Both women cringed.
“All you had to say was the party is about to be over," said Lark.
DJ Satisfriction had a big bankroll, courtesy of his parents, and no skills. But he was a celebrity, so he brought in the crowd. Spin had warmed them up for him. Now he would cool them down, and the true partygoers would go off and find a new party. It was the Millennial way. They party hopped until dawn.
"Let's grab a bite," said Lark. "I'm starving. You're paying.”
Before they could take two steps, Lark reached down and grabbed Spin’s hand. She whirled on her friend with arched brows.
“You have gotten paid tonight, haven't you?”
Spin shrugged. She’d forgotten to go to the manager’s office. She did this for the love, not the money. Before Spin could open her mouth, Lark steered them to the owner's office. Spin knew better than to protest the tiny bundle that was Lark Voorhees. She carried a wand and, unlike the magician she assisted, Lark knew how to use it.
The club manager looked up and grimaced when he saw Lark enter his office. No words were necessary. He didn’t hesitate. Spin was certain the man didn’t want a repeat of last week. Lark was just as good at making things disappear as she was at making them appear.
The manager reached in his desk drawer and drew out a wad of cash. "I was just coming to find you, Spin. Here's your pay."
Lark snatched it and counted. The owner gritted his teeth as she did so. A drop of sweat trickled down his brow.
"It's one hundred Euros short," said Lark.
“What?” His brows rose in surprise. “It’s what Spin and I agreed on. Right, Spin?”
It wasn’t.
“Oh?” said Lark. “Well if you agreed to short her, I’m sure that money will appear someway somehow.”
Lark turned back to the door, a mischievous grin on her face as she made her way to Spin.
“Wait,” the manager called before Lark could cross the threshold.
The look on Lark’s face screamed thought so.
He dove under his desk to the door to a hidden safe open that Spin had only learned was there after Lark’s last visit with her to the office. Lark smirked when she saw his actions. She could get into it with no trouble. It wouldn’t be the first time. He reemerged just a minute later with a fresh note.
Lark snatched it from his grubby hands with a polite smile that belied her true feelings. “Nice doing business with you.”
"Lark," Spin tsked when they were out of the room, "You promised to use your powers for good."
"All bets are off when I'm hungry. Besides, he’s a chauvinist. He pays the male DJs more than you. He’s lucky I didn’t change the combination of his safe after emptying it."
“It has a lock and key now.”
“Child’s play.” Lark handed Spin the wad of cash as they exited into the warehouse that had been converted into a club.
Most of the places Spin played were such converted places. A cool breeze greeted them as they stepped outside the sweat-drenched club and into the night air of Nice, France. Being near the water, the nights always turned a bit cold. As the two friends began to go down the list of possible places there was to eat, a rustling sound came from behind the garbage can.
They froze. But they saw a gruff shoe poking out from behind the overflowing dumpster. It was a woman. Her face was covered in smudges of dirt. She clutched a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. She held onto the similarly grubby hand of a child in the other.
The child was a bit cleaner with somewhat nicer clothes. She held a burger patty with no bread. She chewed quickly as she eyed Lark and Spin, as though she was afraid they’d take her last bite of food away.
Spin took careful, slow steps as she went over to them. The mother pushed the child behind her. Spin peeled off the one hundred Euro note and handed it to the mother. The woman's eyes grew wide.
Without waiting for a thanks or any praise, Spin turned and continued on her way with Lark in tow. She didn't hear anything from her friend. They'd both known that particular struggle.
"Thanks for getting me all that I was due,” Spin said. “You were right, I needed it."
Spin pressed her hand to her heart, finding all the security she needed in the cold gem she found there. She knew money was necessary. But holding on to it only brought bad things. Money behaved best when it was put into service for someone in need.
Chapter Three
The office looked as though a tornado had passed through and took a bird bath. Papers were everywhere. File drawers were opened and gutted. Shelves were divulged of books. Still, in the chaos, Zhi had found nothing to save them. There was no path to turn around what his father had torn asunder. For years, Zhi had tried to put the estate back together piece by piece, dollar by dollar, stone by stone.
When he was younger, he lived oblivious to the chaos his father created. He'd been in the calm of the eye, left to run wild with Prince Alex and Carlisle, the son of the Baron of Balansya. Being born the son of nobility, each of the boys had rarely seen their patrons. The king, duke, and baron had preferred their boys be out of sight, which had been fine for the boys, none of which had ever lived up to their old man’s expectations.
Zhi had stayed out of sight but not so far that he hadn’t known of his father's temper and tantrums. He knew his father hadn't always come home at night. He never saw or heard his mother cry, but he knew that she did. She would always cover her sobs with one of Chopin’s nocturnes.
Zhi had set his path in life to be nothing like his father. He never raised his voice. He never drank more than one glass of spirits even when at home. He only gambled on silly wagers like foot races between his friends and pie contests with the prince.
He had his fun but at no one else's expense. He'd never made a woman cry. He'd never put anyone out of work. That would all change very soon. The house would be empty of staff if he didn’t find a solution. The halls would only echo with the sad chords from his mother’s fingers as she covered her sobs with a sad serenade in D major.
Zhi slumped in the ornate chair. The decades' old upholstery coughed up dusk as his head collided with the wingback fabric. The dust burned his eyes, but no moisture leaked from them. He was his mother’s son. He might have to visit the music room himself later this evening for his own pity party.
Nian Zhen, the duchess of Mondego, came into the room on silent feet. The ancient door didn’t dare creak at her presence. The floorboards hushed under her slight weight. The only reason Zhi knew his mother was there was because of the ruffle of the papers at her feet.
She looked down at the discarded heap of parchment. It was another of her husband’s messes. So, of course, she thought it her duty to take care of it. Even at the age of fifty, Nian sank gracefully down to her knees and began tidying up.
"Stop that," Zhi shouted. His voice was harsh, and she flinched. Zhi felt like the dregs in the pool out back. But he was brimming with disgust like those foul waters. "It's not your mess to clean up."
"It's not yours either."
His mother's voice was so soft. It always had been. He'd never once heard her raise it in all his life.
Not when her husband berated her after her wealthy family cut off his access to their accounts. Not when Diego Sr. came home after days—weeks—of being absent with another woman’s perfume on his jacket. Not even when fists were slammed into walls when they were alone behind closed doors.
Zhi wasn’t sure if any of those jabs connected with his mother’s flesh. If they did, Nian hid them well. Their one-sided arguments could be heard from any wing in the house. But the former duke never put his bad behavior on full display.
In all his years, those were the first critical words his mother had ever said against her husband. Zhi rose slowly from his chair. The dust held its breath as he did so. He crossed the room in two strides to come to his mother’s side.
"I can't fix this, mǔqīn," he said, using the formal Chinese word for mother.
Though his mother grew up in Spain,
the daughter of first-generation immigrants to the country, his grandparents still held to many of the old ways.
"There is nothing left,” he said, taking the papers from her delicate hands. “He's lost it all. No one will loan a peso or pence or a cent to anyone with the name of Mondego."
"You can't ask your friends to intervene?"
His mother’s eyes remained downcast as she said the words. That’s how Zhi knew it wasn’t her idea. The monster had whispered the notion in her ear, pulling at her strings like a devil sitting beside her on the piano bench.
Zhi knew she meant Alex, the Prince of Cordoba. Or maybe she’d been referring to the king himself. There were only a few years of difference between Zhi and King Leonidas. With Zhi being a constant at Alex’s side, the king and the son of a duke had also forged a bond.
But Zhi shook his head. He couldn't ask his friends to clean up his father's mess. They all were living in the shadows of the men who'd sired them. Leo was far too busy with reigning the country away from economic crisis. Alex was trying to make his own way with a business venture. Carlisle was steering the ship of the barony while his father clutched on to life and the illusion of power.
The writing on the wall was clear since it wasn’t on any of the papers in the duke’s office. Zhi would have to get a job. But doing what? His degree was in music theory. It was a degree he’d never expected to use as his life would be spent running the estate.
He had his mother’s talent, but like her, he had never played professionally. Only in the music room to pound out his feelings or to please her. How was he going to support his mother?
And then there was the staff. He couldn't think of where they'd go. Like Zhi, the three adults that remained from the once sizable workforce had each been there all their lives. Their parents had worked for the dukedom for generations. Zhi had watched young Mathis toddle around these halls. He’d played catch with the boy while his father tended to his duties. The staff was more family to him than his own father.
This was one man's fault. That man was resting comfortably while the rest of them suffered due to his actions. Zhi’s gaze fixed on the ceiling as though he could beam a laser up to the third floor and burn his father into oblivion.
"How is he? Is he lucid today?"
His mother swallowed before answering. "He is calm. Let's keep him that way."
Nian rested a hand on her son’s shoulder. That was his mother's way. She never rocked the boat. She did her duty, what was expected of her. And she never complained.
Well, Zhi had enough of his father’s blood in him to launch a complaint. Ignoring his mother's gentle rebuke, Zhi left the office and took the stairs. Coming up to the highest level of the estate, he approached his father's room.
The room was bare. Not out of spite for the once large and powerful man. It was because even in his weakened form, he could still wreak havoc with anything in reach of his throwing arm.
Diego Ferdinand Constantine Mondego loomed like a shadow in the large bed. He'd once been broad and imposing. Now he was meek and frail. His once tan skin was white and delicate like porcelain. He'd come from Spanish conquistadors. He now looked like something a fisherman's net had snagged.
The man was dying. Slowly, painfully, and dragging the estate and everyone in it with him on his descent into hell. For the last three years, he was no longer mentally capable of performing his ducal duties, and the reins had been handed over to his only son.
The feeble old man opened his eyes, the pupils unfocused for a moment but quickly found Zhi. Zhi held his breath and froze on the threshold. Sometimes, the former duke didn't even recognize his own son. It was worse when he did.
"Oh, it's you," Diego snarled. Though his body had lost might, his voice hadn’t. The low grumble of a lion filled the room. But the man in the bed was no match for a starved alley cat. "What do you want?"
"More solicitors came. Something about a loan in Austria.”
Diego rolled his eyes. Zhi wasn’t sure if it was from his illness or annoyance.
“Because you put the estate up as collateral for a debt you knew you couldn’t pay; they have the right to take the estate unless I can pay off the monies you owe. The problem is, there is no money left and nothing incoming.”
“Insolent brat,” the old man spat. “You do understand that money does, in fact, grow on trees. Your mother’s people make enough of it with their little cleaning service.”
Zhi winced at the insult. His mother’s family had become self-made millionaires with a chain of convenience stores and laundromats throughout Spain. But they had two strikes against them; they were nouveau riche, and they were immigrants. Two things the ancient and noble blood of the Mondegos turned their aquiline noses up at.
But when millions turned to billions, Diego held his nose and wooed the shy and sheltered daughter of those same wealthy immigrants. Nian’s father was suspicious, but it mattered not. His daughter had fallen desperately in love, and in love, she stayed, even after Diego showed his true colors after spending every bit of her inheritance.
“If your mother's family would give me the money they promised—”
"My mother is not a commodity," said Zhi. "You at least could show remorse since you won't and can't take responsibility for all the pain you've caused."
"There’s a simple enough solution to this problem.” His father’s eyes were bright and lucid as they focused on Zhi. “Marry more money."
Zhi tried to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. He failed. His father had learned nothing. He would never change.
"Find an ugly, rich heiress and seduce her out of her pocketbook. It's what nobles have been doing for generations. It is your sole job in your capacity as a duke.”
"You disgust me."
"I kept you fed and in the lap of luxury all your life,” his father roared. What was left of the old lion in him reared its head. “You weren't disgusted while you were reaping the fruits of my labors."
Zhi couldn't stomach another moment around the man. He slammed the door and left him to his rages. A few moments later, Zhi heard the quiet snick of the door and the silence that told him his father had calmed down. Zhi knew his mother had gone in and tended to the man she loved despite everything he’d done to her.
Chapter Four
"And now you say the magic words ..."
"Abracadabra!”
Spin couldn’t help but grin as the adolescents’ shouts sounded all throughout the small theater. After their enthusiastic cheers, Spin added the drum roll sound effect to the cacophony. From her place just off the stage behind the curtains, she turned back to the main event.
The Great Piers Northwood, Illusionist Extraordinaire, waved his perfectly manicured slender fingers over a pristine top hat. The stage lighting caught the sparkles of the eye shadow he’d placed over his eyelids. His thin lips gleamed from the second coat of gloss Spin had watched him apply before the show.
Of course, The Great Nitwitini wasn’t holding the hat. That job was reserved for his faithful assistant. Spin’s gaze traveled to Lark whose knuckles were white as she gripped the hat. Her ruby red smile was forced. Her pale eyes shot daggers at her boss as she passed in a skimpy costume that wasn't wholly appropriate for the age group in the audience. But The Great Nitwitini insisted it was the look he wanted for his show.
Nitwitini waved his hands again and slotted her a meaningful glance. Lark let out a huffed breath. Glitter shimmied off her shoulders with the action. Taking the hat from her, Nitwitini turned the prop upside down.
Nothing came out.
The children leaned forward in their seats trying to see if there was anything to see. The rabbit that was supposed to jump out was nowhere to be seen. The silence was deafening.
Nitwitini’s smile faltered before the peering crowd of children. He nervously chuckled. “I don’t think I heard you. Say the magic words again. Louder this time so Mr. Rabbit can hear you."
The kids enthusiastically obliged. Once
more, they shouted the age-old magical word. From behind the curtain, Spin played the drum roll again.
The Great Nitwitini gave his back to the children as he began his hand waving motions. He glared at Lark as he did so. Her smile was genuine this time. Spin knew her friend was enjoying the performance.
Finally, after all the fanfare, Nitwitini once more took the hat from his assistant. He turned over the hat.
Nothing.
Nitwitini looked panicked. Lark’s gaze was innocent as she shrugged. More of the hated sparkles shimmered down from her shoulders. From her place off stage, Spin cringed. She had no idea what her friend had planned, but unlike the magician, Spin knew better than to cross the one person on the stage who actually held all the cards.
The kids in the audience began to murmur. Then their little bodies began to fidget in their seats. A small giggle broke through the murmuring. Followed by a few chuckles. Then the pointing started, and all the children broke out laughing.
The hat was still in Lark’s hands. On her shoulder, sniffing at the hated sparkles, was Mr. Rabbit. Lark dropped the hat to snuggle the white rabbit in her arms.
Nitwitini glared, his face going red.
Lark stepped in front of him and spread her bountiful arms wide and shouted "Ta-dah."
The children sprang to their feet, clapping vigorously. It took Nitwitini a second to get in line with the new reality. They all thought it was a part of the act. He quickly relieved Lark of the bunny, stepped in front of her, and took a bow, accepting the praise and the credit as though it were his.
“One of these days, you’re going to play a trick that your mouth can’t cash,” said Spin.
“He deserved it,” Lark said. “There's glitter in my bra."
Lark held up the wash towel she’d been using for the better part of fifteen minutes. The once white cloth had turned a bright shade of gold. She tossed the ruined towel in the trash bin, and the two women headed out the back of the old theater.
The afternoon air was warm as they rounded the old building. A few kids were still outside the theater surrounding Nitwitini. They didn’t look up at Lark’s approach. No one was interested in the magician's assistant. Even though the assistants performed most of the work that created the illusions while the magicians distracted the audience.
The Duke and the DJ: a Sweet Royal Romance (The Rebel Royals Series Book 3) Page 2
