink and standing. She waves for her coat, and a moment later it’s around her shoulders. And like that, the grieving mother is gone, and once again, I’m left to pick up the pieces.

“Mind if I take a seat?”

A man steps between me and the woman I’ve been watching perform on the stage. It’s a man I’m familiar with but haven’t been personally introduced to. Before I answer, he slides into the seat Trudie occupied.

“Agent Alessio Knight,” he says, lifting the lapel of his jacket to reveal the badge clipped to the inside pocket.

“Baron King,” I reply, lifting my glass and drinking the last of the liquid. “Unfortunately, I was just on my way out.”