22. Venetia
Venetia
A n ominous silence descends, somehow feeling more threatening than the violence.
“Movement,” Rafferty reports, adjusting his focus. “Someone’s approaching the outer perimeter.”
I take the binoculars from him, studying the lone figure walking towards the raised drawbridge.
Tall, distinguished, and moving with the confidence of a man who’s never been refused anything in his life.
He stops well short of the moat, clearly understanding that the raised bridge makes a direct approach impossible.
“That’s Marc Baker,” I say, recognising him.
“Viola’s father.” He raises his hand, and a drone lifts off.
It flies directly for us. We all automatically duck, expecting to be peppered with bullets, but instead it hovers, just out of reach above us.
I rise when I see something attached to a claw-like piece on the drone.
The envelope drops from the sky like a judgement from hell, fluttering like a frantic butterfly.
I reach out and grab it before it falls to the ground, and the drone rises out of sight over the clock tower.
“Interesting mail drop,” I mutter. “How many families are out there?” I ask, handing the binoculars back to Raff.
Rafferty takes them back, methodically checking each vehicle cluster.
“At least eight different groups that I can identify. The Bakers, obviously. I can see the Morrison family crest on one of those Bentleys. That looks like the Ashworth contingent over there, and...” He pauses, adjusting focus. “Christ, is that Helena Fairfax?”
“The Fairfax family?” Blake looks up from his tablet, where he’s been trying to restore our compromised systems. “Their daughter Imogen was one of the first to collapse in the dining hall.”
“Helena,” I breathe. She is a bit of an icon. I remember her from various society functions that my mum and dad held. She is a woman who could smile while ordering someone’s execution and make it look like a charitable act. “We are so fucking dead.”
“What exactly are they expecting us to answer to?” Viper asks. “We didn’t do this.”
“No, but we are alive, and their heirs are dead. What would you think?” They want someone to be held accountable, someone to pay a price that matches their loss, and the only person left with any connection to the criminal world they understand is me.
I look down at the letter and rip it open.
“Miss Corbyn-Hale,” I read aloud. “The undersigned families have suffered an unconscionable loss due to the criminal actions of Graduate operatives. We seek the immediate return of our heirs’ remains, full disclosure of the circumstances that led to their deaths, and appropriate compensation for our losses.
We are prepared to negotiate in good faith, but our patience is not infinite.
You have until sunset to respond with a substantive proposal.
Failure to do so will result in more direct action.
The letter is signed by eight family heads. ”
Blake whistles low. “They’re not just asking for answers. They’re demanding reparations.”
“What kind of compensation could we possibly offer?” Viper asks. “The dodgy gold the old skeleton is guarding?”
“It’s a start,” I mutter. “How did they even know about this yet?”
“I guess the Graduates decided to inform them.”
“Well, that backfired. All their delegates are now dead.”
“Lucky for us.”
The generator coughs again, a deeper, more worrying sound this time. Blake curses under his breath. “It’s a cascading failure. The sabotage was more extensive than I thought. We’re losing backup power.”
“Sunset,” I say, rereading the letter. The paper is heavy, expensive, a stark contrast to the blood-scrawled threats from the Graduates. This is a different kind of war, one fought with ultimatums instead of bullets. For now.
“And what the fuck are we supposed to offer them?” Rafferty asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the library. “A two-thousand-year-old crown and a history lesson?”
“No,” I say, folding the letter with a sharp crease. “We give them me.”
Three pairs of eyes snap to mine. Viper takes a step forward, his body radiating a violence so potent it’s practically a physical force. “Like fucking hell.”
“They want answers,” I say, meeting his glare without flinching. “They want to look the person in charge in the eye and hear the truth. They don’t want to negotiate with a drone or a letter. They want a queen to address her peers.”
“And you think they’ll just listen politely and then go home?” he scoffs, his voice a low growl. “They’ll tear you apart, Venetia.”
“Maybe,” I concede, the word sharp and brittle. “But sitting here while our power dies and they get more impatient isn’t a strategy. It’s a death sentence. I’ll meet Marc Baker. At the drawbridge. Now. Alone.”
“You’re not going alone,” Blake says, his voice flat and final. “That’s not a negotiation. It’s a statement of fact.”
“I’ll go,” Rafferty offers, his hand already on the grip of the gun tucked into his jeans. “I can be a ghost. He won’t even know I’m there.”
“I’m not asking for your permission,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “I am telling you what is going to happen. They need to see that I’m not afraid. They need to see a leader, not a girl hiding behind her guards.”
Viper steps in front of me, blocking the exit, his body a solid wall of furious muscle. His navy eyes are burning with a possessive fire that makes my breath catch. “You walk out that door alone, Venetia, you’re signing your own death warrant.”
“Then let them try,” I spit back, refusing to be intimidated. This is the first test of my reign, and I won’t fail it. I sidestep him, my shoulder brushing his. For a second, his hand twitches as if to grab me, to stop me, to haul me back and remind me who’s in charge. But he doesn’t.
I pause at the top of the stairs, looking back at the three of them. Three killers. Three kings who have sworn to protect their queen. “Viper,” I meet his stormy gaze, “you and Blake need to come help me lower the drawbridge.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, but I know he will do it. I can’t speak to any fucker through a three-foot-thick piece of wood pulled up against the gates.
“Give me a few minutes to get into position,” Raff says. “I’m watching your back from here, but I can’t do that with this.” He pulls out the Glock.
“Fine,” I grit out. “Two minutes.”
He nods and darts off, knowing I mean it. Blake, Viper, and I simmer in a heated silence while we wait. Luckily, Raff returns quicker than I expected him to and is already setting up when I turn to walk slowly and calmly down the steps.
My boots are silent on the stone, but each step is a declaration. I don’t look back, but I can feel Viper’s fury radiating off him like heat from a furnace. Blake is a cool, calculating presence beside him. They flank me like personal guards, disapproving but obedient. For now.
We reach the gates. Without a word, Viper and Blake put their shoulders to the great spokes, muscles bunching under their shirts.
The groan of ancient metal is a scream of protest as the heavy chains begin to move, lowering our only defence.
The bridge slams down across the moat with a shuddering crash.
Marc Baker approaches slowly, his face an impassive mask, flanked by two men who appear to be carved from granite as he crosses over the bridge to stop in front of the closed iron gates.
“Miss Corbyn-Hale,” he says, his voice as smooth and cold as polished marble. “I trust you have a satisfactory explanation for this unfortunate situation.”
“Lloyd Beacon,” I say the name coldly. “He’s dead.”
Marc Baker’s eyebrows lift slightly, the only crack in his composure. “Lloyd Beacon,” he repeats, as if testing the name. “And you’re suggesting this boy was responsible for the deaths of numerous heirs to some of the most powerful families in Britain?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I reply. “I’m telling you.
He poisoned the coffee at breakfast. He was working for the Graduates, carrying out their orders.
” Okay, so the coffee thing is a stab in the dark, but in a weird way, it makes sense.
If they all had coffee and we had tea, that’s why we’re still alive. Maybe. As theories go, it’s… one.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of grief and barely contained violence. Behind me, I can feel Viper’s tension like a living thing, coiled and ready to strike if Baker makes one wrong move.
“Why them and not you?”
It’s a question I’ve been expecting. “We are tea drinkers.”
He snorts in amusement, but it’s icy cold. “I see. No other reason?”
“None that I can think of.” Let’s face it. We don’t know jack shit. And even if we did, I wouldn’t blab it out to him through an iron gate. I don’t know him, and I sure as shit don’t trust him.
“Where are the bodies?”
“I buried them near the chapel. Disturbing them now isn’t an option.”
“Oh?” he growls.
“I’m not opening these gates.”
“We’ll see. Where is Beacon now?”
“Dead,” Viper states. “Bled out in the chemistry lab while trying to poison the water.”
“To get the rest of you?”
“Probably.”
I could kiss him. He has thrown doubt onto Baker’s suspicions.
“What was the endgame here, Miss Corbyn-Hale? The staff have all fled, most of the students are either dead or on the run, and yet you guard this academy with your lives. Why?”
“Because we have recently learnt that this academy was under the thumb of a very shady organisation, and I intend to pull the plug on it.” I issue him with this warning in the guise of information.
He raises an eyebrow slightly. The only visible response to my words.
We stare at each other for a really long time. I’m not even sure how many seconds tick by.
Too many.
But then he nods once and takes a step back. “Make sure you get on that plug pulling, Miss Corbyn-Hale. I want my daughter back.” He turns and strides off, and I feel like I’ve been let off way easier than I should’ve been. It makes me very nervous.
Feeling an icy gaze on me, I flick my line of sight to Helena Fairfax. She smiles, that freezing cold curve of her lips, and raises her finger to the throat. She makes a very slow, sinister slashing motion before she slips back into her car.
I gulp. “We are so fucking dead,” I mutter again.
“Not yet, we’re not,” Blake says. “You bought us time.”
“Yeah, not fucking much. This needs to move forward with lightning speed now.”
Too bad I don’t know how to move this forward. The families gunned down our only link to the Graduates.
“Close the drawbridge,” I say, stepping back. “We’ve got work to do.”