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She sets her jaw. “Iknow. I didn’t know the bar could get lower for men, but he put it in hell.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m not exactly sure Councilman Lawrence is useless because he’s male, more like because he’s just the worst, but I’m not up for debating it.
The Lawrence family used to be one of the most powerful families in Stratford, but now Emrys Lawrence is well into his eighties, and the last member of his house. He may be the most powerful man in Stratford, but over the last six months he’s continuously refused to act like it, failing time and time again to investigate the deaths of three girls from Elsinore University. All three initially disappeared, only to turn up dead weeks later in the local cemetery, as if placed there after the fact. All three had ties to the Order, one being the daughter of a councilman.
“Has your mom said anything to you about a plan?” Cat asks.
I glance around, afraid we’ll be overheard. Sure enough, several people are watching us, craning their necks to listen in. “Shhh! Later.”
“If I had a—holy shit.” Cat breaks off mid-sentence.
My head jerks up, and I look around wildly for whatever made her yell, and my eyes fall on the set of wide, glass French doors positioned directly behind the stage. My stomach does something between a flip and a lurch, like my body isn’t sure if I’m excited or horrified.
The doors and the balcony outside give a lovely view of the surrounding university campus. It creates the perfect backdrop for the stage and Councilman Lawrence’s misguided speech—except that the balcony isn’t empty. So, instead of focusing on the Councilman, two-hundred guests are now watching a silent tableau of my cousin Tyberius engaged in a heated discussion with Roman and Bennet Montague.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Cat asks. “I thought he went to get drinks!”
I blow out a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s just…Tyberius.”So much for no magic making everyone safer.
My cousin takes an aggressive step toward Roman Montague, raising both arms, gesticulating wildly. In contrast, Roman shakes dark hair out of his eyes and smiles around the clove cigarette held between his lips. He’s wearing his dress shirt partially unbuttoned with his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He leans back against the railing, seeming completely at ease. Like whatever Tyberius is saying is all some joke to him.
My stomach pangs, as I’m suddenly, painfully, reminded of this same image that’s haunted me for years. Except then, his tie was striped maroon and navy, and the sickly licorice scent of Dijaum Black was invading the library of our prep school.
I shake my head to clear it, and turn away before any of them glance inside and see me looking. This is stupid. I am not that idiot prep school girl who got flustered by Roman Montague.Not anymore.“Just ignore them. Maybe nothing will happen this time.”
“Sure,” Cat mutters, disbelieving. “Good gods, when was the last time you saw them?”
I grit my teeth. This is the opposite of “ignoring,” but I can tell she’s not going to leave it. “The Montagues?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. High school graduation, I guess.”
It’s a lie. I vividly remember the last time I saw Roman Montague up close—the last time I spoke to him. It was three years ago in the cemetery. Since then, I’ve only seen him in passing, but we don’t talk anymore—if we ever really did. Whatever strange common ground we found in the hours between deaths and funerals, was put to rest just like everything and everyone else.
I feel Cat shift beside me, and I know she’s watching me watch them, but whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t get a chance to voice it.
The set of mahogany French doors explode off their hinges and splintered wood and broken glass pepper the floor. People scream as my cousin Tyberius comes tumbling into the room, trying to shake off Roman Montague, who has him trapped in a vicious headlock.
They land in front of the stage, where one of the Cesario sisters is holding up a set of fifteenth century cursed knives for auction. She screams as if she’s the one in the fight and trips over her dress as she scrambles to get out of the way. The pleasant, classical music of the string quartet screeches to a halt, replaced by the crowd’s panic and angry shouts.
Tyberius and Roman go rolling across the floor after her, like some absurdHanna-Barberacartoon. Roman lands on top of Tyberius and wraps his fingers around his neck. Tyberius’s face is red, Roman’s a morbid shade of pale gray. In their struggle, Roman’s shirt has risen up showing the outline of a dark pledge-tattoo curving over his back. Blood has smeared across his hands and over Tyberius’s neck, but neither man seems to notice. They’re too intent on ripping each other apart.
Blood rushes in my ears and I take a lurching, involuntary step forward. It’s stupid, I know, to walk toward the violence instead of running from it, but I can’t quite dampen my instinct to play peacekeeper. Even between my cousin and my worst enemies.
Except, someone beats me to it.
There’s a horrible screeching sound, like metal on metal, and every nerve in my body freezes. I don’t know where to turn, unsure where the reverberating sound is coming from, and I take a beat to realize it’s feedback.
I swing my head toward the stage, where Emrys Lawrence is holding his microphone right next to the speaker, with the volume on full blast. He seems unaffected as he stares stonily at the fight that has paused in the center of his event. The distraction stops everyone except Tyberius, who takes advantage of the moment to move out from under Roman’s hold, reversing their positions. He raises an arm and smashes his fist into the side of Roman’s face, just as he’s turning to look at Councilman Lawrence. I gasp. It’s a lucky thing, another inch and his nose would have broken.
“Enough!” Councilman Lawrence says, not quite yelling, but certainly firm enough to be heard over the commotion.
Tyberius freezes, arm raised again. He’s panting, still trying to catch his breath from when Roman was strangling him moments ago. My gaze travels down to where Roman is lying on the floor, grinning, blood pouring down his face. He barely acknowledges my cousin’s fist, as if this madness is what he wanted all along.
If the men are mollified, they do not show it. If anything, there’s an air of defiance to the entire situation. Two houses, alike in every way that matters, yet with only bitterness and pointless violence between us.
Roman shoves Tyberius off him and jumps to his feet, still grinning. He’s bleeding from his nose, the blood running down his face and into his mouth. There’s a bruise already blooming on his temple, and his eye looks like it may swell shut by tomorrow, but his manic glee is evident. Then, as if feeling my gaze on him, his dark eyes snap up to meet mine. A familiar, mocking smirk covers his handsome face, and my breath catches. I feel my cheeks warm, and I wrench my eyes from his.
