Page 9 of Until the End of Ever (To the Cruel Gods #2)

KLEOS

I f Python showed up in the middle of the Velour Lounge and gobbled me whole in one bite, I would consider it a mercy killing.

The first noteworthy thing about this place was the decor.

In case the name didn’t give an accurate enough description of the vibe that Masha, the owner, wished to convey, there was red or black velour literally everywhere: chairs, benches, the side of the bar, the placemats, the carpet and curtains.

There was live music, too. Tonight, it was a trumpet. The sexagenarian blowing into it seemed to mistake his instrument for a loaded blowgun, assaulting us with every sound.

The first thing I’d noticed upon arrival is that my imposed date had booked a table with a single rose at its center, in the dining lounge rather than a place in the bar area.

I never accepted dinners with my “suitors.” Ever.

And Mother knew that. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and place the blame on Cousin Castor.

He was perusing the menu when the friendly host, not so discreetly hiding earbuds behind her wavy brown hair—lucky bitch—showed me to the table.

“Cousin,” I greeted, my best smile firmly in place as I deliberately plucked the menu from his fingers, along with the one set in front of the empty place, already laid with cutlery.

I handed both to Annette, speaking a little loudly in case the music she was listening to to survive a night of auditory warfare interfered with her hearing.

“We won’t need these, I’m only staying for drinks. ”

“Of course, ma’am. Would you like the wine and cocktail menu?”

Under other circumstances, I would have. Old, out-of-touch people like Masha Payne tended to have excellent tastes in alcohol. But I didn’t want to do anything that might risk prolongating the torture.

This place most definitely would not have mead. I didn’t even attempt to ask. “I’ll just have a G and T? With Fever Tree, if you stock it.” My nose wrinkled.

“We do. There’s a lovely summery sloe gin, if you’d like to try.”

I knew I liked her. “Make it a double, please. What’s your poison, Cousin?”

Acknowledging the presence of the man seated opposite me was distasteful, but necessary.

I took pleasure in reminding him of our familial ties, first, to make it clear that I found the situation preposterous, and second, to ensure the entire world, trumpet player included, realized he wasn’t actually my date.

I was not voluntarily saddled with a man who wore so much cologne it was akin to a nonconsensual nostril rub and dressed in an ill-fitted red suit with a green tie.

Happy Christmas a month and a half early, I supposed.

Objectively, the suit wasn’t the worst of offenses. I knew men who would have gotten away with it—erm, Lucian, to name the first coming to mind. I was fairly certain he could wear just about anything. But then again, he knew better.

Castor cleared his throat twice. “Err—I meant…I intended to, well, the Lounge is known for their excellent fruit de mer, and your mother mentioned you quite liked that.”

There wasn’t enough gold in the universe for me to try seafood from this establishment, even if I wasn’t actively attempting to cut this encounter as short as possible.

“I already ate.” I silently sent a prayer to my stomach, begging it to stay quiet. Besides, I wasn’t lying: I’d had nectar and ambrosia today. “Your drink?” I pressed, still standing.

His face scrunched up, as he wrestled with the knowledge that I wasn’t letting him control the situation.

“Perhaps—a whiskey?”

He was asking me. I managed a smile. Good. See, Cousin? Enjoy a preview of what marriage to me would be like. I’d wear the trousers, you’d be on your knees—and not in the fun way. Run while you can.

It was true. I usually controlled the situation; except when I was around Lucian.

Somehow, he presented decisions, with a clear reason as to why they were the best choice when it wasn’t obvious, before I even had the time to think, taking the burden of always deciding everything from me. I liked it. I liked it a lot .

“A whiskey then.” I sat. "So, Cousin, I was rather surprised when Mother informed me you were on my list. I am not going to do you the disservice of believing that you’re serious about this.

No doubt your own parents pressured you into finding a wife and you opted to select the most unsuitable match in order to appear to satisfy their requirement.

” I leaned in, winking conspiratorially.

“Tell me, do you have a lover they wouldn’t approve of?

A powerless mortal? A man, perhaps—I hear your side of the family is still rather old-fashioned about gender roles. ”

I was steamrolling him, hard, and he didn’t know what to do. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he opted to hide under the table and cry. But Castor gathered what was left of his balls and cleared his throat again. “I don’t see why we’d be an unsuitable match.”

I laughed like he had said the funniest of things—which he had. “Oh, Castor. We’re cousins.”

That was when I heard it. A discreet chuckle I wouldn’t have noticed above the trumpet if the poor old man hadn’t taken a moment away from what he called music to pant like his life depended on it.

My eyes slid across the mostly empty room, and spotted him.

He sat in a corner, right behind the bar, mostly concealed, though I spied that hand, with its strong, long fingers, adorned by the ornate silver—or platinum?—signet ring I was intimately familiar with, holding a newspaper.

Actually smiling rather than forcing it, I bit my lower lip to prevent myself from laughing.

“Not close cousins!” he insisted. “I looked at our tree. My mother might have been a Pendros, but she’s the daughter of Tiberius, who was the son of Victor Pendros, while your mother’s the granddaughter of Victor’s brother, Gwythyr.”

I wasn’t all that familiar with the Pendros family tree. I knew I had fifty cousins, and of them, only one stood out as someone I’d enjoy spending more than thirty seconds with: his little sister Rhea.

“Did their parents actually call both boys Victor? That’s pretty lazy.”

“Pardon me?”

“Gwythyr is Victor in Welsh. There’s a myth about a Gwythyr and a Gwyn, fighting for a maiden. King Arthur—” I let the subject drop, seeing the light dim in his eyes. Using brain cells was wasted in such company.

“Oh.” He blinked, then refocused. “The point is, we only have great-grandparents in common. It would be perfectly acceptable for us to join hands.”

I opted to place my hands on my lap, seeing his snaking towards it. “Castor. One set of great-grandparents in common is one too many.”

If I were perfectly honest, had I suddenly met the perfect man, who had great-grandparents in common with me…

no, even then, I wanted to throw up thinking about it.

We’d been raised as cousins; no one sat me down and said, this man isn’t part of your direct family and you should wonder whether he’s hot.

Which he wasn’t.

“Well, I don’t think so, and your mother agrees!” he said, like it settled the argument.

Ha. Another Zenya fan.

“A shame she’s not single. You could apply to marry her.”

By luck, or because Annette conveyed the urgency of the situation to the bartender, our drinks floated to our table right then.

I grasped the tumbler filled with the pale lilac drink and took a big gulp, promptly deciding that everyone here deserved a big tip.

“There’s ice in my whiskey!” Castor hissed, his outrage evident.

I crocked an eyebrow. “So there is.”

“I didn’t ask for ice.”

It took some effort, but I managed to prevent myself from rolling my eyes. He also didn’t ask for no ice. I’d helped out enough times at the Silvervine to know that most people wanted ice in their whiskey. That was the default.

Before I could tell him as much, he was on his feet, stomping towards the bar.

I sighed.

In truth, the poor staff was going to get an earful because he wasn’t happy with the way this evening was unfolding and he wanted to take it out on someone.

He couldn’t bug me, so they’d take the brunt of his anger.

I was fairly certain he probably liked ice in his whiskey just fine. Those who didn’t learned to say so.

Just as Castor started raising his voice, I spotted Lucian, making his way from his table to mine, looking thoroughly amused.

“Not a word,” I warned him, as he dragged Castor’s chair out.

“You can’t give such a spectacle and refused praise.” Lucian shook his head as he sat, chuckling. “ One too many .”

“Don’t get me started.”

“You know, most children of noble and founding families don’t mind shacking up with second cousins twice removed.”

“Excellent. They’re very welcome to him.”

He snorted. “Are all your dates like this?”

“If you call this a date, then yes, more or less. Typically, I point out other reasons why it won’t work. Castor made it easy.”

“He should consider himself lucky you didn’t mention his prevalent nostril hair.”

I raised my glass. “Yet.”

We both turned when the shouting stopped, to watch Castor stomp back, already red in the face.

I should have told Lucian to move. This was going to be ugly enough without adding the humiliation of an audience.

But I liked having him here. I liked Castor watching us together, so that his slow mind could eventually piece the puzzle together, wondering why he believed he could have worked with me, when I did not fit with someone like him.

Seeing Lucian and me in the same company made sense . Even here, surrounded by this terrible decor, with the gaudy table and the stupid trumpet. He wasn’t seven steps below, needing to fight to manage getting a word in.

I didn’t like to think I was arrogant as such.

Yes, I was aware that I had been rather successful academically growing up, but Silver scraped by with passing grades, and I would never consider my friend any less intelligent than I.

I just had a better memory, focus, and well, willingness to learn.

Silver still made sense next to me. So did Gideon, and we couldn’t be any more different.

Individual people as we are, those I surrounded myself with were amazing.

Castor was my lesser, though I assumed he likely did better than Silver at school, and had more magic than Gideon. What he lacked was confidence, interest, and charm. To put it simply, he’d clearly been too busy trying to get in with the right crowd to look for a personality all his life.

Once he reached us, his eyes flew from Lucian to me, and back and forth three more times, before he finally found his words.

“This is my seat!” he sputtered.

I turned to Lucian, casually replying, “He’s right. It is.”

I should probably not be enjoying this as much as I was.

“Oh?” he said mildly, gray eyes dancing with amusement. “Ever so sorry, my friend. It’s not in my nature to ignore a beautiful woman sitting alone.”

So of course, he didn’t move an inch.

Castor looked to me for support, no doubt wondering if my sharp tongue would reprimand the interloper, demanding he vacate a seat that I’d already agreed didn’t belong to him.

“You think I’m beautiful?” I cooed, batting my lashes. “You’re so kind.”

It probably wasn’t wise; my mother would most definitely hear every detail and rage at me.

But it was too much fun. I’d already fulfilled my side of the bargain.

I had shown up, ordered a drink, and declined his suit—perhaps not as directly as I should have.

I sensed I needed to be a lot clearer for him to get the memo.

“I waited months for a chance!” Castor roared. “You can’t interrupt my date.”

Yep. Time to be as plain as possible. “Castor, I already said so, but let me repeat myself: we are not compatible and I reject your suit.”

I didn’t like to be this blunt when it could be helped, but when I tried saying it gently, he recited our family tree instead of taking the hint.

“That’s…I—” he tried. “Your mother!”

I was hoping I wasn’t rolling my eyes too hard. “My mother approves suitors who wish to court me, but she cannot force me to accept one. If it makes you feel better, I would have rejected you for choosing to shout at our poor bartender instead of attempting some form of conversation.”

Do not mention the suit. Or the nostril hair!

“In layman’s terms,” Lucian drawled, “you snooze, you lose, cretin.”

Poor Castor remained planted on the spot for at least a minute before gathering what he could retrieve of his dignity and lifting his chin. “Your mother will hear about this!”

She would. And frankly, I was going to get an earful no matter what.

“Bye, Cousin Castor!” I said, before waving at the staff, all desperately attempting to appear busy rather than spying on us.

Even the trumpet torture had stopped.

“Would you mind bringing us menus after all? I’m famished.”

That was too much for Lucian. He folded in two, laughing so hard he had to hold his sides. By the time Annette was back with two menus, there were tears in both our eyes.

“Anything edible here?” Lucian asked. “And a bag of gold if someone can hide the trumpet. And you,” he added, gray eyes focusing on me, “have a story to finish, about a Gwythyr, a Gwyn, and King Arthur.”