If I didn’t know we were in a hellscape of wealthy psychopaths who enjoyed killing people, this scene would be right out of one of those fancy shows on BBC. The fifteen-foot-long mahogany dining table is groaning under the strain of endless dishes, flower arrangements, and two silver candelabras dripping wax on the snowy white linen cloth.
Three other girls are seated at the table, and two of them are Brittany and Canary. They must be in the rarified inner circle of these wealthy fuckfaces. Brittany’s glaring at me, sneering whenever I glance in her direction. All the (currently living) Lords of Chaos are here, along with one of the male party-goers from last night. Someone beat the living shit out of him, but he’s plowing through his food like his missing front tooth is not a problem.
And then there’s Grayson Armstrong.
He lost a son last night, and while I believe Wallace did a solid for all mankind by killing Deacon, I’d think his father would be undone, weeping and mourning his death. I guess the obscenely wealthy handle grief differently than us regular folk. Armstrong doesn’t touch his food, though a fresh glass of whiskey appears at his elbow the minute the one in his grasp is empty. Still, the man can hold his drink. His mask of pleasant affability never slips.
After consuming nothing today but my captor’s punishing sandwiches filled with that hideous protein paste, I’m freaking starving. The food they’re serving us is wildly elaborate: Cornish Dover Sole, prawns with green figs and lemon, and something that I think is quail decorated with fancy mushrooms.
But my throat is clenched in a mixture of terror and dread, and the thought of trying to force down food is enough to make mechoke. I hide it behind my starched linen napkin, but Wallace looks at me with a faint frown.
Brittany, who clearly never understood the art of Read the Room, blurts out, “This pigeon is delicious. So tender.”
I hastily bring my napkin back up to my mouth, gagging.
Pigeon.
All I can think about are the pigeons I watched in London, chasing after garbage scraps and eating each other’s droppings.
“A toast!” Richard stands, clumsily knocking over his chair. His dad may be able to drink half a gallon of booze without any noticeable impact, buthecan’t. “To my bloody brother! The craziest son of a bitch in the UK. He should…” His fire leaves him, and his shoulders slump. “He should be here.”
“I wouldn’t wish to spoil anyone’s appetite, but itistime we discussed my son’s murder, yes?” Grayson’s tone is calm, but his eyes are alight like the fires of hell.
If evil were a stench, it would be choking me right now.
Chapter Nine
In which some dinner time interruptions are very welcome.
Kai / “Wallace…”
Luna sits still next to me, barely breathing.
“I doubt it has escaped your attention that my son is not at this table,” Grayson rasps. That bottle of Macallan 12 Year Scotch is finally catching up with him. “Anyone with the proximity or ability to murder him is here.”
After Deacon’s body was carried back to the house, Grayson helicoptered in an armed security force of twelve men. It’s a long-standing agreement with the Lords that we don’t use guns in the Dark Games. Our weapons of choice mean the Games are more “sporting.”
That doesn’t mean that we dinna have access to guns, of course.
While I’m not particularly concerned about Armstrong’s security, a drunken and enraged Grayson is likely to do something rash, like shoot up the entire household in an attempt to assuage his grief.
Though, I’m not sure the old lizard is capable of any emotion other than greed or sadism.
“My son was found with his whip wrapped around his neck,” Grayson snarls, “that would take an enormous feat of strength or more than one person to do it.”
Brittany and Canary give little gasps, attempting to look shocked and heartbroken. I’m reasonably sure they weren’t capable of sympathy any more than Grayson was capable of grief.
“Iwillfind who did this,” Grayson continues. “The Lords usemyfamily’s island,myhome. I have graciously welcomed you here, and this is howyou repay my hospitality?”His polar gaze settles on his remaining son. “Richard,” he snaps, “take all the servants into the kitchen and begin questioning them. Take Soros and Martin with you.”
Two of his guards step out of formation and follow Richard to the kitchen. It’s clear from his sullen pout that he wants to stay here for the dramatics.
Six guards in here. Four patrolling the grounds. Two in the kitchen…
Like a marble sculpture, Luna is still and silent next to me, hands fisted in her lap. She thinks I dinna see her slip her serrated knife off the table and under her napkin, clever lass.
Pacing the long room like he’s Hercule Poirot, Grayson jabs a finger at Enzo. “You were busy initiating Colton Brennan, correct?”
“Yeah, it took a while.” Enzo nods cheerfully at Colton, who returns the nod. His face is a masterpiece of blues and purples, and his nose is broken, though he doesn’t seem to be holding it against Enzo. “Then I dragged his unconscious ass back to the house.”
