12. Wolfgang
12
WOLFGANG
S he smells like cherry and burnt almonds.
The smell wafts around me as Mercy climbs into the limousine, and it makes me practically salivate. I have half a mind to shove her back out with my wingtip shoe to the middle of the chest just so I don’t have to ingest any more of her essence.
She’s repulsive.
Offensive.
Downright distasteful.
Everything I am not.
I glare in her direction as she settles beside Belladonna—as far away from me as possible—her black dress fluttering around her as she crosses her legs, emerald eyes looking peeved as always.
My eyes dip down to her exposed calf. I linger on the delicate curve where her foot disappears into her stiletto, the heel designed to look like a dagger. I slowly trail my tongue over my bottom lip, remembering how her skin felt on mine.
My chest squeezes.
I look away.
Wrinkle my nose.
Vile brute.
The door opens, and a euphony of giggles and laughs replaces the stilted silence. Two bewildered Pravitians are shoved into the limousine by Constantine and Gemini.
Constantine’s chosen seems to have struggled, sporting a bloody nose and a split lip. When the civilians notice who else is in the vehicle, they turn crestfallen and sit beside each other in a small huddle of shaky limbs.
I smile.
It’s our birthright to be this ruthless. One I’ve always taken pleasure in indulging in.
Mine and Mercy’s catch were easier to control. I offered the two men rose-colored glasses and they gladly took them. They’re now sprawled in the corner, small sated smiles on their lips, without a care in the world. Belladonna’s pick sits next to them, eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears.
I turn to Constantine. She’s climbing over Gemini while he tries to grope her, both of them snickering like a bunch of drunks as she tries to fit into the empty spot beside him.
I clear my throat, trying to get her attention. “Tinny, where’s Sasha?”
“Said he’d meet us there,” she answers, followed by an oof when she finally plops down on the seat. She surveys the limousine, excitement twinkling in her blue eyes. “Can I keep mine scared?” She glances over, mischief in her smile. “I love them scared.”
I roll my eyes. She’s like dealing with a younger sibling. That’s only a vague guess since I have no experience with siblings—none of us do—a deliberate choice made by our parents.
“No, we need them docile first,” I tell her sternly.
Her shimmering pink lips turn pouty, but she follows with a wave of the hand, wordlessly giving me the go-ahead.
My eyes are drawn to Mercy, her gaze luckily on Gemini, before I course-correct and focus on the three Pravitians needing my rapt attention.
I feel the limousine pull onto the street when I snap my fingers, demanding that their eyes be on me.
As it always should be.
One by one, I gaze deeply into the chosens’ eyes, my smile placating and harmless.
The warm sensation always begins at the base of my spine, tingling up to the crown of my skull. It’s how I know it’s working. I have them under my spell.
Their expressions fade into a blank stare, their eyes dimming.
My lip pulls up into a smirk. “Wonderful night we’re having, aren’t we?” I ask, my tone friendly and inviting.
I watch as their faces slowly transform into something peaceful. One of them lets out a pleased sigh, her smile growing wide. “As delightful as you are, Mr. Vainglory,” she purrs.
I hear Mercy gag, and I smirk. Something about her displeasure makes a small ping of delight bloom inside my chest. It almost makes me want to laugh.
I settle back into my seat, crossing my ankle over my thigh, my smile widening.
“Let the real fun commence.”
The Feast of Fools has always had a dual meaning. One for the fools themselves, the commoners, who after countless generations have somehow still managed to keep a thread of hope that perhaps, the ruling families can be as generous as we are selfish.
We are not.
Then there is a feast just for us.
The rulers of Pravitia.
For most of the city, this misplaced hope will still ring true tomorrow. They will wake up after a night brimming with pleasure and vice. No consequences, no accountability, and they’ll have only the tiniest inkling of what it's like to be us.
What it means to be this powerful.
They will go on with their lives, clinging to that ridiculous hope and somehow still believing in the fool’s dream of free will.
When in reality, we hold their fate in our hands.
Our private soiree is taking place in the Vorovskys’ sprawling gardens. The large hedge maze looms behind us, a backdrop to our entertainment. I yawn, stretching my arms over my head, and lean into the cushioned chair as I survey the banquet table. It’s a veritable feast of roasted chickens, glazed hams, and root vegetables dripping in butter, all served on gold and bejeweled platters.
I’d be a glutton if I took even one more bite.
Besides, I need to keep my wits sharp for tonight’s final act.
I glance over to the six Pravitians we plucked from the crowd earlier tonight. They’re seated at a smaller, but just as lavish, banquet table next to us.
Unbeknownst to them, they are partaking in a much truer reenactment of the Feast of Fools. I’ve made them believe they are one of us. Special. Deserving of respect. I've made them feel the power we hold every single day; while their entire existence has been to act as jesters dancing for our entertainment. Even now, while gorging on their last meal, they feel no humiliation, no sense of degradation.
Instead, they feast.
Just like us.
Never like us.
The sound of gold cups spilling over and porcelain breaking has me glancing back to our small group. Gemini has climbed atop our table, kicking centerpieces out of his way as he struts like a peacock, the loose collar of his white linen shirt revealing the tattoos across his chest. His smile is wide and playful while his gaze is dark and mocking.
“The city is ours,” he says with exaggerated grandiosity, repeating what Aleksandr’s mother told us a week ago. Placing a hand on his hip, he leans his body forward as he wags a scolding finger at the five of us. “Our gods do not care for petty loyalty.” He pouts. “Do not care for family feuds. All that matters is worship and sacrifice.” Constantine bursts out in a fit of laughter at the spectacle. Picking up a cup yet to be spilled, he holds it up in the air in a toast. “If it’s sacrifice they want, then it’s sacrifice they will receive.” His glittering eyes flick to my seat, his voice turning conspiratorial. “Vainglory, care to do the honors?”