The woman puts up a hand to adjust her headpiece, and that’s when I see it. The swirl of smoke around her wrist. It’s just the same as Cosmo had.
“Oh shit.”
“What?”
“Your mom has the dark essence in her.”
35
“Tell me how beautiful I am.”
Jordan’s voice scrapes against my last nerve.
She has been demanding compliments for the past thirty minutes, ever since we left Validus Vale. Sure, on paper she looks great—if a little Morticia Addams—in a clinging black dress, smoky eyes, and six-inch heels—but not one part of me finds her remotely attractive.
“Truly gorgeous,” I say, maintaining a neutral, distant smile. “The black suits you.”
Suits the black void where your soul should be, that is.
She sighs dramatically, preening under the faint praise. “I know. It’s a level of sophistication that is not often seen around here.”
Our driver pulls up outside the State Capitol building complex. A red carpet lays over the steps, and stanchions and ropes holdback paparazzi. Added to that are at least a dozen armed guards, wearing tactical gear and holding weapons.
I get out of the car first, then give Jordan my hand so she can make her grand, over-the-top entrance; then we pose for photos for at least fifteen minutes.
Something as trivial as a mass of protestors is not going to stop her from hogging the limelight.
All the scene-stealing causes a backlog with the other guests, but there is no hurrying Ms. Singleton-Smith. Gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches, I cast my gaze over the crowds.
My eyes clash with one of the protestors.
He’s completely dressed in black, and the side of his face is bisected with a scar.
Huh. I’ve seen him before; he was at the building site with Singleton-Smith. Why is he rallying against the Elite at a social event in Havengard?
I make a mental note to put Striker on the question.
Finally, we climb the steps and head to the reception room. It’s already filled with the top social strata in Havengard.
My eyes immediately do a sweep; they first lock onto Feniks in his obviously rented tux. The bored, trapped expression on his face is not stopping all the middle-aged mothers from falling all over him. I smirk at his predicament.
It's a small comfort, knowing my misery is momentarily shared, though his is elective and mine is mandatory.
François de Vaux nods at me from where he’s standing beside his asshole father, Thomas Crankshawe. Crankshawe’s wearing his signature black velvet. Manu Hale’s mother is the third in their little group.
Huh, I never did find out where Manu disappeared to.
I adjust my cufflinks and steer Jordan toward the open bar. At least I can count on some excellent champagne. Jordan’s fingerscircle my arm, gripping tightly. “Have someone fetch up drinks, I don’t do ‘counter service’.”
“Of course, dear.” I look around and see some of Jordan’s cronies waving at us. “Why don’t you wait with Kayla and Klein while I get that sorted?”
Jordan is content with the suggestion, so I quickly make an escape.
Pushing myself through the throng, I bat away a floating globe of amber light. I’m not interested in the decorations, I just want to get through the night. The crowd parts a little, and that’s when I spot Donovan, Maximus, and Theodora. Dono is gazing at the girl like she’s a goddess.
I have to admit, among the sea of black tuxedos and sophisticated gowns, Theodora stands out like a rainbow in a stormy gray sky. Her hair is its usual untamed riot of dark curls, and the dress she’s wearing? A mix of colors that sparkle under the light, making her seem…ethereal.
Donovan hooks his arm around her waist, while Max stands on her other side, looking just as infatuated.
