Something’s up. My brothers might need help.
I find Atticus at the bottom of the stairs in a pair of boxers with fuzzy slippers on his feet.
“What’s happening?”
“They’ve gone completely crazy,” he sounds calm. We look out over the dancers. There’s a two-drink limit at Club Empire on most nights. Tonight is special, but the bartenders know to cut people off before they get drunk.
“Drugs?” I ask.
“That’s my guess.”
A shout rings out and then another. At the far end of the room, the velvet curtains shake, and then a steady stream of men in suits bursts onto the dance floor. They’re all armed. Several are holding machine guns.
The fuck? I go to take a step, and Atticus stops me. “Wait, so far no one’s shooting.”
He’s right, but I don’t like it. They came into our house, armed. Who the fuck are these guys? They’re in dark blue body armor with some sort of silver insignia on their sleeves.
They advance across the floor, grabbing dancers, pulling off their masks, and then shoving the confused people away. Even in their altered state of mind, the dancers realize they’re in danger and start to flee.
“They’re looking for someone,” Atticus observes.
I see St. James enter the ballroom, a group of Fraternitas by his side. “Come on,” I say. We both fall into step behind him. He’s in his typical gray suit, no mask, and he’s pissed.
Our group meets the group of armed men in the middle of the dance floor. I step forward, making myself a target. One of them tries to rip off my mask, and I grab his wrist and pull him toward me so I can punch him in the face. He drops, and I take his gun before it hits the floor.
Suddenly, all the guns are trained on me.
“Stop,” a deep voice commands from behind the gunmen. “Don’t shoot.” Which is a hell of a thing to say when you bring an armed guard with you.
“What is the meaning of this?” St. James snaps.
The guards part, and a tall, dark-haired man steps out, murder written on his face. “I’m here for Raine.”
25
Kaiser
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” St. James says. He’s gathered all the members of Fraternitas who aren’t on crowd control into a private room. He’s speaking in Latin, which is what we do when we might be overheard. His voice is calm, but we all hear the murderous intent. “A pair of college students broke in and not only infiltrated our security but were on something? MDMA mixed with something else, some sort of herb?—”
“My preliminary tests tell me the psychoactive compounds are from a plant called magic mint. Latin name salvia divinorum,” Atticus interjects. “It’s used in religious ceremonies. Like ayahuasca.”
“That explains the hallucinations,” Asmodeus says. “But how did they drug the entire club?”
“Someone spiked the punch,” Atticus says. St. James’s jaw clenches.
I stand. “It’s my fault. The Poisoner’s daughter has to be behind this. I thought I had her under control.” While I was thinking about how I’d make love to her, she was plotting how to create chaos.
“A failure on all fronts then,” St. James says. “We’ve identified the original culprits. That one is a known guest,” He points through the one-way glass to a young woman in an observation room—one of Bella’s friends, Honey. She’s looking defeated in her angel costume, the wings drooping. “She’s been under our protection for years, but she doesn’t know it. She had an invite. That wasn’t the problem. The problem is that she brought a guest named Raine. Raine used a fake ID, but she belongs to the Saints. Her stepbrother is Ransom Saint, and he thought she’d been kidnapped. That’s why he stormed the gates.”
Asmodeus whistles. “What a cluster.”
St. James glowers at Honey. “Indeed.”
“What will we do with her?” Atticus asks.
“Cut her loose. But no more invitations to the club. She’s officially banned from all Fraternitas property.” St. James gives the rest of us our orders and turns to me. “Lock her down,” he orders. “The engagement party is in two weeks, and the Vesuvios have agreed to attend and talk in terms of a truce. It needs to go smoothly.”
