If I leave, I’ll miss her.
Kenji strolls up, thumb swiping rhythmically across his phone. He’s tied his hair low at the nape, his suit fitting close, with the open collar exposing the ink sprawled across his neck and chest.
“Kenji.” Graves extends his hand to him, but in classic Kenji fashion, he ignores it and doesn’t spare him a glance.
I shrug as Graves snarls. He turns and saunters, high-fiving and slapping the shoulders of members selecting seats to best see the stage. With our chapter disengaged tonight, more drinks and cigars drift among the men gathered in clusters, lost in business and selective conversation.
Kenji pulls out the leather chair shoved under one of the marble tables and gestures for me to sit. But I don’t want to, and when I don’t, he snickers and plops down, still swiping at his phone.
I sigh, and he turns to look up at me. “Since you’re just standing there glowering, why don’t you get us some drinks?” Then he grins that sheepish grin that doesn’t mesh with the undercover psychopath he carries around with him.
I blink, staring at him.
“Slade. Dude, what the hell is up with you?”
I shake my head and walk away toward the bar and signal for a whiskey on the rocks and a strawberry daiquiri with a tiny umbrella for Kenji. When I return to our table and set it in front of him, it’s his turn to glower.
I grin and sit next to him.
Hums of anticipation murmur through the crowd, and my knee bounces, feeding off it.
What will she be wearing? I’m sure she’s terrified. I have half a mind to wander back toward the rooms I’m almost sure they’re sequestered in.
Light dims in a theatrical fade, and I catch Kenji shake his head as the harsh white overhead pulses with red that soaks the room. Conversations turn to whispers, and sultry music that’s bass-heavy follows.
My stomach lurches.
EV staff managing the Culling mill about, heads down and adjusting lenses and cameras, feeding the stage to the rest of the chapters.
An irrational feeling enrages me at the thought ofmorepeople getting a glimpse of Thea and from better angles. I glare at the cameras, tapping the pads of my fingers on the table.
“What is your problem?” Kenji asks, finally sparing a glance toward the stage.
I take a swig of my whiskey and use a middle finger to push up my glasses.
“I wish Vaughan were here,” he says, deadpan.
The volume of the music increases, and a projection screen lowers, showing the camera feeds from all the rooms. I comb through the footage, looking for her. One room is empty, and I can only assume whoever was in there is now on their way up to the stage. I spot her in the lower left-hand corner, curled into a ball against the wall. Her hands are tugging at her hair, as if she’s in a panic. The girl she’s paired with is in the corner, nearly out of the shot. I can’t tell who it is.
My hands grip the leather armrests, squeezing so tight that when I let go, depressions remain.
Red numbers flash on the screen. First fifty, then increasing by the hundreds, then thousands. “Welcome to the Culling,” EV’s AI voice singsongs. “Thank you for joining the Chicago chapter. Whether you’re joining us from your chapter’s headquarters or from the comfort of your own home, please use discretion as outlined in your society vows. All votes should be submitted in guard coin. As a reminder, the Chicago chapter is not able to participate this evening, and all guard currency has been suspended in this city until further notice.”
Kenji snorts. “Who uses that shit?”
My grandfather. Me. Every member but Kenji. As I look over to the Eight’s table, my grandfather tips his head back andlaughs at something. It’s a fake laugh, and it’s hilarious—even the sadists smile for the camera.
The footage blinks away, replaced by two red counters ticking up from zero. Two girls emerge onstage—one dressed in red, the other in black. Their faces are ashy, but sparkles glaze their skin, reflecting a blood-glinting shimmer.
“Five, four, three—” The female voice counts down.
“This is so stupid,” Kenji murmurs, loud enough for a sleezy member behind him to hear.
“Don’t ruin it for the rest of us. It’s the perfect opportunity to see who we want to bid on next week, you ungrateful little shit.”
I stiffen, and Kenji freezes. He sets his phone down, then opens his suit jacket, giving me a peek at his twin Berettas sitting on each hip. He swivels around, tilting his head. “Utter one more word in my direction.”
The middle-aged man’s eyes, weighed down by bushy eyebrows, widen when he realizes it’s Kenji he spoke to, and he shuffles away.
