Page 16 of Glimmer and Burn (Unity #1)

Chapter Five

D evin had done a very good job avoiding soirées and fancy gatherings of any kind since inheriting his father’s house and lands.

It helped that society was hesitant to invite him in the first place, but he wouldn’t have accepted anyway.

He grew up observing from the outside, like the rest of the city.

Grand balls. Fancy dinners. Overnight excursions to private mansions in the country. Only rich humans did those things.

Devin preferred his club and apartment in the Fells.

It was grander than anything he had growing up.

Large, spacious. Long hallways that led to rooms with purposes he never bothered to learn.

It had been furnished by the previous tenant, and he hadn’t bothered to change it except to buy his own bed in the master suite.

It was the first time he’d ever had a proper bed that belonged solely to him.

He was respected at the club, instead of the unintentional lord of the manor.

It wasn’t in the nice part of town or frequented by high society, but more citizens of Unity lived outside their social divides than in, so his business was thriving.

He often wondered why he chose to stay in the Garrison, then, in this loathsome house with a history that wanted him erased from it.

Spite had a little to do with it. There was a sick sort of satisfaction in being here.

With its stately furniture and paintings and heirlooms. All collected over the generations of the Warner—Devin kept his mother’s surname—family.

Imagine the solicitor’s shock when his investigation into the inheritance led him to Devin’s pleasure club.

New laws created fewer restrictions about birthright and neither his bastardy nor his fae blood were reason enough to deny Devin.

Now the entirety of Robert Warner’s holdings belonged to him.

A too large house, servants, and a noble title.

Devin couldn’t decide what he planned to do with it all. Some days he wanted to burn the whole lot of it to the ground. Some days he wanted nothing to do with it, just sell it off and never think about it again.

Yet month after month he’d show up here for a few days. He let the steward ramble to him about the accounts and the staff and Devin would simply throw the funds where they needed to go and then amble about before leaving again.

He sat there now, not drunk but getting there. Alcohol had been the quickest, surest way to dull his sight.

Devin stared at the calligraphied page on his desk.

True to her word, Miranda had seen to his invitation to the grand engagement party of Cordelia Wilde to Yarrow Graves.

She must have bribed or begged her parents to allow the likes of him to attend.

And Graves would see his name. Would he remember a lowly soldier?

Would he remember threatening Devin, Gideon, and Rachel—the only surviving members of their unit—to keep his cowardice secret?

Devin took another long drink.

He still hadn’t made up his mind about going.

This was not what he signed up for when he agreed to destroy Graves.

In fact, his attending a ball at the man’s house was the very last thing he could have conceived.

Devin wasn’t sure he would be strong enough not to kill him.

He wasn’t sure he could look the man in the face or even breathe the same air without becoming violent.

Miranda was right to protect her sister from Graves, her actions so far suggested she had first-hand knowledge of Graves’s evil.

The thought turned his stomach and he pushed back from the desk, rubbing his forehead as he tried not to picture what Graves could have done to make her hate him so violently.

“Sir.” The butler knocked and disrupted his dark musings. What time was it?

“Yes, Haversham?”

“There’s a Mr. Gideon Blair here to see you,” Haversham stated in that bland tone butlers used to hide any hint of an opinion or feeling in their words.

“Show him in,” Devin ordered as he took another long swig of his drink then set it aside.

Gideon was a solid man with dark hair and an easy smile. He’d always been a bit of a skirt chaser, charming and flirtatious when he wanted to be, stoic and serious when he didn’t. They might have been competitors if not for the perilous circumstances of their acquaintance.

He entered the room in full Watchmen uniform, dark pants and coat with brass trim and buttons.

Rank and badge shined proudly on his chest and shoulders.

It suited his build well, highlighting his muscles and power.

Devin always wondered if Gideon didn’t choose the profession because the uniform drew in women.

“Drake,” Gideon said with a nod as he entered. He was powerful, even for a guardian, but was often too ridiculous for Devin to take him seriously.

“What do I owe the pleasure, Blair?” Devin reclined in his seat, though he knew exactly why Gideon was here. Devin kept his smile in place, despite his souring mood. He wished they were at the club, where Devin felt more in control, but he hadn’t known Gideon would show up now .

“I’ve been busy,” Gideon deflected, looking around. “Didn’t think you’d stay at your father’s home. I thought you hated him.”

“I do, but the house is mine. Legally and all that, so until I decide what to do with the bloody place I may as well use it.”

Gideon nodded. “And the idea of the former Lord Warner turning in his grave doesn’t enter into it?”

“What brings you here, Blair? And without Rachel in tow? She finally wise up and tell you to go to hell?”

“I’m not her keeper.” He adjusted his collar and Devin sensed that Rachel’s absence was a point of aggravation. “Anyway, I’m working on something.”

He meandered through the room, studying the titles of books on the shelf. Gideon stopped briefly in front of a portrait on the wall Devin could only assume was some long dead relative, he never bothered to study the family tree that had severed his branch.

Gideon continued to amble. He never could sit still. “I’m in charge of safeguarding this city and right now, I’m facing a few…obstacles. First, the crime lord Thaddeus Wraith and his enterprise. I’m determined to bring him down.”

“Well, best of luck to you,” Devin lifted his glass and took another drink.

The buzz of the contents dulled his vision and smothered the color beginning to grow around Gideon’s form.

He could read people well enough without Sight, anyway.

For example, Gideon was worried. He was frowning too much and he kept shifting his shoulders like he was itching to act, but couldn't.

Gideon’s eyes snapped to him, following Devin’s hand with the drink.

He kept his thoughts on the subject to himself.

“Second, a vigilante has popped up over the last couple months. The Rogue has been running around the streets stopping muggings or other small crimes. It’s only a matter of time before the newssheets catch wind of it. ”

“Sounds to me like they’re doing your job for you and you should be thanking them.”

“Except, it’s not their job," Gideon snapped, "And we can’t have random citizens taking justice into their own hands."

Devin paused for a moment, not caring enough about the subject to argue. “You didn’t come here to talk about Thaddeus Wraith or some nobody with an overinflated sense of justice. What is it you’re here about?”

Gideon took a breath. “I was building to that. The third problem…is Yarrow Graves.”

He met Gideon’s eyes. A sense of understanding and shared hatred passed between them.

Gideon held some pathological need to be the hero.

Like his self-worth hinged on his ability to protect others.

That day in battle, he had gone back for the injured.

He’d dragged corpses halfway to safety before realizing it was too late.

Once returned to the mundanity of Unity, Gideon pursued the only career that allowed him to continue to be the hero.

Unlike Devin who had taken a decidedly less altruistic path in life.

Devin was barely sixteen when he enlisted, lying about his age for the access to stable food and shelter.

But war was cruel, and it chewed thoroughly before it spit you out.

The sight of anguished, murky yellow auras snuffing out one after the other had broken what little was left of his soul.

He stumbled back to society emotionally stripped and more resentful than when he went in, but grit, luck, and a resounding performative charisma built his club, which was all he really needed to survive.

Survive, but not live. With little to drive him except the festering wounds of society’s treatment and then the emotional scars left by the war, Devin had poured what was left of his soul into the only worthwhile pursuit he had left.

Revenge on Graves. After nearly a year he was the closest he’d ever been to achieving that revenge.

“What about him?” Devin considered telling Gideon about his plans to bring the coward down, but thought better of it.

Gideon wanted Graves dead just as much as Devin, but given his career was not as free in his options.

He couldn’t go around murdering men he hated and he’d already shared his opinion on citizens taking justice into their own hands.

Devin, however, would end Graves’s life or die trying. He only had to close his eyes to hear the screams again, to feel the hot spray of his comrades’ blood across his face. If not for Graves’s cowardice, the massacre wouldn’t have happened.

Gideon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets, an old habit to keep from fidgeting. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the growing unease in the Night Court?”

Devin shrugged in response, he knew about it but only in the way everyone heard the whispers of hostility, and he wasn’t about to share what he and Miranda had uncovered to a Watchmen, friend or not.