“To preserve myself.”
The correction makes Cyrus wince. He knows the significance of the hunter’s revel—knows why Paris Keeling wants Lysander there at his side when the moon is at its pinnacle. He’s the only Mercy Boy who understands the truth—the only one who has been there since the humble beginning, working side by side with Lysander to clear debris from the old ski lodge at the base of Mercy Mountain:I’m going to build something here, Cy. Something that’s mine.
Cyrus alone understands how dangerous it would be to comply.
It’s why Lysander came north—why he built his own kingdom from the ground up, instead of kneeling at the throne of another. Down in the southern Flatwood, Paris Keeling rules as though he’s a king. His word is law. His followers are steadfast. But here in the frozen hush of Mercy Mountain, they bend the knee to the Gravewood Devil.
“I’m not telling you to hand over all control,” Cyrus says, backtracking. “I’m just saying—maybe send an olive branch. Something to get him off our backs, you know?”
“An olive branch,” Lysander echoes thoughtfully.
Outside, the night drags ever on. The air in the conservatory seems to thin. Distantly, he hears the sound of music. The pulse of a party, raging deep in the stony bowels of the old hotel. Underneath it all, muffled by the bass, is the sound of an engine turning over.
“Go after him.”
Cyrus’s head whips around. “The envoy? What for?”
“You’re right—we should send him home with a message. A strong one. Something that lets Paris know I’m done with all the endless pontificating. I say you cut off that tacky costume jewelry on our emissary’s finger. We can send it back in a box. Tie it nice, with ribbon.”
Cyrus gapes openly at him. “That’s not an olive branch. That’s an act of war.”
Lysander ignores him, rising to stand by the window. Outside, the night is clear and dark. The ground sparkles with frost, hard and glittering as a diamond. Beneath the pale yellow lamplight, there’s a girl coming up the walk. His heart trips into his ribs.
“Take Choi with you,” he says, distracted. “Show him how Mercy Boys handle business.”
“Lysander, come on. I don’t think—”
“Do it now.”
A pause follows. Then, “You’re the boss.”
The door skids shut at his back. He waits for the space of a single erratic heartbeat. Two. Three. A fourth—just to test himself—and then he’s off, heading out into the cold of the terrace. Far below and with her face downturned, Shea Parker doesn’t see him. He moves along at a parallel, tracking her advance from above. He thinks, as he often does, how easy it would be to hunt her like this. How simple, to pin and disarm her.
How satiating, to drain her of blood.
His thirst is a whip, quick and unforgiving. The sting of it snaps his spine straight. He blinks his head clear and presses on. At the back of the covered veranda there’s a set of stairs ribbed in vines. He descends quickly, stepping out in front of Shea before she can pass.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”
She startles violently, her hand flying to her throat. “God!”
“Close,” he says, grinning.
“Announce yourself next time.”
He tips his head to the side, regarding her from a new angle. “I thought I did.”
“What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I could ask you the same question. We don’t have a date until next week.”
Her heartbeat stutters between his ears. Her eyes dart from shadow to shadow as though she expects to find something leering out at her.
“Don’t call it that,” she says sharply.
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t.”
