Page 28 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

T imothy

Adjusting my mask, I step past the bouncer and into the dark haze of the club.

Monroe is behind the bar and I gesture to him as I walk toward the secluded corner booth.

Graves called earlier and reserved it for me.

I could have gone to Trudie’s home to tell her about her son, but some things are better handled in public with society as a witness.

Also, I needed to get out of the house to consider the facts of what I’d learned about the Baroness. She’d been the one to take Armand’s life.

Shrugging off my cloak, I hang it on the hook next to the booth, and I’ve just taken my seat when a waitress appears, placing a napkin and glass on the table in front of me.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.” Her lips quirk up, but falter, obviously a little nervous. Who wouldn’t be? She’s serving Forsyth Royalty. I lift the glass and take a sip. Club soda. I swallow it back and lament that it’s on nights like tonight that I wish I still consumed alcohol.

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 how and why 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 one and only rule, 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.”

“I’m sure you can spare a few minutes of your time,” he says casually, “but we can do this down at the station if you’d prefer.”

The tactic is old but effective. The only way I’m setting foot in the Forsyth Police station again will be in handcuffs. I inhale and settle back against the seat. “What can I do for you, Agent Knight?”

“Just following up on a conversation we should have had a while back,” he notes.

“I’ve managed to interview every other King in Forsyth, although some are more cooperative than others.

I just had this nagging feeling that there was one person I needed to speak to about the recent disappearances in town. ”

I’d been waiting for him to show up on my doorstep, but he’s not stupid enough to do that. He has no warrant–nothing other than suspicion. His appearance tonight could have easily been about Armand, but Trudie is nothing but discreet. Her son’s death is a humiliation.

I decide to cut to the chase. “I understand the need to be thorough, but I can assure you no one involved in the brN fraternity has had anything to do with the missing girls.”

“See, that’s the problem I’m running into. Everyone says they’re not involved, but you’re the only one that walks around in a mask that hides your true identity and is rumored to hunt women in the forests.”

“Rumors don’t hold up in court, Agent Knight.

” I eye the younger man. He’s got the attitude of a man with power, but his suit jacket is cheap, off the rack, and he needs a haircut.

I’ve heard my own rumors about him and the Madam down at the Hideaway–about his lineage.

I frown. “It’s my understanding you have a person of interest already in custody. ”

“We do, but that hasn’t led us to the four girls we know are still out there.”

“And what? You think that I can?” I scoff. “I assure you, Agent Knight, if there was a way to find these young women and return them home safely, I’d do whatever I could. Do you not recall that a female of value to the Barons was harmed as well?”

“Oh yes, I recall.” His jaw sets, the hard muscle in the back throbbing in annoyance. He thinks for a moment before saying, “Which is why I’m here to tell you that I’d like to speak to Arianette again, to see if she remembers anything.”

“You had access to her in the hospital,” I remind him.

“She was still in a state of trauma, drugged, making her information unreliable.” He scratches his cheek. “She may be able to tell us more now about who took her, where she was held.”

It’s reasonable, but from what I learned from the coroner today, Arianette has blood on her hands, making any contact with the authorities a risk. “She’s still in a vulnerable state. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“So vulnerable you’re going to call off your wedding?” When I don’t respond he shakes his head with a dark laugh. “Of course not, nothing will get in the way of another Royal sticking his dick in an innocent, young girl in order to continue the family line–”

“Enough!” I hiss, blood thundering in my ears.

I slam my hand on the table, the King ring front and center.

“You shut your mouth about things you do not, and will not, ever understand.” I take a deep breath in an attempt to regain my composure, while Knight assesses me.

Fuck him. “If you’re so worried about bloodlines and lineage, and you want to dig around in the family trees of Royals, I suggest you look at the Purple Palace. ”

“Due to recent events, Rufus Ashby has been cleared as a suspect.”

“I’m not talking about Rufus, although we’re all better off with him gone.” I lower my voice. “There are other bloodlines in that house that are more tainted than the rest. As the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

He sits back, wheels turning in his head. I take the opportunity to stand, reaching into my pocket and tossing cash on the table.

“I can assure you, Agent Knight, that no one in Forsyth wants these women found more than I do.” I grab my cloak and throw it over my shoulders. “And while you do your job, I’ll do mine. We’ll see who ends up finding them first.”

It’s late when I return and the house is quiet. Even the hallway that leads to Graves’ private wing is dark. I step into my room, hang up my cloak and start to remove my mask.

Until I notice it.

There’s no delay between me pulling out the switchblade and snapping it open.

No hesitation as I jerk open the closet door.

Nothing. No one. It’s not until I'm sure there’s no one else in the room that I take a breath and cross over to the dresser.

The framed photo of my wife, Amber, and Remington, is askew.

Positioning it back into place, I search for any other intrusion, and see a plate sitting on the windowsill–a slice of half-eaten cake frozen exactly as the trespasser left it.

That’s when I look back at the dresser, and rage builds in my chest.

Not only has someone been in my room, touching my things, leaving trash…

Something has been stolen.

And I know exactly who took it.