“Oh, Thanksgiving,” I say, understanding the scene a little better.
“Actually, no. The Barons don’t celebrate a traditional Thanksgiving,” Graves says, gesturing around us. “But we do have a celebration. Tomorrow is the annual Rite of the Shadow. It’s an acknowledgment and recognition of the members of BRN.”
“Oh, that sounds nice.”
“The process of recruitment, pledging and initiation can be rough on new members as well as the old. The King likes to reward them with an event just for them, and what better day than one established for gratitude.” He crosses the kitchen to a wooden desk built into the wall of cabinets. Opening the top doors, he reveals pigeonhole style slots, as well as a few drawers. He opens one drawer and lifts out a binder. “This is a curated account of everything needed to be themistress and hostess of the House of Night.” He hands me the binder and adds, “With the King.”
“Hosting,” I repeat. “I… I don’t know how to do that.”
“Of course you do,” he says with full confidence. “You’ve been trained your whole life for events like this. Strong Manor wasn’t just etiquette lessons and silence, it was preparation. You watched your uncle host members of the university, dinners with the other deans and visiting professors. His gatherings carried weight in this city, and you no doubt learned without realizing it.”
My chest tightens, not in fear, but memory of long tables set with white and gold china. Goblets filled with dark red wine. I wasn’t invited, but like Graves said, I watched. I saw how the house operated during a special event, learning when to step in and when to disappear. How order was maintained in smooth, seamless transitions. There was an unspoken pride among the staff for their accomplishments, as well as appreciation from my uncle for a job well done.
“For once, you will not be part of the ceremony–at least not the focus,” Graves continues. “Your role is to support your King, keep him steady while making sure everything goes off without a hitch.”
I hesitate. “And if I do it wrong?”
He holds my eye. “I have faith in you, Arianette. You becoming Baroness is no mistake.”
The words land harder than any instruction could have.
“It’s time,” he adds, voice firm but not unkind, “to stop being protected from responsibility. Tonight, you stand as a woman who takes care of her man. Her King. His wife. Not by obedience, but by presence.”
I swallow, and something in me settles. I think of the manor kitchens. Of learning which details mattered and which didn’t. Understanding that power often looks like preparation.
“Tell me what you need,” I say, feeling my shoulders straighten. “And I’ll make sure it happens.”
Is this another test? Maybe. But it’s one I’m not afraid to take. The King needs me steady at his side, and I will not fail him. Not again.
The music hits me first,bass thumping through the old stone walls of the BNZ dormitory like a heartbeat on steroids. Laughter spills out from every corner, loud and loose. Usually, the dorm is fairly quiet; no one wants the King to come checking up on them.
Damon leads the way around the back of the House of Night, Hunter a step behind me. My heart clenches every time Ares darts ahead, his gait stilted. I hate myself for him getting hurt during the fire. Probably more than Hunter does.
When the dog gets to the building, he drops to a sitting position, waiting for us to catch up. The two-story building used to house the monks who lived on site. It’s made of thick stone blocks, narrow windows and arched doorways. Now it’s half dorm, half fortress for the Barons’ Shadows. The rest of the brotherhood lives in campus housing.
We push through a side door into the first-floor common area. The party is in full swing. A massive flat screen blasts a video game, controllers passed between guys sprawled on sagging couches. Girls, Crypt Chasers, the ones who orbit the Shadows like moths to black flame, lounge across laps passing joints and clinking shot glasses. I recognize Bronwyn from the Fury tucked under Slade’s arm. The air is thick with weed smoke, spilled beer and the tang of burned popcorn someone forgot in the microwave. Empty red cups litter every surface. A couple in the corner is half a second from disappearing into each other’s clothes.
The room vibrates with an infectious energy. I tug on Damon’s sleeve and ask, “What’s happening?”
“School’s out, Sister,” Hunter says. “Classes are off for the rest of the week. Everyone is blowing off a little steam.”
I gape at the scene. Not at the debauchery. I got my fill of it after Damon’s Fury win and the night of my wedding. No, that’s not my issue.
It’s the absolute destruction happening in the house I’m supposed to make presentable in less than twenty-four hours.
Ares trots into the room, nose to the floor, then drops under a coffee table to lick at a suspicious stain. Hunter mutters something in German; the dog sighs and slinks back to his side.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, hands twisting together. “This is a disaster.”
It only gets worse when we move past the chaos and into the dining hall.
It’s a big space with vaulted ceilings and long wooden tables that could seat forty easily, but right now it looks like a frat house crime scene. Tables are sticky with spilled drinks, chairs pushed everywhere and cigarette butts ground into the stone floor. The ancient chandelier overhead is dusty, crystals dulled. Windows filmed with smoke and fingerprints. It reeks of… I don’t want to think about what it reeks of.
“Fucking animals.” Damon surveys the mess with his hands on his hips. “What do you want us to do first?”
I clutch the black binder Graves handed me like it’s a lifeline. Its weight feels heavier than the leather and paper inside. He put me in charge. Everything has to be perfect for tomorrow’s rite.
“I’m not sure,” I admit, voice smaller than I want. Smaller than a woman who is supposed to be in charge.
