Douglass Huntington-Russell is no longer running. He’s hiding for a reason, and I’m going to find out why.
Luckily, I have a long flight back to New York to think about it.
After a long nap and a few too many vodkas passed between us, we were ready to land.
Standing on a random street in Manhattan, Seraphim is easy to miss. Just a black door between two quiet buildings, no sign, no sound. You don’t walk in unless you’ve been invited, and even then, they’re watching you long before you reach the buzzer.
Inside, the air changes, cleaner, colder, heavy with the scent of candle wax. You can smell the money: dim lighting, velvet curtains, a front reception desk with a woman who doesn’t smile. We give our names, no one repeats them.
Security clears us fast. They already know who we are.
We’re led to one of the private mirrored lounges. Marchand is already there. Two women draped over him, one in his lap, the other tucked against his shoulder, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Both gorgeous and desperate for his attention. They aren’t getting it.
He sees us and doesn’t move right away.
“Still enjoy the theatrics, huh?” I say.
Marchand lifts his glass and finally waves the women off with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Give us a minute.”
They peel off of him without protest and slip out of the room. The door shuts again.
Marchand straightens his collar, rolls his shoulders like he’s settling into something more formal.
Archibald drops into the seat across from him. I stay standing.
“You still have the ring?” I ask.
Marchand grins. “Always.”
He taps the silver band on his right hand, a bones signet, same as mine and Archibald’s. But his is older, more worn. He graduated almost twenty years before our initiation.
“You're always this talkative with your brothers?” I ask.
“Only the ones who don’t bore me.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not here to catch up.”
Marchand pours three drinks. “I figured.”
“Douglas Huntington-Russell,” I say, taking the chair opposite him.
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow just a touch. “That wasn’t a name I was expecting to hear. You’ve been digging.”
“Deeper than most.”
“You always did like to overachieve,” he says.
“And you always liked to deflect.”
He grins and doesn’t deny it. We’ve partied a few times together, and I don’t totally hate him.
“He’s a member of the club,” Marchand finally says. “Suite 3A. But he hasn’t shown in over seven months.”
“Alone?”
“Always. Never brought guests unless he was with his brother, only ever requesting services.”
“Still in the system?”
