“But she wants theater,” River replies. “She deserves theater.”
I roll my eyes. “Guillotines are so old-fashioned. Doesn’t she prefer table saws, anyway?”
The words are flippant, but I can’t help but feel apprehensive about the whole thing. There are so many ways it can all go wrong, and that starts with how to get Allers away from the crowd to a place where we can end him as painfully and slowly as Pandora and River want.
He’s not the only one who deserves that kind of death, but sending a message is important.
Never mind that it’ll probably bring more assassins down on us if Blaze can’t somehow get hisfather off our backs.
“No place to plug one in,” River says. “Then again, there are heavy duty extension cords.”
“Yeah, no,” I say.
“I’m only kidding,” River tells me. “Mostly.”
Yeah. It’s themostlypart that worries me.
The admin office is thankfully empty, or else our conversation would be giving more than one person pause. We’ve already set up all the invites, but we needed an official seal of approval—one Dean Stringer very reluctantly gave us.
I don’t know why Blaze couldn’t do it himself.
No wait, I do know why.
“I’ve got to deal with the frat. You handle the admin. Just remind Dean Stringer what’ll happen if he refuses.”
Stringer was not happy about any of this, but River and I didn’t give him a choice.
“So that’s the guest list sorted.” I open my phone and tab to the document Blaze set up. “Refreshments are ordered, Fenrir reached out so that’s all set, and then we need…”
Somebody parks himself in front of us in the hallway.
River and I both stop and tense in apprehension.
It’s Reaper, standing several inches taller than both of us. He’s in his usual leather jacket and black jeans. The shirt underneath looks much too thin for this cold. His long black hair hangs loose at his shoulders.
“Alvarado,” Reaper says. “What the fuck is this?” He holds out his phone to show me a string of texts.
Pandora
Need you to show up and look scary at the fundraiser next weekend!
Bring all your friends.
Except Kratos. Don’t bring him.
Beat him up and send him home in a box if he insists.
“Pandora being Pandora?” I venture.
Reaper does not look amused.
I rake my hand through my hair. “We’re doing a fundraiser with some special guests who need to be intimidated a little bit,” I say. “What she meant to say is that we’d appreciate it if you and your friends could show up.”
“All of Nu Rho Kappa Upsilon,” River says. “And if you show up with motorcycles, even better.”
“I’m not helping fundraise for your frat house,” Reaper says flatly. “I’m glad it burned down.”
Yeah, I’m sure he is. I’m sure a lot of people are.
