Chapter 3
C HAPTER 3
AUDEN
All rumors are assumed to be lies until proven true.
They’re created on assumptions, fed by a lack of knowledge, spiked with jealousy, boredom, and unease. Or, made for a purpose.
The Hegemony family lives by this understanding. We’ve used it to our advantage for nearly five hundred years. For our protection. As a weapon.
And yet, tonight it slips my cousin’s mind.
“I’d heard they weren’t coming.”
Evander tracks his prey from the solarium windows high above the garden. His shark’s smirk distorts behind the icy remains of a finger of scotch on the rocks. I don’t need to guess what “they” to which he’s referring. I also don’t need to move closer to catch the procession of two girls, tall and raven-headed, locking arms with a shorter, silver-haired matriarch.
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Undoing a button at the throat of my dress shirt, I return to my reread of Leaves of Grass —the deathbed edition of 1892. Like almost everything else I own, this rare Whitman and the rest of my poetry collection were my father’s.
I’d known the Blackgates would come. I’d seen our grandmother’s request before she’d sent it—not an invitation this time, an order. And no one, not even the Blackgates, refuses an order from Ursula Hegemony.
“They’ve never come before.”
“No,” I correct, “they haven’t come since .”
Winter enters the room and our conversation with a frown and a waft of perfume as perfectly floral as the briar rose pattern abstractly beaded into the rich fabric of her low-cut kelly-green dress. We’ve been waiting for her—getting ready always takes her twice as long when we’re home as when we’re away at Walton-Bridge.
This, exactly this, is what we do on nights when we must be Hegemonys.
We gather, assess the situation, prepare in our own ways. Evander drinking; Winter preening; me reading until the very last moment; and, when our armor is firmly in place, we act as Ursula Hegemony’s generals.
Winter arches an eyebrow, first at our guests, then across the room to me, where I’m propped against one of two Italian marble fireplaces, embers snapping merrily and throwing fire lines across the sheen of my polished dress shoes. She studies me with an expression as tight as the ribboned choker bear-hugging her throat. “Why are the girls here? Now?”
“More like, what do the Blackgates know about tonight’s itinerary that we don’t?” Evander answers, thumb aimlessly rubbing the rim of his glass as the ice clinks. “They wouldn’t just fly in from London after ten years. The Blackgate sisters are kept offshore like illegal funds, everyone knows it.”
Uncharacteristically droll but correct.
The moment their father, Marcos, died, Lavinia and Kaysa Blackgate were shipped to Europe under the cover of night. That left old Marsyas playing matriarch stateside and mastering redirection whenever their mother, Athena, or the girls themselves became the topic of discussion. I’m not even sure if they’ve officially oathed Lavinia as heir. At seventeen, she’s older than Kaysa by a year, but age doesn’t always determine a would-be matriarch or patriarch among the Four Lines. Character matters too, though considering the predilections of the Blackgate family, perhaps having the personality of a snobbish feral cat is more desirable than detestable.
Honestly, despite the fact that the Blackgates and I have never seen eye to eye, I don’t blame them for putting an ocean between themselves and Hegemony Manor for the past decade.
“Illegal is that eye makeup,” Winter mutters—disdain typically manifests when she’s jealous. This is exactly how Winter always sizes people up—by tearing them down before extending her hand with a firm smile. She doesn’t bother to be anything other than direct with me. “But seriously, Auden. Spill .”
They expect me to know for good reason.
I’m the one who has been home with Ursula the longest since boarding school let out in June. The one who didn’t spend the first weeks of our summer gallivanting about. The one who is objectively her favorite. I’m also the one who spent my childhood inventing sly and increasingly devilish ways to tempt the claws out of dour Lavinia Blackgate.
“Perhaps they wanted to see what they’ve been missing all these years,” I suggest as dryly as possible, audibly turning a page in my book, though I haven’t been able to comprehend a single written word since catching visible proof that the Blackgate girls are indeed back on the manor grounds.
Evander wheels around, frustration deepening at the fact that I at least appear to still be reading. Nonchalance annoys my older cousin to no end. “What does she have planned?”
I don’t answer.
Evander steps away from the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. I set the book atop the mantel—I can’t have it ruined in the crossfire of his rising anger, fueled by both his annoyance and insistence—and lift my eyes to his. They’re green, stormy, and all his mother’s, just like his warm brown skin. He’s taller by an inch, and heavier by a good twenty pounds of hard-earned muscle. Like his status as oathed heir to every title our grandmother holds, he wields those advantages as overtly and often as possible.
“It’s a reunion with old friends. They’re simply dressing the part for a nice evening.” Evander glares at me and Winter joins him. I hold up my hands. “I know nothing beyond the usual triad for these annual meetings: convey what’s important, reaffirm Hegemony power, scatter to the winds for another three hundred and sixty-five days.”
Winter looks like she might chuck something at me if she had anything reasonable nearby to throw or otherwise fling my way. “Auden, you’re the worst liar.”
“He is not lying, Winter Elvire.”
We’re too practiced to gasp, but all three of us stiffen at the addition to our party pregame.
There, in the wide, arched entry to the solarium, is our grandmother, our guardian, matriarch of the Hegemony Clan, leader of the Elemental Line, High Sorcerer of the Four Lines, and general no-nonsense woman of a certain pristinely obscured age.
Ursula Hegemony.
She was soundless before—one of her many gifts—but now that she wants us to know she’s here, Ursula enters the stately beauty of the room on steps as sharp as the stab of a knife on the parquet. Her posture is perfect, her expression discerning, her eyes, as usual, miss nothing. She notes the book discarded at my side, Winter’s blush at the admonishment, the remaining scotch sweating it out in Evander’s spooked grip.
“The annual meeting is necessary to our continued success as the leaders of the Four Lines. Tonight is no different.” Evander visibly relaxes—if Ursula had heard his side of the conversation, she’d certainly say so. “That being said, I expect all of you to treat this as what it is from our point of view. It’s not a social hour, it’s a campaign .”
Ursula pauses at that, and I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that her forefinger taps the four inset gems of her High Sorcerer’s ring. A wealth of power is tied to that ring, and she’s tied to that power simply by wearing it. The ring and the title have been ours for nearly five hundred years—the control, the influence, the authority—and like anything of worth, it becomes harder to grip the longer you hold it. Something our grandmother is keen on reminding us. The last of a line has a duty to survive—or go out in a blaze so bright it leaves a mark.
“I want you on your best behavior. You are leaders, not simply hosts.” She frowns. On the unnatural planes of her smooth, unlined face, the movement is slight, but holds enough weight that my heart skips a beat. “A fact I see each of you has conveniently forgotten.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, our grandmother turns her laser focus on Winter, her clever cerulean eyes striking on the rich fabric of my cousin’s impeccably tailored gown. It’s an ankle-length column that highlights the lithe strength her upper body has acquired from long hours on the tennis court and in the weight room at Walton-Bridge Prep. Ursula’s tightly held scrutiny sours further. Instantly, the heart shape of Winter’s neckline unfurls, elongates, and crawls up and around the back of her neck, transforming it into something much more modest.
When she’s finished, the emerald hue of her magic evaporating, Ursula announces, “Cleavage is unnecessary and impolite.”
Winter dips her chin in acceptance before fussing to straighten the bow now settled underneath her long, strawberry blond hair and probably at odds with her choice of necklace, now swathed in fabric.
Our grandmother turns her attention to Evander. The barest flicker of a grimace crosses her face.
The final dregs of his scotch burst into flame.
Evander nearly drops the glass but catches himself and it just in time. As the green hint of magic flares, his wits kick in and he smothers the fire with a wide palm atop the rim. With a muttered curse, he rips it away from the tumbler, a ring burned into the skin. He waves it violently in an attempt to sooth the pain, and meets Ursula’s stoic expression with glassy, red-rimmed eyes.
“Sobriety is crucial for the case we are to make for continued Hegemony supremacy. The libations tonight are for our guests’ enjoyment, not yours. You may take a glass as it encourages others to imbibe what is offered, but recreational and excessive liquor consumption is unbecoming and steals from both our family credibility and your own as my oathed heir.”
Evander discards the tumbler without a word.
Ursula turns to me.
I’m dressed in the suit she chose and standing so as not to wrinkle the fine Italian craftsmanship. The open button at my throat could hardly be classified as unnecessary and impolite, and it’s obvious I haven’t had a drink, not to mention Ursula knows me well enough to be sure I don’t intend to.
Still, I’ve violated her expectations, the same as my cousins.
Turns out it’s not what I’ve done, but what she expects me to do.
“The High Families are our peers as much as they are our responsibility. You are no longer children—I expect you to be polite, courteous, and respectful to all of our guests, but most especially to the Blackgate heirs.” I think that’s it, but only when our grandmother continues and adds the use of my first name does it truly dawn on me how much of a liability she must believe I am. “Auden, I do not have to remind you, I’m sure, that a renewal of your previous little animus with Lavinia Blackgate will not be tolerated this evening.”
“Understood,” I answer with a drop of my chin that I hope appears remorseful.
I wait out Ursula’s appraisal for what seems like several moments too long before she inhales thinly.
“Now that we’re all reacquainted with our expectations, I must finish my preparations.” I raise my gaze just in time to see her spear Evander right through the heart. “Because, yes, Evander, she does have something planned tonight.”
With that, Ursula Hegemony turns on her heel and walks out.
The moment her steps are swallowed by the plush hallway carpeting Evander crumples. “Shit.”
The side of Winter’s mouth lifts ever so slightly at his mortification. “You got roasted and you didn’t even learn anything. That takes some talent, Evander.”
He grumbles at her but makes it a point to glower at me. “Wipe that smug grin off your face, Auden.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly the point and the problem.”
Winter rolls her eyes and sweeps a ribbon of strawberry blond behind her ear using her watered-down reflection in the windowpane. “If she won’t tell us, I’m just going to go ask the Blackgates myself why they’re here—politely, courteously, and respectfully, of course.”
Evander fusses with an impeccably turned cuff at his wrist, clearly already wishing to rip off his jacket. The man cannot stand to feel confined. “Win, you’re wasting your time. Marsyas wouldn’t fly those girls forty-five hundred miles and not prep them.”
“I suppose I’ll find out, won’t I?”
At sixteen, Winter’s the youngest of the three of us, and appropriately stubborn. Especially when Evander tries to play patriarch at eighteen—he’s just graduated high school, after all, and we’re only a year behind him. Winter spins and heads for the doorway that leads from the solarium onto the sprawling elevated stone terrace, down the steps to the gardens and the Rocky Mountain wilds beyond.
“Be nice,” I shout at her back.
“I’m not the one who was given a direct warning,” she tsks before pausing and turning around, one immaculately sculpted brow mischievously arched. “Anyway, I will be—to them. To Hex? I make no guarantees.”
“Nor should you.”
If Hex Cerise is still standing by the night’s end, it’ll only be because Winter is making him suffer instead of putting him out of his misery. The guy’s basically been pulling her hair for attention since they were both in diapers. It’s as pathetic as it is predictable. And it makes her cling harder to the people she likes best—namely Infinity.
As Winter vanishes, Evander stalks away from the windows, heavy footfalls pointing toward the serpentine halls of Hegemony Manor. “I’m going to the source.”
“Ah, yes, because interrogating Ursula during her stated preparation for the most important gathering of her calendar year after she already roasted you for being uncouth is a most excellent plan for both obtaining the truth and going unscathed.”
My older cousin pauses to glower at me yet again, thick brows lowered to match his frown. “I’m not stupid, I’ll start with an apology. But I am the oathed heir and do have the right and obligation to know her plans as part of my training.”
I don’t tolerate his infantilization any more than Winter does. If I’d been born six months earlier, I might be the patriarch-in-waiting. If Ursula preferred me as much as my cousins believe she does, those few months might not have mattered anyway. I smirk at Evander and raise an invisible glass. “Top-notch argument. I’m sure that’ll go over swimmingly.”
“Shut up, Auden.”
With that, Evander straightens his jacket and leaves. His footfalls echo down the hall, and I have no doubt he’ll stomp the whole flight up to the third floor. A fool’s errand and tantrum rolled into one, in my opinion. Not that he’ll get anything out of it.
When I’m alone, I finally step to one of the many floor-to-ceiling solarium windows and peer out onto the grounds. Everyone is accounted for, as commanded by the mighty ink and envelope of Ursula Hegemony.
The Cerises. The Starwoods. The Blackgates.
The Blood Line. The Celestial Line. The Death Line.
And us—the Elemental Line.
Here, now, together again, and with a full two generations of each High Family of the Four Lines—for the first time since Marcos Blackgate was alive.
My cousins are wrong. I don’t know what Ursula has planned.
Ursula does everything by her own rules. No compromises. No mercy.
I don’t know why the Blackgate heirs were ordered to make an appearance after a decade away. I don’t know why they complied.
But I do know both my cousins are wasting their time.
It doesn’t matter what Ursula has planned and it doesn’t matter why the girls have finally appeared. We’ll have answers soon enough. Ursula Hegemony will make sure of that.