Chapter 23
I look in the mirror, then rip off the striped tie from around my neck.
It looks far too… optimistic.
Fuck, I’m so tired. No real sleep for a week is taking its toll. The thought of going to see my father exhausts me even more.
What the fuck does he want?
I try to calm myself by carefully filing my nails.
The bliss of a shave, tooth floss (plus water pick), and facial exfoliation has lessened some of the storm inside me, but not all.
Back to the clothing selection. Meeting with father requires a suit and tie, naturally, and I’ve decided on the dark gray Tom Ford. But the tie? Yes. Plain black. Traditionally used for mourning, it seems very apropos.
“Can I borrow a hoodie?” Donovan asks, sticking his head around the door.
I point to the closet shelf in question. I’m only allowing the twins and Max to dress in my sweats. No way those idiots are despoiling my actual wardrobe. “Are we ready to roll?” he asks, pulling the sweatshirt over his head.
“In five. I need to get my head in the right space.”
“You’ve got this, Cos. Don’t let the douche get to you.”
“Your faith in me is touching.”
He leaves me alone, and I stare at myself in the mirror. Lines are etched on either side of my mouth and around my eyes.
So fucking tired.
As I enter the main room, there’s a knock. Wes opens the door and is handed a parcel.
Good timing. “New phones for you all,” I tell them. “You’ve ten minutes to set them up before we head out.”
For once, the twins just do as I ask, plugging in the devices and tapping away at screens. “Remember when I set my new phone to Korean, and then couldn’t read the screen to reset it?” Dono asks Wes.
Wes lets out a small chuff. “Yeah. Idiot.”
Every time he shows any inkling of normality is positive. With Wes and Donovan busily syncing to the cloud, I suddenly realize it’s awfully quiet. “Where’s Max?” That fucker should not be allowed out on his own.
“He went to see if our stuff is still by his still,” Dono says, a grin forming on his face. “Or should I say, Max is standing still by our stuff, which is still by the still? Wait, or is he still standing by the still, which is still making its own still?”
Donovan’s head falls back, and his wide mouth stretches in a roar of laughter.
I love him, but Donovan is a simpleton.
However, if Maximus is busy in his drug lair, it should keep him out of trouble. I wasn’t going to take him with me to Havengard City anyway. I quickly text Feniks, letting him know his cousin is on the loose, then usher the twins outside.
“Someone’s bringing the Range Rover around, time to go.”
◆◆◆
The drive to Havengard City is a blur of country fields, followed by city blocks. We’re all silent, which is a rarity with Donovan. The quiet is only broken by the hum of the Range Rover’s engine.
After thirty minutes, I’m slowing to pass the guard house next to the Capitol building. The security officer flicks through a handheld tablet. “I see your appointment, Mr. Drakeward. I’ll call through to the main building to get your guests' clearance.”
“We’ll wait out here,” Donovan interjects. “Unless you need us to come in, Cos?”
“No, it’s probably better not to drag Wes into the WMO headquarters. Keep in touch, though.”
Before I can protest, Donovan pulls me into a hug and whispers in my ear. “I put a marshmallow clover in your pocket for luck. You’ve got this.”
Pushing him away, I dust off my jacket. “Just keep out of trouble,” I tell him, relieved they’ve got cell phones once more. I don’t want either Donovan or Wes to be out of contact with me ever again.
As I walk towards the building, my hand slides into my pocket. Yep, there really is a piece of breakfast cereal in there. Crazy fucker.
“Cosmo,” a voice calls out. Francois de Vaux is sauntering towards me, looking completely relaxed with an easy smile on his lips.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“Summoned by my Papa,” he grins. “You too?”
His father? “Just who is your father?” This is something I should have found out at the beginning of the term. Freshman Elite are few and far between.
Francois’ placid smile continues. “Don’t you know? It’s Thomas Crankshawe.”
What? Larissa Crankshawe’s brother? “You’re the dean’s nephew? Why don’t you have the same name as your father? And you have a French accent.” None of it makes sense.
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Well, we wouldn’t want anyone to throw nepo-baby accusations around, would we?” He runs a hand through his jet black hair. “I lived in Paris for most of my life, with my now dead mother, Monique de Vaux. Any other questions I can straighten out for you, mon ami?”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he gives a tip of an imaginary hat. ‘Well, have fun, au revoir.”
How did I miss that he was the dean’s nephew?
And Thomas Crankshawe? That weirdo is thick as shit with my father.
Hmm. The thought of Crankshawe makes me shudder; the man always dresses in black velvet suits, obviously not a crime in itself depending on the season, but with his greasy skin, pencil moustache, and the ebony cane he likes to wave around, it’s like he’s cosplaying Gomez.
Shudder.
As Francois strolls on, I turn my back and walk up the wide steps and then through the columns of the building.
The Rotunda is past the main lobby, in the center of the expansive government complex.
To my right is the huge reception room. Minions are cleaning chandeliers and waxing the floor, ready for the All Hallows Ball at the weekend.
Officious-looking staff hurry out of my way as I approach the two security guards standing at the entrance.
They’re vicious-looking men in dark suits, with prominent gun bulges.
Guard-One shakes his head at me. “Only members and their invitees are permitted entrance to Conclave Hall.”
Conclave Hall? CONCLAVE HALL? Since when has the central Rotunda of the WMO complex been The Conclave Hall?
“Cosmo Drakeward,” I tell the security, who immediately gulps and steps to one side. Without faltering, I stride through the ornate double doors. At the center of the room is a massive mahogany table, the seat of WMO deliberations for centuries.
Currently, only one person is sitting there.
“Father.”
“Cosmo. Sit.”
I slide back a heavy chair and do as I’m told. The binding mark on my neck makes its presence felt with a persistent throb.
“I’ve been in two minds about this, Cosmo,” my father says, “and I am not a man given to indecision.”
I don’t react to his words.
“But, in the end, I remind myself that you have no choice but to bend the knee, and once you’ve, shall we say, ascended, then all your weak traits and petty loyalties will melt away. I’ll finally have a son worthy of me.”
“That seems unlikely, Father. I can’t imagine I will ever have your…standards.”
“You will not show me disrespect.”
Pain sizzles along my jaw and down to my collarbone as the binding mark punishes me. I really should know better than to speak out. “Apologies, Father.”
For a moment, he’s silent, just looking at me like he’s trying to read my mind. Very glad he doesn’t have Theodora’s little trick. Finally, Tyrus Drakeward waves a hand. “It doesn't matter. Your rebellious nature has barely minutes to remain.”
That sounds truly worrying. What the fuck is he planning?
“Father?”
He gives a reptilian smile and presses a button on the desk.
On command, a side door opens, and two people walk in: the twins' parents. Between them is a small child.
What the fuck? Who is this poor kid?
“Good afternoon, Cosmo. It’s been a while.” Joyce Hart is a statuesque woman, broad-shouldered, imposing and a cold-hearted bitch.
“Not long enough,” I mutter to myself, not bothering to stand and greet them. I’ll probably pay for this, but fuck it. Donovan and Wes also got dealt a crap hand when it came to parents.
Their father, Jonquil Hart, hisses between his teeth. “Rudeness.”
I ignore him. My eyes are fixed on the little girl. She must be drugged; her eyes are barely open, and she’s shuffling on her feet, hardly able to stand.
But it’s worse than that.
Under the harsh lights, her skin is alarmingly pale, almost translucent. Looking closer, I see faint, shadowy movement beneath the surface of her arms, like smoke trapped under ice. A pulse of energy rolls off her, but it’s not the bright, clean spark of a child. It feels heavy.
Cold.
“Who’s the little witch?” I ask, my voice tight. “What have you done to her?”
“Silence,” Father commands.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. The sigil on my neck burns white-hot, and my vocal cords instantly lock. I try to speak, to demand an answer, but my mouth snaps shut against my will.
“She is the vessel,” Joyce says, ignoring my struggle. She looks at the child with zero empathy. “And she is ready.”
Father stands up. “There is a new world order, Cosmo. As of tomorrow, the WMO council will be entirely filled with Conclave members. The new government of the United States of Havengard. But the Conclave is no longer a gathering of witches.”
He walks around the table, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism. “That word is too small. Too weak. We are now The Magi.”
The Magi?
“We are a species so far beyond a mere witch that those lower lifeforms will now and forever be servants to our wishes. To sit in the Conclave is to be a Magus. To be anything less is to be nothing. And today, Cosmo, you take your place.”
I try to shake my head. I try to stand up.
“Don’t move,” Father says.
My muscles freeze.
I am a statue in my own body, trapped in the chair, unable to twitch a finger.
“Proceed,” Father says, flicking a hand at the Harts.
Jonquil opens the leather case on the table, revealing a dramatic, curved knife.
It’s the end of the world as you know it starts playing in my head.
I stare in horror as Joyce shoves the little girl toward me. Jonquil takes her wrist.
No.
Yes.