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Chapter One
IntheUnderground,onecan sell anything. Name it, and there’s a price. Body, soul, skill — they’re all fair game. For me, it’s all three with a suffocating touch of wit.
Tonight, it’s no different as I slink through a crowded room of Royalists. I know my gown has the desired effect when a man chokes on his drink, his eyes wide right before his wife elbows him hard in the ribs. I do not grin or smile or smirk or, quite frankly, pay anyone any damn attention. The only person that matters will be behind the curtains.
At the back of the crowd, they drape the wall in a thick velvet black. To anyone else at this party, those curtains are for decoration. For the Underground, they’re the entrance to debauchery.
My nails dig into the sparkling fabric of my gown, bunching its length higher and higher, the side-slit parting wide. My employer was specific. I needed a grand entrance to be admitted to a table.This ought to do it, I muse and lift my chin. Every eye in the room is on me as I reach the curtains, and part of me wants to say,Wanna see a magic trick?I roll my shoulders back, press my lips together, and stroll forward.
To the Royalists, I vanished.
To the Underground, I’m everything they’ve wished for. A stunning body, an untouched soul,innocentskill. I’d fetch a nice price if any of it were true, and tonight, I must pretend I am. Get the highest bid I can and tell my employer a name, successfully rooting out their main competition. It’s a simple, straightforward mission that should go off without a hitch. With the way I look, I imagine I could be in and out of the Underground in fifteen minutes.
But the truth is, my curves are an asset, yes, but my soul is as riddled with rot as they come, and my skill — well, the tremor in my ring finger isn’t from nerves. It’s from my lack of a kill, my addiction to blood lust, my desire totear the world apart. More than that, I have a mouth that never knows when to stay shut — or maybe it does, and I simply refuse to do so.
This job should be easy.
That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for me to fuck it up.
I slip through the magic of the curtains, its shield prickling against my arms and feeling my intention. As I do every night, I open my mind to the two words that have made me both full and empty my entire life:LiesandVengeance. The magic latches to them, and before I can take another breath, glossed black tile flourishes beneath my stilettos.
Red felt tables are spaced evenly across an open, dark room. A stage rests in the far left corner, a band leading a chaotic beat. Women and men dressed in lace, sequins, or nothing roam the room with trays of drinks or offer-out pipes.
I inhale, and my heart steadies with the familiar scent of ego, lust, stale breath, and riches. I turn my head from one side to the other and pretend to survey the hottest club of the Underground, knowing the diamonds in my ears catch the light and draw attention.
I wait, but I don’t wait long.
Underground Bosses lean in to speak with their cronies, and I count at least five out of the eight Bosses here. I hold my breath as that knowledge sinks in. I expected one, maybe two. In fact, I banked on the fact that Bosses are notoriously suspicious and wouldn’t be caught dead in a crowded place like this unless they absolutely had to do business. With five of them here, I’m more likely to be recognized, especially since two of them I’ve done business with before.
A chair scoots back to my left, its metal legs screeching against the tile.
I drag my gaze toward the sound, feigning a nervous disposition.Maybe I can still get a high bid before I’m recognized. I give the man approaching me a soft smile while I try to place him.Fuck, there are six Bosses here?
He wears a red mask tied around his eyes — an accessory common with the Bosses and their need to conceal their true identities. His suit matches in a deep burgundy, his jacket open to his exposed torso. Tattoos litter his bronze chest down to the waistband of his slacks, and even then, they trail beneath.
My breath hitches as I take in every detail. Tattoos are sacred among the Bosses. There’s an entire authentication process involved to ensure every tattoo comes from a valid sale among the Underground. Never, in all my time among the Bosses, have I met one with this many. Even my current employer only boasts an arm sleeve from his elbow to his wrist.Who are you?I want to ask,demandof this mysterious Boss, but I know the answer.
This is him. This is the Boss being whispered about throughout the Underground. The Boss who has disrupted the market, taken control of most of the major clubs, and who has single-handedly destroyed my employer’s clientele by taking them as his own. This is the high bidder I’m meant to get a name from, and as my gaze meets two silver irises, my entire being vibrates with certainty.
“The Prince,” he introduces as his Boss name, his voice low as he stops before me and offers his hand.
I incline my head in greeting but remain quiet. The longer I keep my mouth shut, the more likely this will be a success. I accept his hand, and he leads me back to his table. I deposit myself into the seat next to him and shift my weight to brush my bicep against his. I keep my shoulders back, my cleavage on full display as I look over The Prince’s acquaintances.
Unlike the other Bosses with their large cliques, only two others sit at The Prince’s table. A woman with long, jet-black hair, her eyes a gentle blue behind a lace mask, wears a high-neck gown in a shimmering plum. Despite my hours of glam, I bite my lip in envy. The woman has an effortless beauty to her, something that’s always been so unattainable to me. She sits close to The Prince, and I wonder if they may be together.
“The Princess,” the woman announces herself.
I nod to her, but my gaze flicks between her and The Prince. Even with their masks, there are similarities in their bone structure, and they share the same color hair.Siblings, I realize, and it strikes me that The Princess may also be a Boss, considering she, too, wears a mask. It’s completely unheard of for Bosses to work together, and I mentally cheer myself on. This tidbit of information is enough to bargain for a higher payout from my employer.
“Talis,” the third of The Prince’s entourage offers. He wears no mask, and I swallow as I recognize his half-burned face.
“You’re the Storyteller that conspired against the King,” I breathe, unable to stop myself. Fortunately, my widened eyes help play off my innocent persona.
Talis scowls and waves a hand dismissively, showing off black and white checkered nails and several bejeweled rings. Both are displays of wealth I never thought a reject of the late King’s court would possess.
I reel my shock in and look at The Prince. A bit of thrill jitters within me when I find him looking right back.
His silver gaze drinks me in — head-to-toe. “You’re trying too hard.”
