Chapter Three Lysander
Oliver Lysander has been called a lot of things in his time on this earth.
When he was small, he was rotten. Disobedient when he refused to cooperate and spineless when he did. Later—once he’d grown—he was volatile. Unpredictable, impossible, frightening . Too grasping, too obsessive, too stubborn for his own good.
No one has ever accused him of being patient.
At present, he is trapped in a meeting that has managed to grind what little forbearance he possesses down to nothing. He can think of a dozen things he’d rather do than sit here and be unduly lectured. Swallow a hot coal. Walk across glass. Scoop out his eyes with a spoon.
To name just a few.
In the chair beside him, his lieutenant clears his throat.
With a slowness that borders on impertinence, Lysander tears his eyes away from the arched windows of the Mercy Ridge conservatory.
He finds Cyrus Talbot staring over at him, his head tipped toward their visitor.
The look on his face says: At least act like you’re paying attention.
The room they occupy is a half circle, cluttered with round tables and spindled chairs.
It was a tearoom once. It’s a war room now.
A vast gallery of painted wildebeests leers down at him from the opposing wall.
Directly before it sits an emissary of the southern Flatwood’s reigning kingpin, sent north to reprimand him.
To scold him, like he’s a child and not a god.
“Maybe after this is over you can give me a lobotomy,” Lysander says pleasantly. “I think it’d really round out the evening.”
“We have a drill in the utility closet,” supplies Cyrus.
“You’re thinking of trepanation. What we need is an ice pick—”
“I suppose you think you’re funny,” the emissary cuts in.
Lysander blinks across the table at him. “Do you see me laughing?”
This delegate is older than the others. In his early forties, maybe, his hair salted gray. It’s probably why Paris Keeling has sent him—he thinks this one can’t be cowed.
“Joke all you want, Oliver,” says the emissary, turning a garish sigil ring over on his pinkie. A family heirloom, most likely, and offensively tacky. “You know what Paris requires of you. The hunter’s moon is two weeks out. Your attendance at the revel is nonnegotiable.”
Lysander sniffs. “Every year, Paris sends someone north to tell me the same thing. ‘The revel is mandatory, Oliver.’ ‘Attendance is compulsory, Oliver.’ ‘This is nonnegotiable, Oliver.’ I haven’t gone yet.
I won’t be going this year, either, so it looks like he’s wasted both our time. Feel free to see yourself out.”
The emissary’s expression tightens. “You and I aren’t done here.”
“We are,” says Lysander. “As much as I’d love to hear what else you’ve come all this way to tell me, you’re boring Cy, and I can’t have that.”
Cyrus takes his cue, straightening in his chair. “It’s inexcusable.”
“Inexcusable,” Lysander echoes. “One might even say impolite. You didn’t bring gifts. The last envoy brought little chocolates. Cy is partial to the strawberry cordials.”
“My favorite,” drawls Cyrus.
Languid as a tiger, the emissary rises to his feet. “You think just because you’ve made a name for yourself up north, that you’re above reproach—that you can carry on however you like.”
“I am,” agrees Lysander. “And I can.”
“Insolent as always.” The emissary’s ring winks preposterously in the light. “That arrogance of yours is going to destroy you.”
Insolent. Arrogant. It’s nothing Lysander hasn’t heard before. He smiles with teeth.
“Another message from Paris, I assume.”
“No.” The emissary reaches for his coat. “That one’s from me. And it’s not a message, it’s a warning. You’d be smart to heed it. Paris has eyes and ears everywhere. He’s been keeping very close tabs on you.”
The first hint of wariness licks up Lysander’s spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” says the emissary, “that you’ve been given a remarkably long leash, but you’re still his creature. One day soon, you’ll be brought to heel.”
Lysander’s hands curl into fists. “I’d like to see him try.”
“Ah, there it is.” The emissary smiles. “A crack in the armor. Very good. Is it safe to assume I finally have your attention? Because you may think you’re untouchable, but I can assure you, you’re anything but.
Paris knows exactly where to push to make you break.
And you will break, Oliver. You’ll break beautifully. I can promise you that.”
When he leaves, the door falls shut with a slam. It rattles the room, knocking a faded painting of a hunting lynx askew. Lysander tips his head to the side to meet the creature’s yellow eyes.
Leaning back in his chair, Cyrus kicks his boots up onto the table. “I think that went well.”
Lysander doesn’t lift his eyes from the painting. He contemplates it in silence, tapping two fingers against the table in a silent rhythm. “Where would you push if you wanted me to break?”
Cyrus thinks it over. “I’d push you off a cliff.”
“You know what I mean.” He tips back against the wooden sheaf of his chair, braiding his knuckles until the bones crack. “That was a loaded threat. Paris knows something.”
“Who cares?” Cyrus crooks his elbows behind his head. “Paris Keeling is always sending his lackeys up north to threaten you. And can you blame him? He wants you to stop being a rebellious little shit and fall in line.”
Lysander considers his lieutenant sideways. “You think he’s right.”
Some of the playful light goes out of Cyrus’s eyes. He’s edging into dangerous territory, and he knows it. “I think,” he says carefully, “it won’t kill you to make an appearance at the revel.”
“That’s exactly what he wants.”
“It’s one party, Lysander. How bad can it be? You’re beating yourself bloody, fighting Paris over every little thing. And for what? To prove yourself?”
“To preserve myself.”
The correction makes Cyrus wince. He knows the significance of the hunter’s revel—knows why Paris Keeling wants Lysander there at his side when the moon is at its pinnacle.
He’s the only Mercy Boy who understands the truth—the only one who has been there since the humble beginning, working side by side with Lysander to clear debris from the old ski lodge at the base of Mercy Mountain: I’m going to build something here, Cy. Something that’s mine.
Cyrus alone understands how dangerous it would be to comply.
It’s why Lysander came north—why he built his own kingdom from the ground up, instead of kneeling at the throne of another.
Down in the southern Flatwood, Paris Keeling rules as though he’s a king.
His word is law. His followers are steadfast. But here in the frozen hush of Mercy Mountain, they bend the knee to the Gravewood Devil.
“I’m not telling you to hand over all control,” Cyrus says, backtracking. “I’m just saying—maybe send an olive branch. Something to get him off our backs, you know?”
“An olive branch,” Lysander echoes thoughtfully.
Outside, the night drags ever on. The air in the conservatory seems to thin. Distantly, he hears the sound of music. The pulse of a party, raging deep in the stony bowels of the old hotel. Underneath it all, muffled by the bass, is the sound of an engine turning over.
“Go after him.”
Cyrus’s head whips around. “The envoy? What for?”
“You’re right—we should send him home with a message. A strong one. Something that lets Paris know I’m done with all the endless pontificating. I say you cut off that tacky costume jewelry on our emissary’s finger. We can send it back in a box. Tie it nice, with ribbon.”
Cyrus gapes openly at him. “That’s not an olive branch. That’s an act of war.”
Lysander ignores him, rising to stand by the window. Outside, the night is clear and dark. The ground sparkles with frost, hard and glittering as a diamond. Beneath the pale yellow lamplight, there’s a girl coming up the walk. His heart trips into his ribs.
“Take Choi with you,” he says, distracted. “Show him how Mercy Boys handle business.”
“Lysander, come on. I don’t think—”
“Do it now.”
A pause follows. Then, “You’re the boss.”
The door skids shut at his back. He waits for the space of a single erratic heartbeat.
Two. Three. A fourth—just to test himself—and then he’s off, heading out into the cold of the terrace.
Far below and with her face downturned, Shea Parker doesn’t see him.
He moves along at a parallel, tracking her advance from above.
He thinks, as he often does, how easy it would be to hunt her like this. How simple, to pin and disarm her.
How satiating, to drain her of blood.
His thirst is a whip, quick and unforgiving. The sting of it snaps his spine straight. He blinks his head clear and presses on. At the back of the covered veranda there’s a set of stairs ribbed in vines. He descends quickly, stepping out in front of Shea before she can pass.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”
She startles violently, her hand flying to her throat. “God!”
“Close,” he says, grinning.
“Announce yourself next time.”
He tips his head to the side, regarding her from a new angle. “I thought I did.”
“What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I could ask you the same question. We don’t have a date until next week.”
Her heartbeat stutters between his ears. Her eyes dart from shadow to shadow as though she expects to find something leering out at her.
“Don’t call it that,” she says sharply.
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t.”
“A date,” he clarifies, and she nods. “What else should I call it?”
She thinks it over, her gaze still pinging between the trees. “An arrangement.”
“That’s an ugly word.”
Her eyes snap to his and stay there. “We’re doing an ugly thing.”
“Do you really think so?”
She nods again. So close to her, he can see the blood fluttering in the curve of her neck. The back of his throat prickles. Sometimes, he thinks there are two of him. The boy and the hunger. He draws nearer to her as his two selves battle for control.
“That hurts my feelings,” he tells her.