A tray full of champagne flutes is shoved at my chest.
“Hurry,” a middle-aged man—one of the few I’ve seen that isn’t masked—barks. “You’re one minute late, and today’s an important day.”
I wonder how pathetic this man’s life has to be to take a position working for POP, knowing what they get up to—because I have no doubt he has seen some messed-up shit. And to not only be a simple employee, but an obvious manager or shift supervisor or whatever the fuck they call it here.
I make a mental note to murder him.
Not today, of course. But…later.
I accept the tray with gritted teeth but don’t immediately leave the kitchen.
Where the fuck is Ryker?
He was directly behind me in line. Was there a problem with his ID? Did they ask him to remove his mask for some reason? I wasn’t able to bring any weapons inside with me (not any that I can grab easily, I mean), but that doesn’t mean I can’t get creative. In the distance, I can see someone slicing at a fish’s head with a machete. Fuck, I love machetes. Not as much as my bedazzled knives, but they’re a close second. If I can grab the machete, I can?—
A shoulder bumps my own. “I can’t see your face, but why do I have a feeling you’re drooling while staring at that machete?” Ryker’s raspy voice is barely a breath of air.
Relief loosens the muscles in my chest. “Because you know me so well,” I quip.
Ryker snorts but doesn’t dignify that with a response. Probably because the lovable teddy bear knows it’s true.
“We need to find Ellie and Dom,” he continues, wrenching a tray out of the hands of a passing waiter. The waiter immediately begins to protest, but Ryker ignores him and glides away.
“Sorry,” I tell the waiter seriously. “He just really likes…carrying champagne trays. It’s his kink.”
I hurry after my friend, trying my damnedest not to drop my own tray. I don’t know how the fuck people are able to hold them with only one hand. I’m struggling with two.
A large ballroom—decorated with twinkling lights and a three-tiered chandelier—greets me. The only word I can think to use is “golden.” Everything is illuminated in a tawny shade of gold, from the varnished floorboards to the intricately engraved walls. High above, a massive crystal chandelier scatters light like liquid gold, its facets catching every glint and sending it dancing across the polished floor. The walls, paneled in gilded moldings and soft cream tones, glow with reflected radiance, while tall arched windows draped in sheer silk curtains allow moonlight to melt into the golden interior. Gold-accented sconces line the room, casting a soft, flickering glow that mimics candlelight, adding to the timeless elegance. The ceiling, a vaulted masterpiece adorned with murals and ornate medallions, seems to shimmer as if lit from within.
Masked men and women talk in clusters around the expansive room. Three here. Four there. Ten here. Every one of them is oblivious to the predator lying in their midst. Couples swirl across the floor in a slow, graceful waltz, their silhouettes haloed in the warm glow. Laughter and the gentle strains of a string quartet echo, like music suspended in honey.
Every surface—from the carved balustrades to the delicate filigree of the chairs—seems to hum with the quiet, radiant luxury of gold. Not garish or harsh, but rich and embracing.
A wolf wearing sheep’s clothing.
“Do you see Ellie or Dom?” Ryker asks, his head on a constant pivot.
It was Landon’s idea to add barely decipherable stickers to our cloaks—pink hearts stuck on our left shoulders. In his mind, it would be small enough to remain undetected by anyone who isn’t looking for it, but it’ll also allow us to find each other. My solution to reunite with Ellie and Dom was a little more bloody…which is why I’m not allowed to plan any of our operations.
“Not yet,” I tell him, moving away from the wall and weaving through the throng of people. As I walk, masked assholes reach for champagne flutes, and I have to stop myself from shattering the glasses over their heads, then using the jagged edges to stab their throats. These people are sick. Depraved. Fucked up.
And that’s coming from me.
I murder people who deserve it. They kill anyone who thinks or looks differently than them. They prey on the weak because they themselves are incompetent, insignificant, and utterly forgettable.
A hush falls over the crowd abruptly. All the laughter and conversations halt. The couples stop dancing. The string quartet quits playing. All eyes focus on the front of the room, where a familiar woman stands.
The Divine One.
Aria.
Ellie’s mother.
Hatred like I’ve never felt before courses through my veins. I’m grateful that my tray is empty of champagne flutes because I can’t hold it up a second longer. It falls at my side, the only noise in the suffocating silence.
This bitch needs to pay for all that she’s done.
I don’t see Ellie or Dom, but I don’t spot Fischer either. I half expected him to be beside her, watching the proceedings as an unwilling—or willing—apprentice.
