Page 144 of Kill for a Kiss

She gestures toward me, the prize at the end of her corrupt game. Without a hint of warning, she slaps her hand on my mouth. The crowd gasps, then goes silent, hushed in witnessing her easy cruelty—presenting me while tied to a chair and muted to her will.

I study her while my mind works through the remnants of haze left in me. My thoughts grasp to remember Damon’s words. To the plan ingrained in my mind. I have to find a way to return to it.

Clo turns to her guests. “Sadly, some familiar faces could not join us,” Clo continues. “Lukas and Naomi Knight. Kai Song-Smith…”

She lets the names hang in the air. Her teeth flash in a smile too bright to be human.

“Such a pity. I’m sure they’re otherwise occupied with one another in Darkhaven, rebuilding things over there in that sad excuse of a city.” She laughs, and some hesitantly join her. “Though, I’m sure they would have loved to see what we have in store for tonight.”

Clo’s smile stretches as the crowd hushes into a tense silence. She holds out her other hand and, on cue, a masked waiter steps forward, offering her a glass of dark wine that gleams under the light like swirling blood.

She lifts the glass high, tilting it toward the floor below with a flourish. “I would be remiss,” she says with mock affection, “if I didn’t introduce you all to my latest love affair.”

Polite laughter ripples through the crowd.

“This wine,” Clo continues, “is the result of years of devotion. Painstaking attention. Every note balanced perfectly. Every drop, a testament to patience.”

There’s a teary sheen in her eye that makes my skin crawl.

Below, waiters in masks glide through the crowd, their trays glinting with overfilled glasses of wine, dripping and spilling. They appear like ghosts with poisoned gifts. Guests reach out eagerly, plucking glasses from the trays, chatting and laughing with a bit of relief among themselves, clinking crystals together.

I watch them, my pulse dragging slow and heavy under my skin. Each sip is another chain tightening around their throats. The same it did with me for years. Yet, Clo’s voice rolls smoothly across the vast space, completely unaffected by the insidious chaos she’s causing.

“I thank you all for your cooperation tonight,” she says. “Your willingness to surrender your weapons at the door shows a great deal of trust. And civilization, of course.”

More polite laughter. More raised glasses. More and more lies and manipulation.

“After all,” Clo continues, “tonight is aboutcelebration, notcollapse.”

She lets the words linger. The crowd murmurs, sounding uneasy by the second.

“And what a guest list we’ve assembled,” she hisses. “The Adels from Africa…” She raises her glass again. “The Tamms and the Vlasovs from Europe. And so many others who traveled so far to be part of this night. To witness history.”

The guests listen, their poisoned drink sliding deeper with every uncertain sip. I don’t know how to stop this or how to save them yet. The marble trembles slightly under my feet, or maybe that’s me, wavering between the pull of the drug and the iron weight of everything I refuse to lose.

“And now, a toast,” Clo’s voice rings out. “To the future. Toloyalty.”

Hundreds of hands lift their glasses to mirror her. The wine catches the chandelier light like blood catching fire. The guests start to drink all of it down. My eyes go wide as I’m helpless to watch it.

Words of warning gather at the back of my throat, frantic and clawing, but Clo’s cold palm presses further onto my muffled mouth. She’s silencing me like I’m nothing more than a thought she can snuff out. I can taste the salt of her skin, the perfume cloying in the air…

Below us, the crowd glows like spilled jewels, oblivious to the poison down their throats.

“I lost everything once,” Clo says, holding her glass aloft. “All of it. The networks. The trust. Kys.”

She laughs, low and knowing, and the chandeliers sway gently, casting the marble floors into swimming shadows.

“I heard the whispers,” Clo continues. “That I was finished. That I couldn’t rebuild what was burned to ash.”

The crowd shifts, more unease threading between masked faces. The music swirls away into silence as though it was strangled.

“But you see,” Clo says, “it was never about rebuilding. It was aboutevolving.”

Her full glass tilts, the wine inside spilling down.

“And all of you,” Clo croons, “will make up my next masterpiece.”

Then the first glass falls, shattering. The sound echoes through the ballroom below like a gunshot. Someone stumbles sideways, mask slipping off, eyes wide and glazed. Another guest sways, then folds to the ground like a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut.