27 FRANCOIS
She’s close.
I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror while the tank fills. Gods, I have combed the knots from my hair, yes, and scraped the Ashgrave mud from my skin, but I still feel soiled. Contaminated.
The chalky, chemical mint of the antacids are doing a miserable job of masking the stomach-churning weight of the rodent still fucking dissolving in my gut. I am a prince of Le Milieu, a creature born to look down upon the world from a position of absolute, unassailable luxury.
Yet here I am, huddling in a stolen vehicle, waiting on a twenty-dollar hand-out of fuel, while nausea overwhelms me.
I’m deciding how to improve my lot when a custom, armored Bentley Mulliner rolls into the lot. It looks thoroughly out of place against the rotting northern weeds.
The tinted rear-window rolls down an inch and a thick cloud of expensive cigar smoke drifts into the damp air. My basilisk instincts flare, pupils flattening as I recognize the silver lion-headed cane resting against the leather door panel.
Hector Montgomery.
He is one of my father’s inner circle. A repulsive man who is no doubt wrapped up in the twisted trafficking world. No doubt at all.
“I’ll check the oil as well, sir,” his chauffeur says, exiting the vehicle.
Montgomery’s window rolls down a few more inches. “Be quick about it, Lawrence,” his pompous voice drawls. “If I’m late for this party, it will be your granddaughter that I’ll be hunting instead.”
Lawrence, the chauffeur, blanches. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He hustles to pop the heavy hood.
Hmm, this is interesting. A party. A granddaughter replacement?
My chest hums with a calculated realization. Currently, I am merely another fugitive hiding in the brush, but if I play the prince... I can walk right through the front gates to wherever this party may be.
And recapture the treasure Aurora is waiting for. That would be a worthy gift to present on my return.
I am going to dismantle this organization from the top down.
Smoothing the lapels of my stolen charcoal overcoat, I step out of the BMW and stroll casually across the cracked asphalt. I stop right beside the open rear window, leaning slightly down with a look of supreme, unbothered arrogance.
“Hector,” I drawl, my voice dripping with effortless high-society familiarity. “Imagine running into you in a provincial wasteland like this.”
Montgomery flinches, his head snapping toward me.
For a second, his eyes narrow, scanning my face. I’m concerned for merely a second, but Thomas Crankshawe’s internet scrubbing seems to have done its job flawlessly.
To Montgomery, I am not a prison fugitive, I am still the untouchable heir of the Conclave.
“Francois?” Montgomery blinks, his snobbish face rearranging itself into a false, beaming smile. “Good gods, boy! What on earth are you doing in North Havengard? I thought you were at school, an academy or somesuch.”
“Well, of course, that is where I spend much of my time, but on a day such as this? No, no, no. My father sent me ahead to join you all,” I lie smoothly.
“I imagine we are both heading in the same direction, but unfortunately, my vehicle is leaking transmission fluid across the highway, and I refuse to wait for a regional mechanic.”
I offer him a tight, aristocratic smirk, playing the part of the inconvenienced prince to absolute perfection. “I don't suppose there is room in the Mulliner for one more? It would save me the indignity of arriving in a tow truck.”
Montgomery lets out a booming laugh while waving his cigar around. “Of course, of course! A Crankshawe should never be stranded in a ditch. Lawrence! Forget the oil. Close the hood and open the door for our guest.”
“Right away, my Lord.”
Hearing me tarnished with my father’s name never sits well, but in this moment it sends a violent spike of adrenaline through my veins. I hate that it is useful. The urge to kill is strong but my face remains an absolute, unreadable mask.
I have so tried to wrap myself in my mother’s old-money, mobster lineage.
Unsavory but not sordid.
Thomas Crankshawe is a monster of a different caliber—a man whose appetites are so twisted they are beyond redemption. Yet, to my father's cronies, I will always be Crankshawe's boy. It is a brand burned into my skin, a legacy I am desperate to escape.
A heritage I will burn to the ground.
But for now, I swallow the surge of bile rising in my throat and force an empty nod.
As the driver holds open the rear door, I slide onto the heated, pristine leather seats, the thick scent of Montgomery’s Cuban tobacco instantly drowning out the gas-station odor.
Montgomery is my cheval de Troie.
Though I’ll admit the Bentley is not exactly a wooden horse.
The car pulls out of the lot, accelerating smoothly toward a distant timberline. “You’re in for a treat, Francois,” Montgomery purrs, cutting the tip of a fresh cigar and offering it to me. I decline with a polite wave of my hand. “The Director of the Menagerie never disappoints.”
“Is that so?” I murmur, keeping my voice entirely neutral as I look out the window. The bleak landscape blurs past.
“Oh, absolutely. But it’s the hunt everyone is truly salivating for,” Montgomery chuckles, his eyes flashing with a cruel hunger. “I heard they’ve a spectacular little prize today. Very exciting.”
My fingers tighten against the fabric of my overcoat, but my face remains a mask of cold, polite interest. “What are the parameters of today’s game, Hector?” I ask casually, checking the stolen silver watch on my wrist. 09:15 AM.
Montgomery leans back, a sickening grin spreading across his face. “Oh, it’s a beautiful twist this time. But I don’t want to spoil it for you—or give you an unfair advantage.”
“Touché,” I reply. Inside, however, I am assessing him with the cold, clinical detachment of my beast.
I watch the way his soft, heavy jowls shake as he laughs, the thick layers of expensive fat around his neck, the lazy, bloated decadence of a man who has never had to fight for a single thing in his life.
I long to wrap my coils around that throat, choke the life out of him.
Wait.
So instead, I look out the tinted glass at the passing trees. Montgomery has no idea how easily I could destroy him, here in the leather luxury of his ostentatious vehicle.
But this man is Il est au bas de l'échelle. The bottom of the ladder.
And I shall destroy this organization from the top down—his time will come but for now I will have patience.