Chapter 21
twenty-one
LIZZY
If there’s one card in the Tarot everyone freaks out about, it’s Death. Which is funny, because the Death card is all about transformation and releasing what no longer serves us, and it’s really one of the best cards you can get.
The true shitstorm of the Tarot is the Tower.
Once glance at the card, and you just know you’re in for it.
Lightning rips through the sky, striking a stone tower and sending it—and its inhabitants—tumbling into the sea.
It speaks of those sudden, earth-shattering, explosive, no-turning-back, catastrophes.
I always pee a little when I see it, emotionally speaking.
So naturally, that’s the card that popped up right before we left for the gala.
Fuck.
No matter. Impending catastrophe or not, I’m not turning back. Because for once in my aimless, directionless, pointless existence, I have an actual plan, and so far, it’s running as smoothly as a fine wine poured directly down my throat.
Killroy, gentleman that he is, sends a car for me and my sisters—his honored guests, on account of his “immense respect for Evelyn and our family’s long history in the community.
” The limo ferries us to his mansion without incident, and we’re swiftly ushered into the party, where Killroy homes in on us like a heat-seeking sleazeball, introducing us to potential buyers as “the shrewd Bonnivarde women looking for qualified buyers only.”
Rachel’s in her element, laying it on thick about the historical value of it all—the house, the antiques, the figurines I found in the basement.
This is, ostensibly, what we came for. The prize at the end of the tunnel.
Killroy’s rich friends, ready to part with their cash and take the past off our hands for good.
I nod and smile like a good girl for as long as I can without puking, then feign a bathroom emergency.
Free of my sisters and the “collectors,” I track down the dude manning the guest list. A little bit of flirting and a fingers-crossed promise to meet him in the coat closet later for a roll in the minks, and boom. The demons are on the guest list.
Helena, however, is not. She drove up separately, parking her minivan a ways down the road. Now, she swoops through the night sky, keeping watch in case the whole thing goes to shit.
Which it won’t. The Tower card just got its wires crossed. Obviously.
The rest of the plan is simple. We dance.
We drink. We mingle. Warren and Oliver surreptitiously eavesdrop, bribe, and employ other methods of information-gathering Oliver insists I’m better off not knowing about.
Once the auction starts, and all the stuffed shirts are busy impressing each other by spending gobs of cash on other people’s old shit, Dr. Sutherland and I snoop through the obvious places: bedroom, study, closets.
Honestly, I’m not sure what we’ll find. It’s not like the grimoire’s just sitting on a shelf somewhere, ready to be stolen back. All I know is Killroy is involved. He’s got something we can use. And whatever the fuck it is, we’ll find it.
The party is, as they say, hoppin’. If your definition of hoppin’ is rubbing wrinkled elbows with a bunch of old-money weirdos awkwardly bobbing their overly quaffed heads to the band’s butchered renditions of eighties pop hits while bragging about their offspring, their portfolios, or their offspring’s portfolios.
It’s only out of loyalty to Dr. Sutherland that I’m not high as a fucking kite right now. Oliver refilled my stash, the dear, but my “date” made me promise to leave the greenery at home.
But seriously. If I have to hear the words “the house in the Hamptons” or “it’s so hard to find a French tutor for my preschooler” one more time… Jesus take the wheel.
Anyway, I do another loop around, get the lay of the land.
The mansion is huge and gaudy, with marble floors and high ceilings and oil paintings of old white dudes adorning almost every wall.
The auction is set up in a room just off the foyer, with neat rows of furniture and glass cases displaying all manner of curios.
There’s a ballroom in the so-called East wing, with that snooze-worthy band, but right now most everyone is gathered with their drinks and boring stories in an ornate great room toward the back of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private lake.
Four second-floor interior balconies loom over the space like opera boxes, making me wonder just how dull your life has to be to want to sit in a chair upstairs just so you can look at all the chairs downstairs.
Fortunately, I don’t have to contemplate this great mystery for too long before I see the demons walking through the foyer, dapper and arrogant, as if they own the place.
Damn, those hellions clean up well.
Except… why am I only seeing two hellions?
“Where’s Dr. Sutherland?” I ask, fighting to keep the panic from my voice. “We can’t do this without him. The plan hinges on us all playing our parts.”
They exchange a quick glance, then laugh.
“Our fearless leader was unhappy with his hair and wanted to do some adjusting,” Warren says, “so he rang for a separate car. Not to worry, he’ll be along shortly. You, gorgeous, look absolutely dazzling.” He leans in to kiss my cheek.
“Thank you.” I relax, but only a fraction. “For a minute there I thought he was trying to ditch me, and then we’d—what? What is so funny?”
They exchange another glance, communicating in much the same way as my sisters do. Like they can read each other’s minds. Like they’ve been doing it their entire lives.
I take in the sight of them, trying to see them not as demons but as the men they must’ve once been.
Warren, tall and well-built, with light brown hair and eyes the color of butterscotch toffee, and a dimple that could probably melt panties from three counties over.
Oliver, the ginger, with a mop of dark auburn hair and a piercing blue gaze that no doubt sees everything.
Warren is flirty and sensual. Oliver slightly unhinged, far too clever for us mere mortals.
And then there’s Dr. Sutherland. Merri, as they call him. Even after all this time, there’s so much about him I don’t know. So much he keeps walled off.
Part of me wants to ask the others about my enigmatic professor. About how he became a demon, how he got so interested in books and archival work. About the no-touching thing.
About all the things I haven’t had the courage to ask Dr. Sutherland directly… or he hasn’t had the courage to answer.
I’ve just about talked myself out of prying into the life and times of my hot demon professor, when I notice his mates are looking at me funny, like I still haven’t figured out the joke everyone else seems to be in on.
“How much longer until Dr. Sutherland gets here?” I ask, suddenly flustered. “Are you sure he’s not bailing? He wasn’t the biggest fan of this idea, and—”
“Lizzy.” Warren puts a firm hand on my shoulder, a gleam in his eye I can’t quite place. “Merri would never, ever, in a thousand years, ditch us.”
“Even if he acts like a right prick sometimes,” Oliver says.
“He wouldn’t ditch you guys, obviously. You’re his best friends. But—”
“Oh boy.” Oliver laughs.
I fold my arms across my chest. “What?”
“You do realize he’s in love with you, right?
” Oliver says, and Warren smacks the back of his head, and the two of them start cracking up, and then Oliver goes, “I’m just stating the obvious,” and Warren smacks him again and says something else but I have no idea what, because my ears are ringing and my entire body is on fire and then I just start laughing too, high and tight, like Rachel when she gets all nervous and weird.
And none of this makes any sense at all, because obviously—obviously!—they’re just fucking with me.
“You guys are the worst, you know that? In love with me? Are you serious?” I laugh again, hating the sound of it, and roll my eyes. “Dr. Sutherland would never, ever, in a million centuries, cross that line.”
“Would you?” Oliver asks. “Because I heard a rumor about a little crush…”
“Oh my god! You did not!” If I wasn’t blushing before, surely I’m the color of a tomato now.
Dr. Sutherland actually told them about that?
Excuse me while I go drown myself in the expensive crystal punch bowl.
“Notice, Warren, how the witch so deftly evades the topic,” Oliver says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I was drunk! It doesn’t count!”
“Being drunk doesn’t turn an honest woman into a liar. It merely removes the filter. Which is exactly what I told Merri, but he—”
“He’s going to bloody kill you, is what he is,” Warren says to Oliver, but he’s still got that tender gleam in his eye. “Let the record reflect that I kept my mouth shut.”
“No one is killing anyone.” Suddenly I can’t meet their eyes. I can’t even breathe.
Where is this all coming from?
Okay, fine, the Kettles night. There was maybe a moment.
Or two. Including the one where he carried me home.
And the one when I woke up in his bed, and he’d fallen asleep in the chair beside me, and he was all rumpled and sweet with his glasses askew and I really, really wanted to climb into his lap and run my hands through his hair but I didn’t because he doesn’t like touching.
But by the time he joined us in the kitchen, it was like it never happened.
He never brought it up again, and neither did I, and we’ve spent the last couple of weeks business as usual, working on the portal and the energy stuff, preparing for tonight, trying to figure out how to get a lead on the grimoire and smush the chaos demons.
So why his besties are egging me on like this, I have no idea. But I need to put a stop to it before I completely lose my focus and fuck up our mission.