CHAPTER TWENTY
RHYS
Rhys was swallowed up in the attention of well-wishers the moment he stepped off the stage. He shook too many hands to count, had a dozen business cards slipped into his pocket, listened with tepid interest to half-baked ideas about what direction the Society should take under his headship. The atmosphere was equal parts rabid and restrained, courteous and conniving, and a weaker man might have been overwhelmed.
Rhys felt right at home.
Moira also experienced a surge in interest, mostly from the older brothers who had never bothered to learn the name of her business and wives who had whispered about how much skin she had shown at the Christmas party. Rhys made a mental note of every one of their names, separating them out from the people who had always welcomed her like goats from sheep. Though Moira insisted she could handle herself, he had always done his best to shield her from the disapproving glances of some of the older men, the type who would balk at being called racist but would never bring a woman who looked like Moira home to meet their families. The chances of any of the Johnny-come-latelies getting a request granted from him were abysmal. If he had his way, they would be edged out of the Society within six months. Still, he enjoyed watching them listen with rapt interest to stories about her tarot practice and compliment her vintage jewelry. Let them fawn. She deserved every drop of worship.
David was nowhere to be found. Rhys had only caught one glimpse of him the entire night, when he was leading Moira through one of the prim dances Rhys never had the coordination to learn.
Moira was the blinding sun at the center of the universe, overshadowing everything else, but somehow her radiance was only accentuated by David’s cool, silvery light. Rhys had felt a strange mix of anguish and longing, watching them wing their way around the ballroom like celestial bodies. Not jealousy, exactly. Something softer and more treacherous.
David was probably sulking in the bathroom with a cigarette. Rhys felt a stab of guilt about not telling him ahead of time, but he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Wayne had insisted he keep the succession decision secret until the announcement, and Rhys had no idea how to broach the topic with his oldest friend anyway. Truth be told, Rhys hadn’t said anything because he was a coward, and because he was selfish, because he had wanted to wring every drop of goodwill out of his and David’s barely patched relationship before it broke open again. The idea of watching David shatter twice, of telling him privately and then watching him react at the gala, had been too much.
Rhys decided to be at peace with his choice, no matter how much guilt he felt.
He was passed around from table to table, conversation to conversation, for what felt like an hour before he was able to catch his breath. His head was swimming with new schemes, new ethical quandaries to take into consideration as he weighed just how much nepotism he was going to incorporate into his term as High Priest. Some of the guests had already started to trickle home, buzzed and satisfied that they had done their charitable duty for the year. Rhys left Moira to the conversation about gardening she was having with Kitty and wandered off for water.
He retrieved a bottle and leaned against the wall of a shaded alcove in the corner of the ballroom. It was a gaudy addition to the room, carved like a seashell, but it was quiet and allowed him to view the proceedings with a little privacy.
Almost.
“Caesar is dead; long live Caesar,” David said.
Rhys turned to see David slouched against the wall, twirling the stem of an empty champagne glass in his hands. It was common for him to drink water from wine glasses at formal events, just for the aesthetics of the thing.
“Can I join you?” David asked, gesturing with his glass to the bit of spare room left in the alcove. Rhys nodded and David sidled in beside him, their bodies angled towards each other.
“Congratulations on the Priesthood,” David said. “I’m thrilled for you.”
Somebody else probably would have bought the lie, but Rhys knew David too well. He caught the thickness in his voice, the cutting flash behind his eyes. David wasn’t thrilled. He was on fire, with half a mind to burn something down.
“Come on,” Rhys said. He should be worried about that wild look, the fight that could ensue. But he was just relieved David was talking to him at all, that he could stand him well enough to linger close in a dark, quiet corner where no one could see them. “You could probably kill me right about now.”
“I could kill you right now,” David said, ferocity a bright, golden ribbon on his tongue. “You should have told me.”
“I should have.”
“But I still mean what I said. You’re the best chance this Society has of dragging itself kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. They don’t deserve you.”
He always seemed the most himself, the most quintessentially David when he didn’t hide his excitable temperament. He had been an impetuous child prone to emotional outbursts, and he probably would have grown into a much more expressive man if Evgeni hadn’t done his damnedest to beat it out of him.
“I appreciate it,” Rhys said quietly. “I’m really very honored. I’m going to do my best to steward the role well.”
David laughed, haughty and blithe. “Spare me the speech, Speaker of the House. You’re living for this. Come on. Look me in the eyes and say it doesn’t feel good.”
Rhys met David’s eyes. They passed over his face, his mouth, his collarbone and back up again with a near-physical weight, searching for any sign of deception. The gaze sizzled along Rhys’s skin, burning away any pretense at faux modesty.
“It feels phenomenal,” Rhys said, leaning in closer. “Did you see the way the old guard came to pay respects? Last week they couldn’t even be bothered to remember my last name.”
“I did,” David said. “Power looks good on you.”
A live-wire jolt went all the way down Rhys’s spine. The same thrill that accompanied just barely pulling off a summoning at the edge of his ability. His whole life with David had felt this way, once upon a time, like barreling twenty over the speed limit without worrying about the inevitable crash.
Rhys shifted in place, studying his glass of champagne intently. It was suddenly very hard to look David in the eye.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Rhys said. “I didn’t know… I wasn’t sure if you would want to see me, after you found out.”
God, why was it so hard to get the words out? He was a grown man, secure in himself and his boundaries. But he felt nineteen again, like when David had taken Cunnigham’s Wicca: A Guide For The Solitary Practitioner out of his hands in the student coffeeshop line and told him if he wanted real magic, David could show him where to get it.
“Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” David asked.
David seemed fidgety, like he was having a hard time standing still, but his attention was laser-focused on Rhys. For once, there didn’t seem to be any artifice in what he was saying.
“I don’t know,” Rhys muttered. “It’s been nothing but close calls and high drama for a month. I wouldn’t blame you for being exhausted of me.”
“I’ve never been exhausted of you.”
“David, come on–”
“No,” David snapped. Almost snarled, an animal shine on his wet teeth. Rhys couldn’t decide if David looked more like predator or prey. “Not even then.”
Rhys’s face felt suddenly hot. Probably the celebratory champagne people kept pressing into his hands.
“I just can never figure out if you want to be my friend or not,” Rhys said, the truth bubbling up out of him. “That’s the exhausting part.”
David let out a bark of laughter, discarding the empty glass on a nearby table. His mood was a swinging pendulum cut from its mooring. Rhys had no idea what David was going to do next.
“Is that what this is?” David asked, looming a little closer. “Friendship?”
“Why does that question sound like a trap?” Rhys shot back, his pulse roaring in his ears.
He didn’t step back. If anything, he welcomed this confrontation.
David made an anguished sound, then caught Rhys’s face between his hands and kissed him.
It was an act of tenderness that bordered on violence, David’s mouth on his, his fingers in his hair. Rhys’s whole body went taut, suspended in time and space by the impossibility of the act.
He grasped David’s wrists with every intention to free himself but somehow ended up pulling David closer, ceding to the kiss.
Rhys’s lips parted, and the tip of David’s tongue scalded against his own.
He tasted sugar, something distinctly floral, and then, unmistakably, the tell-tale burn of alcohol.
Rhys grabbed David’s lapel and wrenched him away, holding him in place. He had never understood the expression ‘blind with rage’ until that moment. Anger flowed through him so fast and hot that for a moment, everything went dark. When he came to, he was still holding David, who looked startled and so, so stupid.
“Easy tiger,” David said with a nervous laugh. “We’re in public.”
Rhys threw him against the back of the alcove. The wall was only a few inches away, but he still hit it hard enough to rattle.
“You’re drunk,” he hissed, spitting out the word. It was the foulest blasphemy he could conjure.
David’s mood careened towards nasty. “So, I had a few drinks,” he snapped. “So what? Don’t get all pious on me.”
The whole ballroom tilted at a nauseating angle. Heat flooded across Rhys’s face and chest, and he was horrified to find that he very much wanted to hit David.
“Rhys,” David said, suddenly slick and cajoling. “Come here. It’s fine, I’m fine; it’s not a big deal.”
“I trusted you,” Rhys snapped. His voice was rising, maybe loud enough to be heard over the music. Time was melting away, past and present blurring together in a nauseating swirl. He felt like a teenager, he felt ancient, he felt like he was stuck in some distant god’s sick sense of humor with no chance of escape. “And you made me into your fucking enabler again. Jesus Christ, how many times are we going to have to walk this road? I can’t believe… You never change.”
Fate had never been an appealing word to him before, but right now it felt like this was the only life he was ever going to have, getting screwed over by David Aristarkhov again and again.
David tried to circle his hand around Rhys’s arm, but Rhys threw him off with considerably more force than was necessary.
“Do not touch me,” Rhys spat. “Never again, do you understand me? Never.”
“Rhys,” David pleaded, voice splintering. Good. Let him break. Rhys wasn’t going to be there to pick up the pieces.
“I’m calling you a cab home. Stay here.”
Rhys stalked out of the alcove, and David disobeyed of course, hot on his heels like a dog. Rhys swirled around and thrust his finger into David’s face. He was shaking, he realized. From grief or rage, he didn’t know.
“I can’t trust my hands around you right now, David. If you follow me, I swear to God I won’t be responsible for what I do, I–”
“Rhys?”
It was Antoni’s voice, tentative and unsure. Rhys whirled around to find the younger man staring at him.
“Antoni,” Rhys breathed. The anger left him in a rush, and then he realized how anxious he was. The world was jittering around him, his nerves threatening to vibrate him into the stratosphere.
“I was just, uh…” Antoni fumbled. “Some of us were going to hit the bar after this, and I wanted to ask if you would come. A lot of the guys want to buy you a drink.”
David stared at Antoni, horrified, and then brushed past him without another word. He would probably never let Antoni speak to him about the moment ever again.
Rhys turned to follow him but ultimately opted to do damage control first. He did his best to keep his voice level. A High Priest always maintained control.
“How much of that did you see?”
“Uh…” Antoni’s eyes darted nervously from Rhys to the party and back again. “All of it.”
Rhys clasped Antoni’s shoulder and squeezed.
“You can keep a secret for me, can’t you?”
“Of course. Rhys, whatever you need–”
“Go enjoy yourself with the other guys, I’ll catch up with you later. Will you text me the name of the bar?”
“Sure. Is David alright?”
“That’s all I need right now, Antoni,” Rhys said, and gave his shoulder an encouraging slap before slipping off into the crowd to find David.
He should let David go. He knew that, rationally. But there was a wronged, self-righteous fire in his belly that drove him forward. David was not going to get away with this, not after everything else he had done. He wasn’t going to self-destruct on company time and make a scene of it during a night that, by all rights, belonged to Rhys.
He found David, predictably, by the bar, slipping the bartender a drink ticket in exchange for a double vodka soda. Rhys didn’t even know where he had gotten the ticket. He always became suddenly gifted at sleight of hand when he was covering up his habits.
Rhys had to get a hold on his temper and handle this carefully, otherwise the backlash could be explosive. David had already proven he was willing to go way off the rails to get a rise out of him.
Rhys stood close to him, discreetly covering David’s hand on his drink with his own.
“You’re done for the night. I’m calling you a car.”
“You can’t make me get in it,” David said, shrugging him off. He brought the glass to his mouth and took a brazen swallow. The glass came back half empty. Rhys forgot how fast he could put liquor away, especially when no one was looking. “Give the messiah complex a rest.”
“How many of those have you had?”
“None of your damn business.”
“That’s it,” Rhys said tightly. “Give me your keys.”
Rhys tried to reach into the interior pocket of David’s jacket, but David caught his wrist and scowled.
David leaned in close to speak, and his breath smelled like acetone. “Why won’t you just let me have this? I can’t have anything with you, can I?”
Rhys stared down David, and this was the worst part. Looking at someone he had known for years, someone who had been closer than his own family to him, once, and seeing a stranger.
Rhys lowered his voice and threaded steel through it. There was only one way out of this night. And it was going to hurt. “If you do not cooperate, I will humiliate you so badly, so soundly, in front of every single person here that you will never be able to show your face in a meeting again.”
He didn’t have to give specifics. There were a dozen ways that he could do it, and his tone told David that this wasn’t a bluff. Rhys was really willing to drag David out into the middle of the room and run a knife through his deepest, oldest fear, of losing face in front of other people. It was cruel, and Rhys knew it. But it was effective.
The wild light in David’s eyes dimmed into dull, simmering hatred, and he released his grip on Rhys’s wrist. Rhys retrieved the keys to David’s Audi and his cell phone, just in case he decided to call someone he shouldn’t. Rhys wasn’t even sure who that would be, since he was standing right there with David, but it was better safe than sorry.
“Let’s go,” Rhys said. “I’m driving you home.”
David’s mouth curled into a miserable twist, and he huffed a sigh that made his shoulders collapse.
“Rhys. Please.”
This, too, followed the usual progression from erratic to angry to pitiful. This was usually the moment in the narrative arc of a bender where David would cling to him, call him baby, beg him not to be angry. The trick to getting past it was to not empathize with David’s misery or to blame himself for letting it get this far.
The trick was to not feel anything at all.
“Let’s go,” Rhys repeated. “I’m not going to ask again.”