Page 83 of Break Out the Girl

Through the front windshield, the massive granite pillars of an estate gatehouse appear.

Security guards step out, rifles drawn, but the moment they see the monogrammed Conclave crest on Montgomery’s hood, their postures straighten into subservient compliance.

The heavy iron gate begins to open.

And into the belly of the beast I go.

I suppress a smile. The hunt hasn't started, but the serpent is in their midst.

But as the car glides through the tall iron gates, I feel her.

She’s close. Every atom in my body is screaming to go to Aurora.

Non.

I must keep playing this role; it will be of most assistance to ma petite.

“Have you been to Ménage Manor before, François?” Montgomery asks me.

All around us are acres of manicured pasture and woodland. “I have not. Interesting architecture, an extremely European style for something in Northern Havengard.” I’m surprised not to see the obligatory flocks of sheep that the stately homes of the UK like to employ.

Montgomery lets out a gravelly chuckle, fat fingers rolling his cigar. “Don't let the peaceful scenery fool you, my boy. The Director keeps the atmosphere anything but boring for her guests. She knows we prefer our visits…hot-blooded.”

She?

I give him a small incline of my head and Montgomery continues. “I wasn’t convinced when she claimed her late father’s business, but she’s improved these outings immeasurably. Maybe it’s because her female mind gives her an insight into how best to prepare our prey.”

Those words make keeping my expression neutral challenging, but a brief exchange with guards outside a bridge check-point allows me to re-settle and assess.

Who is this director-woman he speaks of? Not one of my father’s perverted cronies was a woman.

The sound inside the car changes, and I realize the Bentley is crossing a heavy wooden-planked drawbridge that spans a dark moat. This manor is well fortified.

We pull to a stop and a man-servant steps forward. He hovers as Montgomery’s chauffeur opens our doors. The old monster heaves his heavy frame out, I also exit, smoothing the lapels of my stolen overcoat.

“Lord Montgomery,” a voice calls out from the threshold.

A man who reeks of ‘assistant’ stands in the entryway, a digital tablet clutched against his narrow chest. His eyes skim over Montgomery, then freeze as they lock onto my face. His brow begins to furrow as he scrolls through what I imagine is the guest list.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbles, looking worried. “Forgive me, my ledger doesn't indicate a secondary guest arriving in your vehicle.”

Before Montgomery can speak, I step forward. “That is because I hadn’t planned to ride with him. Check your records for François de Vaux.” When he looks into my gaze, I capture him with my hypnosis.

“Ah, yes. Of course. Mr. de Vaux. Our pleasure to be hosting you,” he stammers, bowing quickly. “We are honored by your presence.”

“Naturally,” I drawl, keeping my tone perfectly bored.

He gestures toward a set of grand mahogany doors to the left. “The other guests have gathered in the library for morning refreshments. Please, make yourself at home.”

I give him a tight nod and follow Montgomery inside.

The library is packed with wealthy Elites. A quick count tells me there are twenty-three of them lounging on the over-stuffed sofas, or chatting in groups, drinks in hand. Most wear tweed or herringbone sports coats. Shooting jackets and hunting boots.

On a long sideboard, a line of crystal decanters holds amber spirits, alongside porcelain pots of coffee, and wooden boxes of cigars.

“I tell you, the northern stock is always feistier,” a laugh echoes from a small circle of men near the fireplace. “Something about the scum-class gives them the fight I crave.”

My pupils flatten as my basilisk instincts register the desire to crush the speaker. Blinking, I instead study the four men. They all have the bloodshot eyes, and stale odor of a night of debauchery.