CHAPTER NINETEEN
DAVID
Galas were not David’s scene. They were boring and drawn-out, and reminded him too much of formal dinners his father used to demand he make a surly, necktied appearance at. But he did his best to show up every year, if only for an hour or two. It was one of the Society’s few decent opportunities to network, and the older set always looked favorably on younger men who showed up for charitable causes.
It helped that David made the largest contribution to the benefit every year, with enough zeros to be impressive but not enough to shame anyone who wasn’t rich enough to play real philanthropy ball.
This was his second year turning up at the gala sober and determined to stay that way, but it was his third arriving with what felt like the aftermath of a blackout night drinking, and David thought this was wildly unfair. If he was going to sit through an entire gala sober and listen to aging CFOs give speeches, he thought he ought to be rewarded for his efforts with good health. But no such luck.
He woke up the night of the event around the time the sun was setting. Light hurt to look at, he could barely handle the street noise out his window, and every time he tried to stand, he was hit with a wave of nausea. David had felt like he was dying plenty of times in his life, but this one ranked.
When he finally managed to clamber out of bed, he had been assaulted by spirit sickness so bad it had put him on the floor. His vision went black at the edges, and danger screamed in the back of his mind. He had clutched his aching temples while in a fetal position on his bedroom carpet, suddenly freezing cold as though he were standing out in a snowdrift. Any thought that tried to form was mangled and incoherent, a jumble of English and Russian.
All David could do was wait for it to pass, then get into the shower fast enough that he could pretend that the tears of pain leaking from the corners of his eyes were just droplets from the showerhead.
Eventually, he managed to get himself dressed, despite the numbness in his fingertips that made small buttons impossible. He wanted to ditch the whole event, maybe curl up on the couch with an entire bottle of white wine and drink until the sun came up. But skipping out on the gala wasn’t an option. He had to make an appearance and look good while doing it.
He wore Armani, black-tie friendly with gunmetal silk lining. It was crisp, timeless, sharp as a knife without being showy. His labradorite ring, family crest pinky signet, and Louboutin red-bottom loafers were the only other accents he needed. He felt like he had just pulled himself up off the bathroom floor of one of those cramped gay bars he had spent so much time in during college, but at least he looked like himself.
The event was at a rented hotel ballroom slightly out of town, so he drove himself and arrived a tasteful forty-five minutes after the doors opened. Wayne and his crew were already there, and David gave them a warm nod as he got his bearings. He would drift over and make conversation after everyone else had a couple drinks in them, pressing his sober advantage. If he nailed this night, the High Priesthood was as good as his. There was nobody else with his skills and connections, not even Rhys.
Instinctively, he scanned the dimly lit ballroom for Rhys and Moira. Neither were anywhere to be found.
Antoni and Cameron were here, however, seated at a back table and swirling glasses of brown liquor. David fished an off-brand sparkling water out of a brass tub of ice and went to join them.
“Look who’s back from the dead!” Antoni exclaimed.
“Who said anything about dead?” David asked, sliding in beside him.
“Come on, nobody’s heard from you all week,” Cameron said with a thin smile. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and the bare face gave him a keener, sharper appearance. He almost looked handsome this way. No, not handsome. Cunning. David had a bad habit of conflating the two. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you miss a Society meeting.”
“Not since I got here,” Antoni put in.
David inclined his head in response. He had missed a Society meeting before, actually, but that was because he had been stupid and twenty-three, and because Rhys had been doing something unethical to him in the Ancient Egypt section of the library.
“Work’s been crazy,” David said lightly. “Where’s Rhys?”
“Not here yet,” Cameron supplied. “But Antoni just texted him. Hopefully he shows.”
“This whole night is going to be boring as hell if he doesn’t,” Antoni muttered, polishing off his bourbon.
“Agreed,” David said, crossing his ankle over his knee. “What’s been going on with you two? Cameron, anything new?”
Cameron rubbed his freshly shaved chin. “There’s been some really interesting developments in the field lately, actually. Some scuttle out of Yale about a potential third century Q source that mirrors the Johannine text closely. I’m not convinced, myself.”
David nodded dutifully, completely glazed over. Then he turned to Antoni. “What about you? Any batshit developments in the dating department? You’re always an interesting gossip mill.”
Fire flashed in Antoni’s eyes, that telltale temper rising to the surface. “I’m not that much of a fuck-up.” He glowered down at his empty glass for a moment, rattling his ice, before he gave into the temptation to spill. “Although, I was hooking up with this guy in Brighton for a while, but then I found out he still lives with his parents and I’m not sure how I feel about that one. That’s not unreasonable, right? I think…”
David didn’t hear the rest, because the door on the other side of the ballroom swung open to usher in Rhys and Moira.
Moira captivated with every step, dressed in a figure-hugging eggplant gown. It was pure seventies glam, and between the disco eyeshadow and her teased halo of hair, she wouldn’t have looked out of place on Robert Redford’s arm. Wives pinched their husbands to get them to stop staring at her, but David couldn’t stop looking at Rhys.
There was a severity to his face that David wasn’t used to seeing outside the ceremonial circle, his gaunt features set off strikingly by the dark hair. He was wearing a wine-colored velvet blazer and a white oxford shirt, one button undone to show off the Saint Michael medal winking from the hollow of his throat. The shoes didn’t match the outfit, but David would forgive him that.
He looked like a king.
“Excuse me,” David said, abandoning his water at the table and leaving Antoni hanging mid-tale.
Moira and Rhys slipped effortlessly through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and smiles with whoever they passed. They looked so perfect together it made David sick. He was compelled to be close to them, to start a conversation or… something.
David pressed through the crowd of aging high-society girls and middle managers as the pair found a seat at an empty table. Rhys swept Moira’s hand up and kissed it, then stood suddenly and disappeared into the crowd.
When David reached the table, Moira was alone, sifting through the contents of her beaded purse. David lowered himself silently into the seat beside her, and savored her surprise when she looked up.
“I didn’t think you were coming!” she exclaimed. “I texted you this morning to confirm but I never got a text back.”
David smiled despite himself. He was getting used to her wide-eyed expressions, and enjoyed how openly she displayed her emotions on her face. It was refreshing. “Well, I never pass up an opportunity to scandalize.”
Moira waved a finger off in the direction Rhys had gone. “I think he went off to chat up Wayne. Society business.”
“Of course.”
“You’re welcome to wait with me until he gets back. I think he’d be happy to see you.”
David thrummed his fingers against the table, thinking. Sitting around killing time was not a good look. That would make it seem like he had nothing better to do than wait around for Rhys’s beck and call, like he had been feeling his absence over the last week too sharply. Not an option.
David pushed himself to his feet and held out a gallant hand. If he was going to try to catch Rhys’s eye, he was as well do it while looking busy, and he and Moira were overdue for a serious conversation. Two birds, one stone.
“Ms Delacroix, would you do me the honor?”
She stared at his hand. “David Aristarkhov, are you asking me to dance with you? Here in front of God and everybody?”
“That’s generally what people do to entertain themselves at these sorts of functions,” he said, doing his utmost to lay on the confidence even though he didn’t feel any of it. He didn’t feel like he was inviting her to dance, he felt like he was handing her one of his vital organs and asking her to hold it for him while he ran errands.
Moira smiled. “Fine by me.”
She let him lead her onto the floor properly, by the arm. The dance floor was sparsely populated, but not bare enough to be embarrassing. David picked a quiet spot in the corner, and Moira assumed the position effortlessly, her hands resting lightly on his shoulder and in his palm. Their sway was an unadorned approximation of a dance, an excuse to speak privately.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me I look pretty?” Moira asked. “That’s usually how most boys open when they ask me to dance.”
“‘Radiant’ was more the word I was looking for,” David said, and he didn’t even need to sprinkle in any charm to make the sentence ring true. “Love the dress.”
“I tailored it myself.”
“Ah, that’s why everything you wear fits you so well.”
“Daddy taught me right. And so did fashion school.” She evaluated him with shrewd eyes. “I’m happy you felt well enough to come.”
“I didn’t say that,” David admitted, turning her in a gentle circle around the floor that would have passed any junior prom decency test. “I spent the morning sick. Everybody here is lucky I showed at all.”
“You should be home in bed,” Moira said. There was genuine concern in her eyes, freely given, without a second thought. David knew she wasn’t lying because he would have felt the guilt jump under her skin like a faulty pulse.
“I’m sorry if this sounds rude,” he said, because they had to address it sometime, “but you’ve had every reason in the world to be unkind to me. And yet you always choose to be graceful. Why?”
“Are you suggesting I’ve got some sort of ulterior motive?” She moved effortlessly, gliding along the floor as she pulled him in wider and wider circles. She was attracting appreciative attention, and as they made another turn, David thought he caught the gleam of Rhys’s eyes over the shoulder of another Society brother.
“Maybe. You’re smart enough that I’d applaud you for having one.”
“My aims and designs are my own. But why isn’t it enough for someone to be kind to you? Not all strength comes from pissing brimstone and spitting fire. I’m nice to you because it pleases me to be, and I’ll keep that up until it ceases to please.”
“Fair enough.”
“You changed your tune about me pretty fast, too. You’re not just being sweet to me to get to my husband, are you?”
It was a joke, but there was a steely thread of true inquiry underneath, and David’s heart stuttered. He didn’t think he had overstepped any boundaries, and he did his best to deal with Rhys and Moira on their own individual terms, but Moira was perceptive. She would see any lingering feelings in the microexpressions that snuck to the surface when Rhys was in the room.
And she would feel his true emotions, and if he was lying to her, through the touch of her hand.
Damn. Clever woman.
David swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and chose his words carefully. “Any kindness I’ve extended to you has been on your own merit. And I’ve never tried to come between you and Rhys.”
“Neither of us would let you,” she said, a little smugly. Then, softer, “But between is different than close. You can be close, you know.”
Adrenaline hit his stomach in a sickly rush, and she must have felt it. What was she saying? Was she offering…? No. There was no way.
“I’m not following,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice level.
Moira shrugged, suddenly not able to meet his eyes. She fastened one of the tiny buttons at his cuff that he had missed.
“It’s just that whenever I feel like we’re getting closer, you pull away. You and I don’t have to be best friends, but I don’t hate you, David. I don’t hate having you around, either.”
David squeezed her hand gently. He was bad at verbally reciprocating feelings, but he hoped she felt it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. Now are you gonna keep rocking me back and forth like we’re at a church function or didn’t anybody ever teach you how to dance?”
“You know how to dance?” David asked, with surprise. “Ballroom?”
“I placed very well in my cotillion, thank you.”
“Foxtrot?” David pressed, an old lick of childhood mischief sparking to life in him. He tried to contain himself these days, but there was nothing he loved better than creating a spectacle. The music wasn’t right for a foxtrot; it was some recycled tired top forty hit. But he could make it work.
“Well, they ain’t playing a waltz, are they?” Moira shot back.
David broke into a grin, shifted into proper position, and swept her into the dance with a delight that bordered on ferocious. Moira let out a peal of laughter, following with quick, agile steps. David hadn’t danced ballroom much since his teens, but it was like riding a bicycle, the body never really forgot. He thought he was decent at it, but he could barely keep up with her. Moira swept along the floor like she had been born and raised to it, arm held high, neck arched gracefully. He spun her on a tight fulcrum, and her dress swirled around her ankles and snapped against his legs.
She was a terror on the dance floor. David loved it.
He led her in one of the foxtrot’s standard twirls, and she kicked her heel up with a little flourish as she came back into his grasp.
“Show off,” he said, and swung her into a low dip. Moira squeaked in surprise, grasping him tighter, but recovered quickly.
“Then what do you call that?”
“I’m not going to drop you,” David chuckled. “Can you waltz, by the way? That one’s my favorite.”
“Better than you, I bet,” she said, quirking a challenging eyebrow as she came back into the starting position, pressed nearly flush against him.
In that moment, David knew exactly why Rhys loved her.
“I think you and I are going to get along just fine,” he said. He would have followed it up with a footwork variation to see if he could throw her, but the music cut off abruptly. Wayne was mounting the small stage with a glass of champagne in hand, fiddling with a microphone.
“Oh, I’d better go,” Moira said, looking suddenly fretful. “Thank you for the dance. Come say hello after?”
“Sure,” David replied, even though he wasn’t quite sure what ‘after’ she was referring to. Moira picked up her skirts and scurried off, leaving a trail of floral perfume behind her. He found himself a nice quiet table in a corner to watch the proceedings from.
David had sat through one of these speeches every year and they always went the same: a rambling reflection on the accomplishments of the year and a warm commendation of everyone’s wonderful work giving back to a good cause. Previously, they had only been interesting because they kicked off the half of the night where everyone would start drinking in earnest. Now they were just dull.
However, Wayne veered off the usual script pretty quickly.
“I don’t have to tell you all that this has been a rocky year for the Society. We’ve faced challenges in all arenas. But as always, the Society looks to the future, and we raise each other up along the journey. Leadership has always been one of the top qualities we search for in our induction exams. Every one of you have demonstrated the potential for greatness. It is my great pleasure to recognize that excellence here tonight.”
David leaned forward slowly in his chair, every nerve on end. The High Priesthood. Wayne loved pomp and circumstance; of course he would do it here.
“The young man we’re here to celebrate exemplifies the values of this Society: resourcefulness, curiosity, mastery of self and mastery of his work. Since his induction, he has been one of the most dedicated and reliable members of this Society, often going above and beyond the call of duty in order to take not only his practice, but everyone else’s, to the next level.”
David swallowed. It was really happening. Wayne was talking about him, about all the tips and tricks he had lifted from his father and gifted to the Society.
God, he needed this. He needed a win.
“It has been my deepest pleasure to mentor and work alongside this young man, and it’s an even greater pleasure to present him to you now as my chosen successor. I’m so happy he was able to be with us tonight. He’ll be taking over administrative duties effective immediately, with a formal ascension ceremony to come, of course. We don’t pass up the opportunity for a ritual here.”
Crisp-collared waitstaff circulated the room, passing out fizzing flutes of champagne. David’s mouth watered, but he waved the waiter away when he came close. He wasn’t going to ruin his own celebration by relapsing.
Wayne gestured somewhere off stage, smiling warmly. “Rhys, would you come up here please?”
David’s blood turned to ice in his veins, freezing his heart solid.
Rhys took the stage elegantly, somehow managing to look resplendent and humble at the same time. He was perfectly at home standing on that stage, bathed in white light and applause. This was everything Rhys had ever wanted, crystalizing together in one perfect moment.
David felt like he was looking into a funhouse mirror.
Wayne handed off the microphone to Rhys. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you all better as your High Priest,” Rhys said, the title dripping from his lips like honey. “This is truly an honor I don’t take lightly.”
Rhys raised his champagne, admiring the way the light turned the bubbles to liquid gold.
“But tonight, I want everyone to enjoy themselves. Celebration is the greatest defiance in the face of death, and if there’s anything we do here, it’s tilt the natural order of the world in our favor. So tonight, death has no dominion here.”
He had definitely written this speech in advance. The bastard. He had known. For how long? David ricocheted from emotion to emotion with a velocity that made him sick. Rhys was well within his rights to keep the succession decision private, and Wayne had probably asked him too. Why did David even expect to be one of the first people Rhys called with news, anyway?
Rhys tilted his glass down to Moira, lingering at the corner of the stage with her own glass of champagne in hand and a beatific smile on her face. His chosen queen.
“Cheers,” Rhys said, and clinked glasses with Wayne before taking a self-satisfied sip.
David wanted to storm out to his car and smoke through an entire pack of cigarettes, or walk circles around the block until he was too tired to think through all the ways his life had gone wrong. But he was rooted to his seat, aching and numb all over.
Nothing. He couldn’t feel anything.
The staff were circling again, offering champagne on gleaming trays to anybody who hadn’t been served the first time around. David’s ears were assaulted by the ringing of glasses and drumbeat of claps. Something that had been bottled up tight, festering inside him for months, exploded in his chest.
David snagged a glass of champagne from the nearest server and put half of it back in one swallow. The bubbles stung his tongue, tiny pinpricks of sweet poison. It tasted like apple rot and freedom.
Making up his mind, David finished the rest of the champagne as everyone else toasted, oblivious.
His world came crumbling down around him to the sound of applause.