Every time he shows any inkling of normality is positive. With Wes and Donovan busily syncing to the cloud, I suddenly realize it’s awfully quiet. “Where’s Max?” That fucker should not be allowed out on his own.
“He went to see if our stuff is still by his still,” Dono says, a grin forming on his face. “Or should I say, Max is standing still by our stuff, which is still by the still? Wait, or is he still standing by the still, which is still making its own still?”
Donovan’s head falls back, and his wide mouth stretches in a roar of laughter.
I love him, but Donovan is a simpleton.
However, if Maximus is busy in his drug lair, it should keep him out of trouble. I wasn’t going to take him with me to Havengard City anyway. I quickly text Feniks, letting him know his cousin is on the loose, then usher the twins outside.
“Someone’s bringing the Range Rover around, time to go.”
???
The drive to Havengard City is a blur of country fields, followed by city blocks. We’re all silent, which is a rarity with Donovan. The quiet is only broken by the hum of the Range Rover’s engine.
After thirty minutes, I’m slowing to pass the guard house next to the Capitol building. The security officer flicks through a handheld tablet. “I see your appointment, Mr. Drakeward. I’ll call through to the main building to get your guests' clearance.”
“We’ll wait out here,” Donovan interjects. “Unless you need us to come in, Cos?”
“No, it’s probably better not to drag Wes into the WMO headquarters. Keep in touch, though.”
Before I can protest, Donovan pulls me into a hug and whispers in my ear. “I put a marshmallow clover in your pocket for luck. You’ve got this.”
Pushing him away, I dust off my jacket. “Just keep out of trouble,” I tell him, relieved they’ve got cell phones once more. I don’t want either Donovan or Wes to be out of contact with me ever again.
As I walk towards the building, my hand slides into my pocket. Yep, there really is a piece of breakfast cereal in there. Crazy fucker.
“Cosmo,” a voice calls out. François de Vaux is sauntering towards me, looking completely relaxed with an easy smile on his lips.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“Summoned by my Papa,” he grins. “You too?”
His father? “Just whoisyour father?” This is something I should have found out at the beginning of the term. Freshman Elite are few and far between.
François’ placid smile continues. “Don’t you know? It’s Thomas Crankshawe.”
What? Larissa Crankshawe’s brother? “You’re the dean’s nephew? Why don’t you have the same name as your father? And you have a French accent.” None of it makes sense.
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Well, we wouldn’t want anyone to throw nepo-baby accusations around, would we?” He runs a hand through his jet black hair. “I lived in Paris for most of my life, with my now dead mother, Monique de Vaux. Any other questions I can straighten out for you, mon ami?”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he gives a tip of an imaginary hat. ‘Well, have fun, au revoir.”
How did I miss that he was the dean’s nephew? And Thomas Crankshawe? That weirdo is thick as shit with my father. Hmm. The thought of Crankshawe makes me shudder; the man always dresses in black velvet suits, obviously not a crime in itself depending on the season, but with his greasy skin, pencil moustache, and the ebony cane he likes to wave around, it’s like he’s cosplaying Gomez.
Shudder.
As François strolls on, I turn my back and walk up the wide steps and then through the columns of the building. The Rotunda is past the main lobby, in the center of the expansive government complex. To my right is the huge reception room. Minions are cleaning chandeliers and waxing the floor, ready for the All Hallows Ball at the weekend. Officious-looking staff hurry out of my way as I approach the two security guards standing at the entrance. They’re vicious-looking men in dark suits, with prominent gun bulges. Guard-One shakes his head at me. “Onlymembers and their invitees are permitted entrance to Conclave Hall.”
Conclave Hall? CONCLAVE HALL? Since when has the central Rotunda of the WMO complex been The Conclave Hall?
“Cosmo Drakeward,” I tell the security, who immediately gulps and steps to one side. Without faltering, I stride through the ornate double doors. At the center of the room is a massive mahogany table, the seat of WMO deliberations for centuries.
Currently, only one person is sitting there.
“Father.”
“Cosmo. Sit.”
