Chapter 4 Maddox #2
Our parents have a sixth sense for knowing the precise moment we’re down, so they can perfectly time when to kick us. I’ve ignored eight of my birthgiver’s calls yesterday, five more this morning. It was only a matter of time before she used different methods.
Spencer looks at me skeptically as he sets the phone on the coffee table and presses the dreaded green button.
“You’re with your brother,” she states. “Hand the phone over.”
No Hello, Spencer. No How are you, my second born. Nothing.
Annabel Shaw is a woman of few words, just as she believed in minimal parenting. My skin holds the evidence of it.
“Mother,” I drawl, pulling my turtleneck away from my throat as pain twinges my back.
“You’ve been ignoring me.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’ve also been ignoring your wife.”
Both intentional. “She’s not my wife.”
In an alternate universe where I get everything I want, there wouldn’t be a woman that I’m betrothed to.
Abigail Dornmont can barely stand being in the same room as me—a mutual feeling.
It’s hardly a grievance that my so-called fiancée and I have made no attempt to form a relationship beyond discussing the weather or how she spends every second summer in the Bahamas.
I’m not one to assume someone’s intentions, but I believe the whole “killing for fun” thing may be leaving a less-than-pleasant taste in her mouth.
I suppose that’s why she’s scared to be in my general vicinity or worried that I’ll accidentally cross paths with her boyfriend and send him to the morgue.
I’m guessing she only knows about what I do because her parents warned her to be careful. My extracurricular activities are a mystery to everyone other than the high saint, the grand magistrate, and most likely Abi. Anyone else who knows is dead.
It’s a secret I’ve kept from my own brother.
I won’t, obviously—kill her, that is. I assured her of it four years ago. Twice. I see no point in repeating it a third time.
“You were seen without your ring,” Mother says. Engaged men of our secret society are required to wear them—they’re big on their symbolism, especially since my engagement is a political move.
“I misplaced it.” In other words, I gave it to a homeless woman to pawn.
“For the third time?”
“Fourth.” I set one on fire, buried another when I was sculpting, tossed one into the river, and accidentally dropped one on the street. “It would be unfortunate to get paint on an object that holds such significant meaning.”
I can practically hear her grind her teeth over the phone. Her plastic surgeon isn’t going to like that.
The more money the woman who gave birth to me feels compelled to spend to replace such a meaningless item, the better. It won’t compensate for her neglect, but inconveniencing her is mildly satisfying—a priceless feeling these days.
If I think hard enough, I can recall a few glimpses from my childhood where she displayed some maternal instincts.
At first, Roland was the sole reason for our broken home.
Mother was simply trying to survive, while occasionally remembering that a child needs to eat three times a day. I even remember her smiling at me once.
But her lifeless eyes became colder every time my father stripped away another part of her. Once Spencer came, Mother became an active contributor to the poison in the family name. Someone had to stop Spencer from becoming another victim. There’s nothing glorious about being a survivor.
“You’re meant to be getting to know each other and establishing a common connection to strengthen both our houses.
” Mother reiterates the spiel I’ve basically memorized, with how often I hear it.
They’re not her words; they’re my father’s.
Annabel Shaw hasn’t thought for herself since the day she married her husband.
“If you don’t start making an effort, no one in the Order is going to believe your marriage. ”
I roll my eyes, and Spencer snickers at my suffering. The shithead doesn’t realize I’ve agreed to marry his friend for his benefit. “Again, no one with more than two brain cells believes we’re even remotely interested in one another.”
Everyone in the Order knows that my father is one of the six high saints of the New York faction.
He moved us to the States for the chance to climb up the ranks.
Roland wanted power. Relocating was the only way to get a seat at the table.
If not, Roland would be like me, a medicus.
Not quite at the top, but high enough that there are still two ranks below and above me.
Much to Spencer’s chagrin, he’s essentially the dirt of the Order. He was automatically accepted by virtue of being the son of a high saint, but he’s still a student, and a student can’t be anything more than a neophyte at the very bottom of the food chain.
House Shaw was voted in fifteen years ago, and like the five other high saints, Roland is vying for the seat of grand magistrate so he can reign supreme over the Order.
It’s why Abigail’s father and mine both think it’s a fantastic idea to marry us off to each other.
Forcing two of the high saints’ children together is the perfect arrangement.