That’s when I see him.
At first, my brain refuses to process what I’m looking at. The buffet tables are arranged in a large circle around something that’s been decorated with trailing ivy and those gorgeous midnight-blue flowers that seem to be Grimlock’s signature botanical choice. More candles, more fairy lights, more of that magical forest atmosphere that’s been enchanting me all evening.
But underneath the beautiful, whimsical decorations is a man.
A dead man.
A very, very dead man whose torso has been split open in a grotesque flower arrangement that’s both horrifying and impossibly elegant.
He’s laid out like some macabre centerpiece, his body positioned with the careful attention of someone arranging a formal dinner setting. His chest has been split wide open, the jagged wound filled with the most beautiful blue flowers I’ve ever seen. They spill from the gaping cavity like some twisted corsage, their petals a shade of midnight that matches Blue’s beard perfectly. More flowers cascade from his hands, which have been positioned to look like he’s offeringbouquets to the dinner guests. Ivy winds around his arms and legs, and someone has even woven a crown of those blue flowers through his hair.
But it’s the tattoo on his neck that makes my breath catch—a small black crow in flight, its wings spread wide. One of them. One of the men on my list who killed my father with that cruel smile I’ll never forget, delivered to me on a literal silver platter.
The realization stops me cold. One of them. One of the men who killed my father is here, dead, turned into some twisted centerpiece.
My stomach lurches, but not with revulsion. With something that feels dangerously close to relief.
I scan the room, looking for someone—anyone—who seems bothered by the fact that we’re having dinner around a murdered man who’s been turned into a botanical display. Dame Gothel is discussing the merits of the herb-crusted lamb with Maya the muralist, neither of them so much as glancing at the corpse centerpiece. Arthur Bearskin is examining the selection of cheeses while standing close enough to the body that he could probably identify the exact species of flowers growing from the chest cavity. Elliott is humming while he arranges pastries on his plate, occasionally pausing to admire the way the candlelight plays across the dead man’s ivy-crowned head.
Everyone is acting like this is completely normal.
Like casual murder-as-decoration is just another charming Grimlock tradition.
And somehow, the most disturbing part is that I’m not running. I’m not screaming or demanding to know what kind of psychopath decorates with dead bodies. I’m standing here wondering if this is what Blue expects from me—to handle this kind of scene without flinching. To become someone who could create this kind of scene.
I catch Blue’s eyes across the room, and he’s watching me with the intensity of someone waiting for a verdict. He’s been pulled into a conversation with Hans about something that requires serious nodding and occasional gestures, but his attention keeps drifting to me. Checking my reaction. Measuring my response to his test.
The message is becoming clear: This is what your future looks like. This is what I’m going to teach you to do. But first, I need to know if you can even handle seeing it.
I look back at the corpse, and this time I notice details that make me stare despite myself. The way his mouth has been positioned in an almost serene smile, as if he’s peacefully sleeping despite the gaping wound in his chest. How his fingernails have been cleaned and buffed, his hair carefully combed and styled with that floral crown. The careful way his clothing has been pressed and arranged so he looks dignified even in death—a twisted form of respect that’s somehow more disturbing than outright desecration.
It’s a statement piece, but not just Blue showing off. He’s making sure every person at this party knows exactly what happens to people who cross him. And he’s showing me what I’ll be capable of once he’s done training me.
But there’s something else here. Something that makes my chest tighten with an emotion I can’t quite name. He did this without asking me. Without warning me. Is this how he plans to handle my education—surprising me with tests I didn’t know I was taking?
The thought hits me so suddenly I actually take a step backward. I’m not just being shown a dead body—I’m being evaluated. My reaction right now is determining something about how Blue sees me, what he thinks I’m ready for.
When did murder become a pop quiz?
But beneath the unease is something darker. Something that whispers that this is exactly what I wanted to see. That I’ve been fantasizing about these men dead for years, and now one of them actually is. The only thing missing is that I didn’t get to do it myself.
Is that the point? Is he showing me what I’m missing out on by letting others handle my revenge?
I look across the room at Blue, who’s watching me with those dark eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul. He’s not just protecting me or taking over my revenge—he’s testing whether I’m ready to claim it myself.
In front of the entire town. With a corpse as his teaching aid.
And God help me, I think I’m passing.
Chapter Eighteen
Blue
Death has its own magnetism, and Saylor is caught in its pull.
She circles Samuel “Sly” Crow’s corpse with the deliberate hunger of a predator examining prey, her copper silk dress whispering against the moss-covered floor as she moves. Each step brings her closer to the truth I’ve laid bare for her—not just Sly’s eviscerated chest blooming with midnight flowers, but the careful choreography of violence I’ve orchestrated in her honor. The violence Hans executed while I held myself back, counting breaths and fighting every instinct that screamed at me to be the one wielding the blade.
My conversation with Hans dies mid-sentence as I watch her lean forward, close enough that the candlelight catches the silver stars Wren painted along her lash line. She’s not recoiling from death’s embrace. She’s welcoming it, breathing it in like expensive perfume.
