“Why in the seven testicles of Azakiel did I just agree to this?” I mutter.
“Would you like the truth, mate?” Oliver asks.
“That depends. Is your version of truth going to inspire me to violence?”
“That would only prove my point.”
“Which is…?”
“Your hot little witch has you wrapped around her hot little finger. Not only that, but I think youlikeit.”
“You have never been more wrong. Your implication is… it’s disturbing, is what it is.”
“Is it, now?” he goads.
“For one thing, she’s mystudent. Any sort of intimate…anything… would be highly inappropriate, not to mention a complete distraction from the mission. Then there’s the fact that she steamrolls me at every turn—as you’ve so clearly just witnessed—rarely giving any consideration to logic and reason. Impulsive, is what she is. Reckless. Do you know she dragged me to that dive bar last night? I told her one drink, but did we stop there? No. There were shots, Oliver. Beer. Something called nachos, for the love of all that is unholy. By the end of the night, the woman could barely stand.” I sigh, remembering the walk home. The warmth of her. “She’s actually quite smart, despite her tendency toward overindulgence. To be perfectly honest, I feel it’s all a coping mechanism developed in adolescence as a result of parental abandonment, which makes sense, when you consider… well, at any rate. You were saying?”
There’s an epic, monumental silence. Deafening, as the saying goes.
“I guess we were wrong, Oliver,” Warren finally replies, offering a smirk I wish he’d choke upon.
“Sowrong,” Oliver concurs, shaking his head. “Why, he’s hardly given her a moment’s thought.”
“I’m actuallyrelievedto be this wrong.” Warrens drains the last of his coffee. “NowIcan be her date to the gala without feeling guilty. Dinner beforehand, a private little afterparty to follow. Do you think she likes back rubs, or is she more of a front rub kind of girl? Because I wouldloveto get my hands full of?—”
“I’m showering.” I bolt up from my chair. “You’ve got ten minutes to clean up this mess, then we’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?” Oliver asks.
“Down to Manhattan to find a bloody tailor, you imbecile. Apparently, we need tuxedos, and I don’t trust anyone in this town to get my measurements right.”
twenty-one
LIZZY
If there’s one card in the Tarot everyone freaks out about, it’s Death. Which is funny, because the Death card is all about transformation and releasing what no longer serves us, and it’s really one of the best cards you can get.
Thetrueshitstorm of the Tarot is the Tower. Once glance at the card, and you just know you’re in for it. Lightning rips through the sky, striking a stone tower and sending it—and its inhabitants—tumbling into the sea. It speaks of those sudden, earth-shattering, explosive, no-turning-back, catastrophes.
I always pee a little when I see it, emotionally speaking.
So naturally, that’s the card that popped up right before we left for the gala.
Fuck.
No matter. Impending catastrophe or not, I’m not turning back. Because for once in my aimless, directionless, pointless existence, I have anactualplan, and so far, it’s running as smoothly as a fine wine poured directly down my throat.
Killroy, gentleman that he is, sends a car for me and my sisters—his honored guests, on account of his “immense respect for Evelyn and our family’s long history in the community.” The limo ferries us to his mansion without incident, and we’re swiftly ushered into the party, where Killroy homes in on us like a heat-seeking sleazeball, introducing us to potential buyers as “the shrewd Bonnivarde women looking for qualified buyers only.”
Rachel’s in her element, laying it on thick about the historical value of it all—the house, the antiques, the figurines I found in the basement. This is, ostensibly, what we came for. The prize at the end of the tunnel. Killroy’s rich friends, ready to part with their cash and take the past off our hands for good.
I nod and smile like a good girl for as long as I can without puking, then feign a bathroom emergency. Free of my sisters and the “collectors,” I track down the dude manning the guest list. A little bit of flirting and a fingers-crossed promise to meet him in the coat closet later for a roll in the minks, andboom. The demons are on the guest list.
Helena, however, is not. She drove up separately, parking her minivan a ways down the road. Now, she swoops through the night sky, keeping watch in case the whole thing goes to shit.
Which it won’t. The Tower card just got its wires crossed. Obviously.
The rest of the plan is simple. We dance. We drink. We mingle. Warren and Oliver surreptitiously eavesdrop, bribe, and employ other methods of information-gathering Oliver insists I’m better off not knowing about. Once the auction starts, and all the stuffed shirts are busy impressing each other by spending gobs of cash on other people’s old shit, Dr. Sutherland and I snoop through the obvious places: bedroom, study, closets.
