The only difference is the slight shadows under my eyes, which isn’t surprising. I’m still fucking exhausted after using all that holy power to rip through Syntyche’s spell. I probably won’t be able to use holy magic until I reap again, which makes me wonder about the now-consistent burning in my chest.
Tattoo Face gets a message through his static box before he leaves through a set of doors leading elsewhere in this skyscraper-top mansion.
“Maven?” Everett checks quietly.
“I’m here.”
“Anyone else in here yet?”
“Aside from a few ghosts, no.”
“Well, that’s creepy. Thanks for the reminder that we’re haunted.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay. If you get the chance, kill them. Getting out of here is much more important than whatever idiotic hangups I might still have about the executives. Gods, I should’ve known they would use the Upheaval as a damn power grab.”
I’m about to point out that killing our captors is the obvious choice, but the rest of his words sink in.
Oh, shit. He’s saying that the so-called executives are…his family. Meaning, I’m about to finally meet the Frosts I’ve heard so much about from my matches.
A dark-skinned young woman with stunning features and gorgeous natural hair sweeps into the room before stopping beside me, fidgeting with a strange bag. Her eyes are wide as she looks me over, swallowing hard and then offering a smile.
I know nothing about her, but I’m pretty sure she’s human.
“H—hello. You’re…Maven Oakley, right?”
I study her, trying to determine how much of a threat she is.
She clears her throat, growing uncomfortable under my silent scrutiny. “I—I’m?—”
“Reagan?” Everett asks from the couch, clearly recognizing her by her voice.
The girl, Reagan, looks relieved and offers me a shy smile. “Yes, I’m Reagan Bates. That name probably doesn’t mean anything to you, since I know you’re from…ahem. But before the Upheaval, I was a well-known actress—not nearly as famous as you are now, of course. I ran in a lot of the same circles as Everett. He was always very kind to me, so after everything happened, I went looking for him here, and his family took me in, and…”
Her smile fades, and she fidgets again. “They want me to make you look presentable before the trial. Their words, not mine. There will be more press, and you need to look?—”
“She looks perfect,” Everett interrupts. “Get the fuck out.”
Reagan gets wide-eyed, obviously not used to my elemental’s temper. But she stays, examining my face with objective interest as one of the more solid-looking ghosts tries to wave a hand in front of me for attention.
Fucking ghosts. This is not the time.
“You have fantastic skin. Nice, strong jaw. Honestly, there’s something kind of…quietly interesting about your face. Especially your eyes—they’re so pretty. Some mascara or even a bit of eyeliner would really make them pop. Mind if I touch things up a bit?”
Reagan’s hand moves toward my face. Every nerve in my restrained body locks as I try not to flinch, bracing myself for the torture that always comes with strangers touching me.
“Lay a finger on her perfect face, and I will fucking kill you,” Everett warns, his tone smooth and crisp as ice.
Reagan pulls back immediately, looking torn. It’s clear she’ll get in trouble for not doing this.
“Your parents—” she begins just as the double doors at the end of this grandiose room open.
“My parents can choke on Sachar’s sweaty ballsack in the Beyond, for all I fucking care,” he seethes just as a beautiful woman and a man who looks disturbingly like a middle-aged version of Everett stroll into the room, unknowingly passing through another ghostly onlooker.
“May Arati pardon you. All those years spent away from us have made you vulgar,” the richest legacy in the world mutters, his glacial eyes sweeping to where I sit.
Alaric Frost’s perfectly styled hair is just as white-blond as Everett’s. He’s in a flawless blue suit, has neatly trimmed gray facial hair, and looks incredibly refined as he examines me like I’m an endangered animal caged all for his fascinated perusal.
Everett tenses when he realizes who’s here. “Fuck.”
“Language,” his mother scolds as she sits gracefully on the couch opposite him. “I wish you wouldn’t make us go to such extreme lengths just to see you, son. You know, no matter how I tried to cater to you, you’ve ignored every single one of our dinner and event invitations for years. After the Upheaval, I decided I had to give up for my own mental health. It’s awful to feel like your own son can’t stand to be in the same room as you. Why put myself through more of that?”
