Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“—of course not,” Bane snaps, his back to Evander as he throws his hands in the air in exasperation at the staff.
“Tell our guests to shut up and sit down. We said we’d be serving at eleven p.m., so start serving.
Do I have to spell everything out? Dawes can learn how to use a goddamn gate or sit out there till morning… ”
Evander closes his eyes.
Leaves unfold and the world turns black.
Moss grows beneath his tongue.
His eyes open.
Close.
open
He sits in the dining room at the head of the table, staring down and down into his distorted reflection in the ebony hardwood.
Hundreds of candles have been lit, the chandeliers polished to a stunning sheen, and the table stretches on forever, lined with place settings decorated with rubies and saltwater pearls.
He doesn’t recognize most of the faces. There are half a dozen new Lennox-Halls whispering and tittering, their silver cutlery scraping plates arranged with elegant swirls of spiced steak tartare. Blood drips off the tines of forks.
His plate lies empty.
A dull throb spreads from his severed wrist up to his shoulder, and he can feel the fever eating through his neck, his collarbones, his swollen mouth.
A single drop of sweat hits his plate.
Conversation continues, glib and light, compliments dancing back and forth about the austere wonder of Hazelthorn, how magnificent it is to finally step foot inside after all these years.
Their greed slips down their chins like saliva, and their eyes are black pools of lustful want, and they seem to have forgotten they are here to mourn Byron.
Oleander sits to his right, her expression sour as she surveys her bloodline, no doubt seeing them as her brother once did—leeches only here to suck her dry. Her food remains untouched, but she has one elongated claw on the table, close enough to snatch Evander if he tries to bolt.
But he has no plans to run.
He reaches for his wineglass, fumbling to grasp it with numb fingers, and then he stands abruptly.
Oleander hisses and snatches for his jacket, but Evander quickly raises his glass in the air.
“A toast to our beloved Byron Laurence Lennox-Hall.” His voice is hoarse, and around him, conversation simpers into silence as everyone stares.
Oleander’s teeth clench. “Sit down.”
“No, I want to say wordsssinhishonor.” Evander sounds drunk, slurred, and he must look it, because there are a few wry smiles passed between the guests. Because of course they don’t care about the truth of what’s been done to him. They choose not to look too closely.
Bane has been sat several seats down the table and looks in a sour mood about it, and he stares at Evander with glittering contempt.
Only Azalea seems serene and unbothered as she also reaches for her wine. “Oh, what a lovely idea.”
“Let him speak, Ollie!” an older gentleman calls out, and the look in Oleander’s eyes is volcanic.
She retracts her claws from Evander’s jacket, but her teeth remain bared in a dangerous smile as she watches him closely.
“I’m grateful for all of you coming here today in memory of his passing.
” Heat burns behind Evander’s eyes; he is molten, he is burning up, he is delirious with pain.
“He was an innovative, dedicated m-man. He was a father to me. I—I—I am so grateful to inherit the legacy he left behind. I’m so grateful”—his head pounds, his mouth is full of rocks—“to be left here with all of you.”
“All right, that’s enough, sit down,” Oleander hisses.
Because he is meant to be a trophy shown off, a symbolism of her win, not a puppet who speaks.
“A toast.” Evander raises his wineglass, his hand trembling so hard liquid sloshes out the side. “To Byron. To his garden. To all of you having a true taste of Hazelthorn.”
Several glasses are raised, though a few Lennox-Halls seem bored of his theatrics.
He throws back his wine and the others do the same.
The plum wine slips down his throat in a rich, vibrant stain.
“Thank you for coming to eat,” Evander says. “And be eaten. Long may you rot.”
The first person puts a hand to their throat, their polite cough turning into a gagging sound.
Then the next person stands abruptly as they wheeze for air.
Amusement turns to alarm as people reach for each other, asking what is wrong, what is happening.
Then another, and then another. A wineglass tips off the table and shatters on the floor. A shriek rings out.
Panic breaks over them as chairs screech backward and fear plays through their shouts.
Oleander’s brittle gaze whips to Evander. “What did you do?”
Evander flops backward into his chair and wipes his mouth, smearing blood up his cheek. When he laughs, it is a wretched sound. It all makes sense now; he should have thought of it before. After years of being poisoned just enough so that he stayed sick, he has grown up horribly, terribly immune.
They should never have left him alone in the kitchen with the wine.
“I think I did it,” he says as the room folds into hysterical chaos. “I think I killed Byron Lennox-Hall.” He pauses, poisonous petals unfolding in his throat, before he whispers, “And the rest of you too.”