29 FRANCOIS
The Bentley slows, the tires crunching onto gravel. We are on a private road that leads to what I have learned is ‘Ménage Manor’.
Through the front windshield, the massive granite pillars of an estate gatehouse appear.
Security guards step out, rifles drawn, but the moment they see the monogrammed Conclave crest on Montgomery’s hood, their postures straighten into subservient compliance.
The heavy iron gate begins to open.
And into the belly of the beast I go.
I suppress a smile. The hunt hasn't started, but the serpent is in their midst.
But as the car glides through the tall iron gates, I feel her.
She’s close. Every atom in my body is screaming to go to Aurora.
Non.
I must keep playing this role; it will be of most assistance to ma petite.
“Have you been to Ménage Manor before, Francois?” Montgomery asks me.
All around us are acres of manicured pasture and woodland. “I have not. Interesting architecture, an extremely European style for something in Northern Havengard.” I’m surprised not to see the obligatory flocks of sheep that the stately homes of the UK like to employ.
Montgomery lets out a gravelly chuckle, fat fingers rolling his cigar. “Don't let the peaceful scenery fool you, my boy. The Director keeps the atmosphere anything but boring for her guests. She knows we prefer our visits…hot-blooded.”
She?
I give him a small incline of my head and Montgomery continues. “I wasn’t convinced when she claimed her late father’s business, but she’s improved these outings immeasurably. Maybe it’s because her female mind gives her an insight into how best to prepare our prey.”
Those words make keeping my expression neutral challenging, but a brief exchange with guards outside a bridge check-point allows me to re-settle and assess.
Who is this director-woman he speaks of? Not one of my father’s perverted cronies was a woman.
The sound inside the car changes, and I realize the Bentley is crossing a heavy wooden-planked drawbridge that spans a dark moat. This manor is well fortified.
We pull to a stop and a man-servant steps forward. He hovers as Montgomery’s chauffeur opens our doors. The old monster heaves his heavy frame out, I also exit, smoothing the lapels of my stolen overcoat.
“Lord Montgomery,” a voice calls out from the threshold.
A man who reeks of ‘assistant’ stands in the entryway, a digital tablet clutched against his narrow chest. His eyes skim over Montgomery, then freeze as they lock onto my face. His brow begins to furrow as he scrolls through what I imagine is the guest list.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbles, looking worried. “Forgive me, my ledger doesn't indicate a secondary guest arriving in your vehicle.”
Before Montgomery can speak, I step forward. “That is because I hadn’t planned to ride with him. Check your records for Francois de Vaux.” When he looks into my gaze, I capture him with my hypnosis.
“Ah, yes. Of course. Mr. de Vaux. Our pleasure to be hosting you,” he stammers, bowing quickly. “We are honored by your presence.”
“Naturally,” I drawl, keeping my tone perfectly bored.
He gestures toward a set of grand mahogany doors to the left. “The other guests have gathered in the library for morning refreshments. Please, make yourself at home.”
I give him a tight nod and follow Montgomery inside.
The library is packed with wealthy Elites. A quick count tells me there are twenty-three of them lounging on the over-stuffed sofas, or chatting in groups, drinks in hand. Most wear tweed or herringbone sports coats. Shooting jackets and hunting boots.
On a long sideboard, a line of crystal decanters holds amber spirits, alongside porcelain pots of coffee, and wooden boxes of cigars.
“I tell you, the northern stock is always feistier,” a laugh echoes from a small circle of men near the fireplace. “Something about the scum-class gives them the fight I crave.”
My pupils flatten as my basilisk instincts register the desire to crush the speaker. Blinking, I instead study the four men. They all have the bloodshot eyes, and stale odor of a night of debauchery.
“Couldn't agree more,” a second man chimes in, swirling a snifter of brandy. “When the tears come as they finally give up hope? Gods, divine.”
“Shut it, Neville. My cock is getting hard just hearing about it. Won’t be able to focus on today’s fun,” a third man chuckles.
“You haven’t a hope, Bossley. Not with that gut. The prize is mine this time, I can feel it.”
Inside my chest, the serpent coils tight, its fangs dripping with an acidic fury that wants to tear these men apart right on the Persian rugs. I take a glass of mineral water from a silver tray and sip.
Patience.
Their blood will be mine, but all in due time.
The rhyming brings London to mind for a minute, and a slight lightness enters my spirits. I’d like to see him tap-dance them to death with his sharp obsidian hooves.
I turn away from the fireplace and spot a familiar face standing near the long French windows. A man called Simon Sterling.
He is, or was, a mid-tier Conclave director, and a terrible sycophant.
“Simon,” I drawl, stepping into his line of sight.
Sterling’s head snaps up from his coffee, his eyes widening in shock as he recognizes me. “Francois? Good gods, man! I thought you were buried away in that academy down south.”
I offer him a tight smirk as I lean against the panelling. “My father thought an experience at Ménage Manor would be more educational. This is my first time. What about you?”
Sterling’s chest swells, clearly thrilled to be asked a question by me.
“Not my first run by any means, Francois. Quite happy to give you any pointers, quite happy indeed.”
Excellent.
Raising an eyebrow, I look at him with some genuine interest.
He clears his throat. “So, of course, we adhere strictly to traditional Ménage rules,” Sterling waves a hand.
“We hunt on two feet, rifles and beaters only. Shifting into a beast during the hunt is considered a terribly vulgar display. We stay a hundred percent human until the quarry is officially claimed.” He shrugs. “After that? It’s your choice.”
He takes a sip of his coffee, leaning closer to whisper. “I’m not going to lie, I’m happy The Director runs things in the traditional, pre-awakening ways. So much fuss about shifting and status these days.”
That makes me smirk. “Quite agree, so what is your innate creature, Sterling?”
He hides a grimace. “A…wild boar.”
I can smell the lie.
Simon Sterling shifts into a common pig.
“What a marvelous addition to a hunt you could be,” I reply. “I, myself, am a snake. Not such a vicious creature as yourself.”
A few months ago a sentence like that would never have left my mouth. But I have learned that modesty is also a stratagem. To be underestimated is an advantage.
All the way along, I underestimated the wolf, and by Gods, naturally the hopeless faun.
But I was proven wrong.
Sterling chortles. “A snake, eh, boy? Never mind. At least you’re not a badger like old Montgomery.”
“Very true. What exactly is the itinerary for the morning?”
Sterling leans closer, eager to spill whatever secrets make him feel powerful.
“Oh, it’s a beautiful setup today. The Director has turned the entire eastern valley into a closed hunting ground.
The horn will sound at precisely ten-thirty.
If you haven’t brought your own man, you’ll be assigned a beater, then tally-ho!
We’ve been assured that this season’s quarry will have some unexpected obstacles to keep everything extremely interesting. ”
“And all the quarry will be out for the hunt? Or just some left behind?”
Sterling smirks. “Didn’t you get the line up?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “Must have missed it.”
He digs out his phone, pulling up an encrypted site then tapping in a series of numbers. “Here.”
On the screen is a series of photographs showing half a dozen girls. Each has a number next to them. Number six is Sky. There is an asterisk next to her digit. I point to it. “What does this designate?”
“Ah, the main prize. Number six is always the hardest to track, but whoever finds her gets to have her, not just for the weekend, but for keeps. There are no limits nor fines for damage done to number six.”
“Fascinating,” I say, bile rising in my throat.
Sterling winks, a repulsive glint in his eye. “May the best man win.”
“Indeed, Sterling. Indeed.” My eyes lock on the digital map grid on the screen. “And are we given their coordinates?”
“Hardly.” Sterling chuckles. “Wouldn’t be a hunt if we had that information, now would it?
The prey are already in their hidden positions.
Once the horns sound, they’ll be released to run.
Though the prize,” he taps his finger on Sky’s photo, “might be quite hard to find. Let’s just say I’ve some inside information. ” He smirks.
Idiot.
And also a dead man. But not today, he might still prove useful.
“Tell me everything,” I command, eyes turning to slits.
He blinks. “The Director had her head man set up the prize in the heart of Sector Four. That information cost me ten-k.”
Sector four.
I zoom in on the map and take a mental snapshot.
Good, that really does help. Looking up at Sterling, he’s still dazed by my hypnosis.
“You now have inside information that the prize is in sector two,” I tell him, thinking quickly.
“And you are going to let that information slip, so everyone in this room also knows that to go to sector two. You will forget that you told me anything about sector four. Understand?”
That should muddy the waters.
He nods. “The prize is in sector two. Oh, there’s Gerald, I must go say hello. I wonder if he knows.”
I release a breath as the fool wanders off. Before I can work out my next move, a sudden hush ripples through the library.
The doors swing open, and the Director of Ménage Manor finally makes her appearance.
She is striking, commanding the space in an immaculate, structured riding suit, tight cream breeches, and a tailored jacket with velvet trim. Her hair is sleek, dark and tucked back in a knot at the back of her neck. I work through my memories until I hit upon one.
She and my father. Several years ago on our estate.
I wasn’t privy to their conversation, but what was her name?
Carol.
That’s right. A pedestrian name for such an evil creature. Unfortunately, her last name escapes me currently.
“Gentlemen,” her voice rings out, smooth and entirely dominant. “The fleet is waiting for you at the terrace to take you out to your starting lines in the pasture. I suggest you finish your drinks. The horn is about to blow, and the quarry is waiting.”
Her eyes rove around the room, pausing on me for a fraction of a second, but they move on as a cheer goes up around the room.
The men drain their glasses and move eagerly toward the terrace doors.
I look at her cold, beautiful face.
Carol who? Who was her father from whom she inherited this estate?
No time to investigate now.
I have a prize to win, and then present to my woman.
Afterwards, I’ll come back and kill them all.