Chapter Five
After sectioning off the atrium and adjoining alcoves into four distinct areas—intending to use the grid search method to approach each quadrant—I decide the guests in my immediate vicinity are as good a place to start as any.
Luckily for me, only the most powerful or notorious receive an annual invite to come and safely rub shoulders with their enemies. Even accounting for larger factions, it means there are always way more key players present than not, with most of them requiring a lot less mental power to pick out of a crowd than the average Underworld denizen.
Case in point.
A mere dozen feet from us stands a young woman sporting a blonde pixie cut, the lower half of her face covered by a golden veil. Cassandra Jane Priam, 27. Currently unaffiliated. Multidisciplinary doctoral degree in Mathematics. More commonly known as The Oracle, thanks to her unmatched ability for pattern recognition and statistics.
Cassandra holds herself stiffly, too polite to interrupt the three middle-aged men currently arguing over her head. Anthony, Christopher and Lawrence Moros, 46. Neutrally aligned. Premier bookmakers and owners of the Underworld’s largest gambling outfit. Known collectively as the Fates, the identical trio of brothers are no doubt trying to puzzle out the Red Court’s long game—and all the ways they can monetize it. I’d even wager good money they’re harassing the Oracle for probability data as they wait for the big reveal.
I’m just lifting my champagne flute to my lips when there’s a sudden flurry of movement from nearby. Both of my Enforcers immediately go on red alert, each pressing in protectively before a goddess in a sleek, copper wrap—complete with matching serpentine headdress—appears like a vision through the parting crowd.
Aurora May Ellis, 24. Bounty hunter. Specializes in poisons and paralytics. True affiliation unknown, speculated Maenad. If you’re an Underworlder who’s serious about needing someone found—and/or retrieved—then this curvaceous, fiery-maned femme fatale is the person to call.
Medusa.
I may or may not have a teensy, tiny boss bitch crush.
Without so much as a word, she hooks a toned arm around the Oracle’s waist, spins her, and then proceeds to whisk her away, not bothering to glance in the Fates’ direction as she does.
To the casual observer, it might look like the simple intervention of a woman already fed up with every single man in the building. But to me, all it does is further feed my suspicion that it’s not just Medusa but both women who are Maenads: members of a secret group comprised entirely of female thieves, hackers, and assassins.
As yet unconfirmed, but I do still gleefully file away the entire interaction and then reluctantly move on.
Just as I’m completing one of the north-south legs that dissect my southeastern grid, what could only be described as a tremor begins to make its way through the crowd. There’s a palpable drop in chatter that follows the ripple like a cold snap, practically confirming that someone both prominent and recognizable has just arrived.
My attention naturally shifts toward the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse…and my tongue almost sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Because striding into the atrium—with all the confidence that comes from wearing one’s notoriety like a cloak—is a group of individuals so infamous in our world that I’m sure every mouth in the general vicinity is now bone dry.
Knox and Dio must feel the exact moment I tense, each pressing a large shoulder to my own.
“What’s up, babygirl?” D rumbles against my ear.
“The Whitechapel Four,” I murmur back, concentrating on keeping all the exposed parts of my face arranged in as blank an expression as humanely possible. I’m almost positive they can preternaturally sniff out weakness and fuck —as the Gray Man’s mythical Librarian, I’m one of the biggest liabilities in attendance.
As a rule, Imperium members are expected to swear allegiance to a single criminal outfit or syndicate, as recognized by either the Northern or Southern Sovereignty. Anyone failing to do so must then register as a Neutral player and agree to offer services indiscriminately.
Strictly speaking, the average serial murderer won’t fall under either governance.
Unless they’re a group of certified psychopaths who find themselves mysteriously pivoting from serial killings to highly sought-after Underworld contract killings, of course.
The Scalpel. The Ghost. The Ferryman. The Muse.
The crowd parts around them like iron filings repelled by a giant magnet, granting the Four a violently wide berth as they make their way across the now silent room. They’re led by a woman with black, pin-straight hair, a smirk on her cherry- red lips, and as they move closer, I finally understand what’s ratcheting the usual tension up to an all-new level.
The Muse’s ivory cheeks are streaked with crimson, the effect almost a perverse mimicry of a weeping holy statue. But it’s not her eyes that are the source of the bloody ‘tears’—it’s the horrific fucking ‘mask’ she wears.
One clearly handcrafted from a slab of human flesh, and recently—if the bloody rivulets snaking down her swan-like neck are anything to go by. Almost involuntarily, my eyes track their downward progress, down to where they meet the modest neckline of a gown in ruby red. It’s a simple dress, paired with what appears to be a startlingly intricate, bone-white corset.
On closer inspection, I realize that’s because the fucking bodice is literally a preserved human rib cage .
“Gnarly,” Dionysus breathes in my ear.
“No fucking kidding,” I mutter, still surreptitiously trying to turn myself into that finely dressed wallpaper I normally hate so much. I’m not exactly squeamish when it comes to human viscera, but the idea of being close enough to somehow draw their attention is a tad bit daunting.
The other three flanking her are no less terrifying. The Scalpel and the Ghost both sport matching meat masks and blood-stained tuxedos, the latter stopping periodically to snap his teeth at anyone stupid enough to be openly gawking at them. The Ferryman, on the other hand, is in full head-to-toe combat gear, including a complicated-looking gas mask. But there’s no missing the festive streaks of red adorning the mask’s air filter or neck gaiter.
It’s almost like the four of them arrived at the Red Court, remembered tonight’s party was a masquerade, and decided to drop the nearest body in order to whip themselves up some homemade masks. All before stepping inside and falling subject to Hospitium for the Symposium’s duration.
When they finally leave our line of sight, an agitated movement of bodies begins filling the space left in their wake. I adjust my angle slightly as the guests shift positions, and find myself immediately drawn in by the impossibly tall figure of Papa Kado , 49 , parin of Louisiana voodoo gang, the Ghost Boys. Already a solid foot above a crowd on a good day, Kado’s height is only further emphasized tonight by the towering leather stovepipe hat that sits jauntily above a loa skull mask.
Any other year, and I’d be surprised to see Ghosts here in the flesh, what with how loud they are in their disdain for Underworld politics. Kado and his gang of Neutral mischief-makers tend to do their best work from the shadows, and outside of contracted jobs, they very rarely wade into the greater gangland cesspool.
It just further supports our theory that this evening’s opening address from the Arbiter will be a memorable one.
Milling about next to the merry band of floating skull visages is a group of disgruntled-looking 19th Street Disciple members, including their leader Fernando Luis Santos, 41.
Hmm . Another brow-raising addition to this year’s guest list.
Unless the order of things has drastically shifted on the west coast, the 19Ds don’t hold nearly enough sway to warrant receiving a black card on their own. In fact, the only way a small-time group like this particular Latin gang attends a Symposium is via sponsorship. From someone with actual power and influence over our half of the Underworld pie.
And nobody in the Imperium sponsors out of the goodness of their cold mafia hearts. No, sponsorship means quid pro quo .
Through that renewed lens, I start scanning the atrium again. My neck prickles uncomfortably as I begin clocking more and more representatives from mid-range Southern organizations.
The Nomads; a group of gun-runners led by Hodan (29) write them off as nothing more than low-rank muscle patiently waiting on their boss to return. But there’s a certain arrogance in the set of the second man’s chin as he studies those guests standing closest to him.
He’s not a man used to waiting on anyone .
“Knox?” Our deputy Enforcer holds a special interest in international syndicates. The ones that lay outside the scope of my locally focused database.
He hums, considering. “Could be a South American outfit, possibly Colombian. Could also be Mexican, though. I’ve seen cartels working out of both regions that are starting to combine their markings.”
It’s not exactly conclusive, but one thing’s for sure—they’re definitely not Imperium— so who the fuck vouched for their admittance tonight?
I follow the unknown leader’s line of sight for a moment, noticing he’s now tracking an Underworld favorite with an eagle eye as they move through the atrium.
Angelo Marcus Chiron , 39. Neutral. Former military field medic. Emergency medicine specialist . Also fondly known as ‘Doc’. He’s probably patched up most of this room at one point or the other, and if the new guy has plans for him, he’s going to quickly find himself with more enemies than friends. Especially since the beloved trauma surgeon already went missing once this year.
“Trick’s finally here,” Zeus cuts in, yanking my focus back to him. “Near the bar.”
Sure enough, Patrick Arnett ‘Trick’ Mahoney , 49 , leader of the Strange Aces MC, is standing not even thirty feet from us. A few Spades are scattered around him. While they might all be wearing tuxedos and harlequin masks, their neck tattoos are a dead giveaway.
Trick himself is tall, broad, inked, and still in very decent shape for his age. He’s stroking a thick, auburn beard as he laughs at whatever his companion’s saying. A small line creases my forehead when I realize the person he’s currently entertaining is Alexander Morrow, 36.
Not much is known about the elusive businessman or his three closest friends, only that the four of them are considered the closest thing to corporate mercenaries.
“Who’s he talking to, Sabe?” Zeus asks, his hot breath a welcome warmth against my neck. If I’m honest, I keep expecting a Sebastian jumpscare every time the sea of people shifts.
“One of the Four Horseman.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Dio chimes in.
“Nope,” I agree, voice dripping with sarcasm to mask my own annoyance at seeing the mysterious Horseman speaking with our greatest rival. It stings that despite being prominent Underworlders, I know next to nothing about the men or the nature of their relationship with the Club.
Before I can dwell on it further, my towering stilettos are carrying me forward.
Knox immediately squeaks, Rhett whistles, and Zeus curses beneath his breath, each desperately trying to stay in step without treading on my gown as I prowl directly toward the head of the Aces.
“Sabine. Careful, darling,” Zeus warns as he reaches out to grip my elbow. I ignore him, concentrating instead on the soothing swishswishswish of my dress’s train as I cross the marbled floors. The sound syncs with the quiet pulsing of blood in my ears and the click of my heels.
By the time I manage to navigate my way through the throng surrounding the bar, Morrow has disappeared. Mahoney’s now blessedly alone—save for the few trusted Aces with Hearts on their throats that are hovering nearby, no doubt playing the parts of Enforcers for the weekend.
I’m not worried about a handful of faceless henchmen, though.
“Ah, was wondering when one of his Suited cronies would come up and say hello,” Trick greets us, reaching for his drink with an unnervingly smug twist of his lips. One large, tattooed hand dwarfs the handblown Glencairn, the other adjusts a sparkling black, white, and red pierrot -style mask. The design resembles a jester’s hood, only modified to leave the wearer’s mouth uncovered. The Joker.
I plaster on what I hope is my most polite smile and forcibly lower my shoulders. The black feathers crowning my own mask might mark me as a Gray Man, sure. He might even know who I am, considering there aren’t many women high enough in the Underworld ranks to warrant an escort such as mine. My blonde hair’s another tip-off, if he cares enough to notice.
But there’s no way this man knows exactly what I am.
It’s in really poor form to call out another guest’s identity, but when honey-brown eyes slide lasciviously down my figure, I find that in this moment, I really don’t care to stand on formalities after all.
“Mahoney. Making new friends, are we?” I drawl.
“Ah ah, birdy,” he tuts, ignoring my not-so-subtle faux pas and taking a noisy sip of what I wager is a glass of his favored Bulleit. “That’ll be Your Grace to you, soon enough.”
And there it is.
After so long playing the role of constant thorn in Sebastian’s side, it seems the Strange Ace himself is finally putting his money where his mouth is. Which means Trick Mahoney must have succeeded in gathering a hell of a lot more support for a leadership bid than our previous intelligence showed.
In fact, some might even argue that gaining the favor of the famously selective members of Ordo ab Chao is more of an ominous sign than the Irish deciding to band together.
It would certainly warrant this newly inflated sense of entitlement.
Are we digging our own fucking graves by underestimating the man standing in front of me? Or, is he just playing head games with what he thinks is a passing group of Gray Men—hoping we’ll run straight back to our boss, twisted narrative in hand?
It’s the kind of thing the Gray Man would do if he weren’t so busy icing us out.
Fuck. I need more, but I can’t exactly declare, “I saw you over here chumming it up with Alexander Morrow,” without potentially breaching my cover.So I try again, hoping he’ll at least acknowledge his former drinking companion. “What, because you think you’ve got the Neutrals on your side?”
He chuckles, running a large hand over the exposed part of his beard. It’s a deep, raspy thing, letting me know he sees straight through my ruse. “Be foolish to ignore such an untapped source, birdy girl. But I dare say cooperation on all fronts might just be the way of the future.”
Damnit all to hell.
He’s tap dancing around what I want to know as only an experienced Underworlder can. The thought of addressing a glorified biker as Your Grace should have me in stitches, but not having the whole picture has a frustrated growl wanting to claw its way up my throat instead.
Before I can formulate a new line of questioning, however, Zeus’s hand lands on my hip, hooking me away. Trick’s booming laughter follows us as my Team Lead directs me toward the other end of the full-service counter.
“Not another word,” he hisses in my ear, and my teeth snap shut as I seethe. “Keep working,” he urges, nudging me to find another target to profile.
Hovering at the end of the bar is Ivan Dmitriyevich Antonov , 40. The stout figure of the Pakhan is surrounded by both a thick cloud of cigar smoke and his Sovietnik —a group of his closest and most trusted advisors. The Russians swear shaky allegiance to the North, but aren’t shy about striking deals with Southern entities if the price is right. His countenance seems reserved tonight, eyes slowly roving the room from behind his simple bronze half-mask.
Like a well-oiled machine, my Crew keeps me focused and moving, and I continue on with our rotation. It’s not long before I stumble upon another oddly paired couple.
Chatting over matching tumblers of dark red whiskey are Alessandro ‘ Sandro’ Michele Alessi, 38 , head of the Alessi Mafia famiglia , and Asano Kento , 65, kumicho to the Northern-based Asano Yakuza.
While the Asano organization enjoys quite a nice spread of influence across the North, the New Jersey Italians’ only strength comes from having cemented themselves as one of Midas’s top sycophants.
There’s nothing worse than a power leech, and Sandro Alessi is the king of leeches.
“Poster boy for bottom feeders everywhere,” I mutter, spinning to place my now flat champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray. Before I get the chance to offload it, I feel all three of my Crewmates tense, sending every single hair on my body standing on end.
“ Hello, little rook. ”
The greeting drags its fingers down my spine like a languid caress, with honeyed tones that hold just the slightest hint of a taunt but always leave trails of ice in their wake.
Fuck. My. Life.
My nostrils flare as only now—when it’s much too late—do I realize the crucial mistake I’ve made. I’ve made myself vulnerable by moving from the relatively safe edges of the room and wading directly into the snake pit to confront Trick.
Opening myself up to encounters such as these.
There’s no point trying to ignore his presence completely; avoiding this man's poisonous orbit is a peer-approved, double-blind study in pure futility. And since he's Imperium royalty, that makes him somewhat of a regular workplace hazard.
So I turn, slowly, buying myself a moment before having to face the gilded monster himself.
Fortunately for me, I know how to dance with the Devil.
Sebastian Grayson’s been teaching me for years.
“Midas.”