“There’s only one way to find out,” I teased.
“Perhaps another time.” He glanced at the heavy gold timepiece on his wrist. “We have just under an hour before the festivities begin. We should be in our seats prior to the commencement. I want time for my guards to sweep the crowd before you’re recognized.”
Chicken, I almost teased. But this was real and getting realer by the minute. I was returning to the Lyceum where I would face off against Dame Lawson and the others who formed the bedrock of the Society.
“You know what to do,” I told Woolly, and my cellphone buzzed once. “Good girl.”
I took the arm Volkov offered me, and the locks snicked behind me.
The driver dipped his chin and opened the door for us. I settled on the backseat, and Volkov joined me a moment later, this time keeping a foot of distance between us. Clearly he was on his best behavior tonight.
The drive to the Lyceum took forever and no time at all. The car rolled to a stop, and we exited on the steps of city hall. The massive limestone building loomed overhead, its clock tower a shadow against the cloudy night sky. The domed roof and cupola, each gilded with twenty-four-karat gold leaf, would have glinted in sunlight, but it wasn’t glittering now.
A black SUV parked behind us and ejected six guards. Two eased into the shadows and vanished. The other four swarmed us.
We entered in a cluster through the front doors under the guise of attending a private meeting. Inside the quiet was absolute, the only sound the click of my heels. I’d visited cemeteries more alive than these empty halls.
“This is a formality, Grier.” Volkov steered me toward a bank of elevators. “It will be over soon.”
“Guess you can hear my heartbeat, huh?” Each vicious thud threatened to shatter a rib. “Or can you smell my fear?” Under my breath, I mumbled, “I should have hosed myself with perfume.”
Etiquette drummed into my head had prevented me from doing more than swiping on deodorant. Vampires’ heightened senses meant even light fragrances left them with pounding migraines after a few hours of exposure. The polite thing was using unscented products when anticipating prolonged contact.
“You’ve chewed the lipstick off your bottom lip.” He zeroed in on my mouth. “I scented blood, not fear.”
“Neely is going to kill me.” I fumbled in my clutch for the tube of emergency tinted lip gloss he’d anticipated me needing. “Would you mind?” I dipped the brush into the bottle and passed him the wand. “I’m afraid if I make it to the bathrooms, I’ll hide and never come out.”
“I’ll do my best.” He swiped the tip gently over my bottom lip, and the broken skin stung. “There.” He drew back to admire his handiwork. “Good as new.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the guards appeared at his side. “What do you think?”
The male spared me the briefest of glances. “She is flawless, sir.”
Volkov’s final inspection lingered far longer. “She is that.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I tucked away the gloss, certain I would need it again later.
We entered the elevator, Volkov and me pressed into one corner by the four guards positioned between us and the door. He toyed with the bangle he’d given me, his fingers blazing hot trails over my wrist. The guards used a key to open the control panel and pushed the button for the subbasement that held the Lyceum.
“Is this normal for you?” I whispered. “All these guards?”
“No.” He caught himself taking liberties and lowered his hand. “Our laws demand I keep two guards with me at all times in public, but they’re not usually so intrusive. The rest are a precaution.”
“No hints?”
“Afraid not.”
I blasted out the deepest exhale my bodice allowed. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“Soon we will be allowed to speak candidly,” he assured me. “Then there will be no secrets between us.”
I pasted on a smile to cover the knee-jerk urge to contradict him. We all kept secrets. Some out of kindness, some in anger, and others to protect ourselves. But I doubt he’d meant me to take him literally. White lies wove the fabric of the Society, after all.
The elevator slowed and then stopped, and so did my breathing. The doors opened on a rush of tinkling laughter and murmured conversation, and the guards fanned out in the bright hallway. The male nearest us gave a nod, and Volkov led me from the booth onto a glossy expanse of dark crimson tiles, edging into black, the colors so rich they evoked the image of freshly spilled blood starting to congeal. In our lines of work, I supposed the red-on-black decor hid a multitude of sins.
An elderly man wearing a simple gray suit spotted Volkov’s entourage and cleared his throat. “Danill Volkov, Heritor of Clan Volkov, Last Seed of Marcus Volkov, and his lady friend.”
Relief cascaded over me. Entering on his arm was intimidating enough without my name being broadcast throughout the amphitheater.
Silence greeted us as Volkov led me to the circular stage where the aggrieved and the accused stood to receive their judgment before the Society. There was no other way to enter the Lyceum except to cross the dais. Each step blasted chills down my arms as though someone were walking over my grave.
Before us sat an opulent box seat for the Grande Dame’s use. Two silver chairs sat to either side of what might as well have been a throne, the seat golden, gem-studded and as ostentatious as it got. I had to wonder if it wasn’t a holdover from a time when necromancers had been treated as god queens. Pretending there was history to the piece made it more palatable. Maybe I could spend the next few hours concocting a macabre history for it that I could weave into the story I recounted to Amelie.
A half step below this level, a short balcony railing separated a seating area reserved for the lowest rung on the ladder. Made vampires watched us with covetous eyes that flickered black with hunger. On the level above them sat the Low Society matrons. The women cackled and chatted and seemed to enjoy the chance to catch up with one another. I scanned their faces, but Matron Pritchard was absent. The next tier was reserved for Last Seeds. Fewer chairs filled that space, and none of them were occupied. Two shadowy figures I recognized as Volkov’s missing guards checked each chair, each spindle on the railing, each nook and cranny where danger might lurk.
Volkov and I stood there, exposed on the stage, the heat from the bright lights breaking me out in a sweat. I risked a peek at him from the corner of my eye, and his smugness tipped my mouth into a frown. The attention made my skin crawl, but he was lapping it up as his due.
For a male in his position, I suppose this adulation was normal. For me, it was pure torture.
The final row, its adornments brushing against the ceiling, was reserved for the High Society. Unlike the friendly chatter of the Low Society matrons, the High Society dames each kept their own council. A few whispered behind their hands, but on the whole, they gave the impression they had somewhere else they’d rather be, when this ceremony was the social event of the year. More like the decade. Perhaps even this century if Dame Lawson was particularly long-lived. Gold and gemstones dripped from their ears, fingers, necks and wrists. The elaborate beading on their gowns must have weighed fifty pounds, and I had no doubt each design was an original.
Volkov applied slight pressure on my arm, and I snapped my attention back to my own party as I was led to a set of stairs. All those sharp eyes as you strolled to the darkened stairwells made the skin between your shoulder blades twitch as if half the Lyceum’s occupants had daggers trained on your spine.
Two guards walked ahead of us. The staircase was tight, but Volkov remained by my side, and I was grateful for his strength to lean on. The final two guards trailed behind, sandwiching us between a wall of muscle and fang. The two guards who had cleared the area nodded a greeting to Volkov. They dipped their eyes in a show of deference to me that felt undeserved.
We took our seats, positioned above the mouth of the tunnel with a direct view of the empty box where the
Grande Dame, both past and future, would soon complete their ceremonial power transfer. Despite the pinch in my middle from where the gown cut into me, I took my first full breath since arriving in the Lyceum.
Volkov leaned close to avoid our conversation being overheard by any sensitive ears present. “You’re upset.”
“Not with you.” He was who he was, and he made no apologies for it. “Nervous.”
“Would you like a drink?” He gestured to the servers circulating with large platters filled with fluted glasses of bubbling pink liquid. “It might settle your nerves.”
“Sure.” Tonight I would take all the help I could get.
A guard appeared at my elbow seconds later. He must have fetched the drink prior to Volkov asking me. He was a master at anticipating needs, I’d give him that.
“Thank you.” I accepted the drink and sipped. Tart lime and pink grapefruit hit my tongue edged with a slight bitterness. Or maybe that was the memory dredged up by the taste. “What’s this called?”
I wanted to make sure I never ordered it again by accident.
Reading the pucker of my lips as permission to relieve me of my drink, Volkov accepted the glass and sipped. “A Long-Faced Dove.” He laughed at my wrinkled nose. “Would you like something else?”
“That seems to be the only drink circulating.” I clutched my small purse in my lap, snapping and unsnapping its clasp. “I can hold out a while longer.” I offered him a weak smile. “Though I might need a drink when I get out of here.”
If I got out of here.
“That can be arranged.” Volkov settled back in his chair and started people-watching. “Do you have a favorite drink?”
“Not really.” I’d turned twenty-one inside Atramentous, and getting sloshed hadn’t been high on my priority list since my release. For one thing, alcohol was expensive. For another, it was an addictive balm that left you right back where you started from, just poorer for your trouble. “Amelie and I used to sneak into Boaz’s parties back in high school. I had a margarita once. The girl he was dating at the time blended them like a pro, said it was her mom’s favorite. I liked that.”
“High school,” he murmured. “You share more history with him than I’d realized.”
“We grew up together—Boaz, Amelie and me.” Not quite the three musketeers since d'Artagnan hadn’t wanted to bone Porthos. “I had the worst crush on him back then, and he thought it was hilarious. Not exactly the reaction I’d hoped for, you know?”
“And now?” He kept his expression neutral. “Has time and separation changed either of your perspectives?”
“He’s always going to be important to me, but the truth is, I don’t know how much is just falling into old habits and how much is real.” I smothered a grin. “Boaz is a terrible flirt, but he throws his whole heart into loving the person he’s with at the time he’s with them.”
“Ah.” Volkov nodded. “You’re concerned any fling would be brief and the damage to your friendship lasting.”
“Exactly that.” I tapped the back of his hand where it rested on the arm of his chair. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader? You’re the most perceptive guy I’ve ever met.”
“Wouldn’t that be a handy talent? No, I can’t read minds, but I can read people.” He indicated the bangle that kept me from curling up in his lap like a spoiled cat. “Lures are as individual as fingerprints. The worst hunter can feed and release their donor without doing harm with a bare minimum of training, but there is an art to giving a person the thing they want most that facilitates their full surrender, and the blood is always sweeter for their submission.”
Submission was not my kink. Not that I had any kinks I was aware of. But if I did, I felt pretty sure that would not be one. Submission required a level of trust I might never be capable of cultivating with a man. Let alone a vampire.
Admitting he was a master manipulator, in any context, made me hyperaware of exactly how accommodating he had been since meeting me. How much of Danill was I seeing versus what the Volkov heritor had been ordered to show me?
A ripple shuddered through the crowd that saved me from having to formulate the appropriate response after hearing the predator next to me wax poetic on his love of the hunt.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The announcer’s clear, high voice rang through the amphitheater. “It is my pleasure to introduce to you Clarice Woolworth Lawson, Dame Lawson, future Grande Dame of the Society for Post-Death Management.”
I was perched on the edge of my seat without realizing I’d decided to inch closer to the railing.
The woman who strode forward could have passed for Maud from this angle. White hair swept up in a classic twist. Modest gown the color of wet blood with long sleeves and a square neckline. Practical heels that click-clacked, causing her abbreviated train to swish like a serpent’s tail across the floor.
Not until she vanished in the shadows of the stairwell did I remember to breathe.
Nine
People thrust into appalling circumstances either learn to cope or they go mad. I coped with Atramentous through madness. The perpetual darkness, the drugs, the knowledge I would lie curled on that filthy floor until the day I died, beat me down until I almost embraced the hiss of the injector as chemicals spiraled through my bloodstream and swept me away for hours or days or months at a time.
There I learned how to retreat inside my head, and that’s where I huddled during the inauguration.
Blind, I watched the proceedings. Deaf, I heard the vows spoken. Mute, I moved my lips on silent affirmations.
A warm hand on my arm made me flinch hard enough the legs of my chair scraped against the planks.
Volkov withdrew, giving me space to sink back into my body, but gestured toward the box.
The newly minted Grande Dame stood with her arm outstretched. Pointing. She was singling me out. Her mouth formed words, but I couldn’t hear them over the thudding of my pulse in my ears. I looked to Volkov for a translation, but he kept his face carefully neutral while listening to her speech.
“She’s asked you to take the floor.”
I snapped my head toward him. “W-what?”
“It will be fine,” he assured me. “My guards will escort you down and remain in the stairwell.”
“Danill.” For the first time, I used his given name without prompting, and it rushed out on a terrified whimper.
“I have no claim on you.” He took my hand, his thumb sliding over his bangle. “I’m not allowed to stand with you without an understanding between us.”
The temptation to accept his offer of alliance beat under my skin. The only thing that stopped me from sinking to my knees at his feet and begging was the fact he had known this was coming. Whatever she intended, whatever was about to happen, he had strolled in here tonight armed with that knowledge. And he had refused to share it with me.
The same survival instinct that had kept me alive this long roared to wakefulness.
Volkov had already admitted he excelled in giving people what they desired most. Wasn’t that what he had done for me? I craved safety, and he offered me protection in tiny bites that were easy for me to swallow. Guards at the house. An escort to the inauguration. Even the bangle made a powerful statement in that as long as I wore it, our dealings were one hundred percent consensual. For a person who’d had so little choice in her life, it made for a much more potent lure than his own.
All these guards, all for show. What good were they when I would stand on that floor alone?
“I have to do this on my own.” Truth gave the words an extra punch of bravado I didn’t feel. The wrap snagged on my chairback and slid off my shoulders as I stood. I didn’t have it in me to retrieve it, and I waved off the guard when he offered me assistance. That left me holding my bag, and I wasn’t convinced I could manage that either. “Hold my purse?”
“Of course.” He offered a faint smile. “I’ll be right here.”
Putting one foot in front of the other, I e
xited into the stairwell and climbed down. The guards followed at a safe distance, close enough I could call out for them but not so near they quelled the roiling in my gut over the fact Volkov remained in his seat. A silent ultimatum.
I paused in the shadowed archway, sucked in a breath, and then I was striding forward to greet my fate.
The Grande Dame arranged her expression into a welcoming smile with a benevolent yet sad undertone.
“My darling niece,” she murmured. “I’m so glad you came.”
I curtsied, which seemed more prudent than snapping out, What choice did I have?
“Please join me in welcoming Grier Woolworth, everyone.” Her strong voice projected to every corner of the room. A beat of stunned silence preceded a smattering of confused claps. “Many of you have asked why I chose to ascend to Grande Dame. The reasons are simple. Our justice system is flawed. I witnessed this firsthand five years ago when my niece was convicted of murdering my dear sister, Maud, and I am humbled to stand before you on this momentous night to witness true justice served.”
A profound hush silenced the amphitheater, and my knees quivered beneath my skirts.
To her right, the former Grande Dame, Abayomi Balewa, flinched as if the words had stricken her, but she covered her reaction with a regal nod to her successor and joined my aunt to address the masses.
“There was no public trial held for Grier Woolworth,” Balewa began. “The matter of her guilt was settled behind closed doors out of respect for Maud and her family, and out of necessity due to the privileged nature of her work for the Society.” Her knuckles pushed against her skin where she gripped the balcony railing. “The evidence available at the time convinced us, convinced me, of Grier’s guilt. The heinous nature of the crime demanded our highest punishment, and I meted out a penance of equal severity.”
The Grande Dame looked on, wearing an earnest mask tinged with the exact right amounts of understanding and forgiveness. Two words I bet she’d have to Google for a definition.
How to Save an Undead Life (The Beginner's Guide to Necromancy Book 1) Page 12
