8. Wolfgang
8
WOLFGANG
C onstantine’s mansion, in the north end of Pravitia, would already be hard to miss just by its sheer size, but paired with the all-pink exterior, the monstrosity can surely be seen from space.
Aleksandr strolls up the white steps and opens the front door without knocking. I follow him inside at a leisurely pace, hands in my trouser pockets.
“Honey, we’re home!” Aleksandr calls out from the large foyer.
He turns to me, cracking a smile and winking as if expecting me to laugh at his doltish joke. I don’t, keeping my face neutral as I hear Constantine’s voice from a few rooms down.
Since their families have been on friendly terms for the past century, the two have never had the hurdle of age-old feuds to overcome. Their friendship has been steadfast for as long as I can remember.
Constantine appears shortly after, looking like she tore herself out of a vintage housewife magazine. Her blonde hair falls in perfectly styled waves, a white apron wrapped tightly around her pink poodle skirt dress.
“Finally!” she exclaims, giggling loudly when her blue eyes land on Aleksandr. Running up to him with arms wide open, he catches her midway, twirling her body around before setting Constantine back on her feet. His outfit seems to mirror hers, the slacks and collared baby blue shirt echoing decades past.
“Miss me?” he drawls.
“Always,” she replies with a beaming smile.
I give Aleksandr a searing side-eye but he doesn’t notice, so I clear my throat. “Pleasure to see you too, Tinny,” I say as I pick an invisible piece of lint off my sleeve.
Constantine’s breathy giggle is unbothered. “Silly Wolfie, I’m always happy to see you,” she says as she leans in to fix my silk ascot tie. I swat her away like a pesky mosquito.
Ignoring my grievance, she claps her hands together, looking at us both. “Drinks in the weapons room! Come, come.”
Spinning around, she signals us to follow her down the long hall, as if we both haven’t been to her house countless times.
Pink ornate sconces illuminate our path as we pass countless open doors. From the corner of my eye, I catch the room full of Victorian dolls locked away behind glass cases, it’s immediately followed by the one designated for her vast human bone collection. Finally, before arriving at the aforementioned weapons room, we walk past the room stuffed with medieval torture memorabilia—my favorite.
“The gang’s all here!” she chirps while traversing the threshold.
“What gang—” My words fizzle out in my throat when my gaze lands on Mercy daintily perched on a chair, a large array of throwing stars fanning behind her on the wall.
“Tinny,” she hisses, green eyes narrowing to slits. The curl of disgust on her red lips and hard grip around her glass tells me she’s just as cornered as I am.
“It was Gem’s idea!” Constantine volleys back, pointing a manicured finger toward a grinning Gemini sprawled across a white chaise. His hair is dyed pink for the occasion, small diamonds affixed near the corners of his eyes sparkling as bright as his gaze.
Mercy’s glare flares before she turns sharply around, reaches for one of the throwing stars, and launches it at Gemini’s head. Belladonna lets out a high-pitched shriek, the weapon narrowly missing her as she tucks her head behind her arms. Gemini snickers beside her, gracefully ducking out of the way, the star lodging itself in the wall behind him.
“See how entertaining this already is?” Gemini says with a debonair wave of his hand.
Although Aleksandr shares a similar disdain for Mercy and hasn’t been in the same room as Belladonna since his mother killed her father nineteen years ago, he seems rather unaffected by the situation. As for me, I’m stewing with irritation, chewing on my inner-lip and considering if I could just leave now before anyone notices.
Instead, I stay rooted in place, fists tight as I watch Aleksandr stroll further into the room. He plops himself beside Gemini, who takes his face in his ring-clad hands and kisses him loudly on the cheek.
Jaw clenched, my attention returns to Constantine. She stands unperturbed in the middle of the room, weapons of all shapes and sizes surrounding her, hands daintily clasped together near her waist as if performing in a pageant.
“What is the meaning of this little caucus?” I ask with a bite.
“Well,” Constantine starts, turning to Gemini for what seems to be moral support. But he’s too busy running his hand up one of the servants’ thighs while they hand him a drink to be of any help. “We thought — with the Conclave tomorrow, and with all our parents there — or what’s left of them,” she says to herself, “Maybe we could present a united front for once.”
“For what purpose?” Mercy asks, her tone ripe with aggravation, her clenched fingers curling into the cushion of her chair.
“Because feuds are boring,” Gemini responds to Mercy with a despondent sigh. His foolish gaze then finds mine. “Besides, you’re anything but boring, aren’t you Wolfie?”
“Don’t call me that, you pest,” I growl.
Gemini holds up his hands in surrender but continues to smirk, never the one to take anything seriously.
Slowly, I turn my gaze to Mercy, who is busy ignoring me, her arms now crossed tightly over her silk blouse, her black hair pulled back into a high ponytail, leaving her neck and shoulders uncovered aside from a pearl choker. Despite the hostile body language, she seems to have accepted our current fate, given that she hasn’t stormed out of the room as of yet.
I suck at my teeth while I bring my attention back to Constantine. Dragging my hand over my trimmed beard, I relent, after a long defeated sigh. “Fine. If we must.”
Constantine claps with glee. “We’re having croquembouche for dessert!” she says while falling into Aleksandr’s lap. I find a settee as far from Mercy as possible, mentally preparing to spend an entire soiree in her dreadful presence.
After a few rounds of drinks, we migrate to the dining room. It's a drafty and gaudy place—including the chandelier hanging above us. Constantine spent an excruciating amount of time showcasing the hanging pink bedazzled ornaments, made from her favorite human bones specially collected for this accent piece.
I’m on my third bourbon, the servants busy clearing the plates of our last course when I feel a tingling warmth begin to bloom in my chest, the sensation slowly crawls down my spine and limbs.
I assume it’s just the alcohol, finally numbing the particular chill I’ve been feeling all evening until I glance around the table and realize suddenly that something is glaringly off.
Glassy eyes. Dreamy grins. Especially when my gaze falls on Mercy, who’s talking to Belladonna in hushed tones, cheeks flushed, eyes glimmering—and smiling?
“Why do I feel …” I say to no one in particular. My words trail off, my thoughts turning ephemeral.
“Horny?” Gemini offers, his gaze reflecting a similar daze as Mercy’s as he intercepts a passing servant. He drags them onto his lap, his hand up their skirt as he kisses them passionately.
“That’s not what I—” I stop abruptly, letting his statement sink in, suddenly realizing that there’s truth to Gemini’s glibness.
Constantine laughs, taking a sip of her Mojito as she trains her blue puppy eyes my way, her tone infuriatingly innocent when she finally says, “Oh that’s because I spiked our drinks.”