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"Lyssa tells me you are progressing in your training."
I let her change the subject. "Yes. I'm quick; quicker than the boys. They lumber around, but I'm much faster than them. And Lyssa says I have a natural talent for shooting."
I can't help boasting. The training has empowered me, awakening strengths I never knew I had. I'm moving further and further away from the timid little girl who submitted silently to life's tides.
And I want Hadria to approve of me, despite Lyssa's warning.
Hadria's lips quirk upward. "That's high praise coming from the Wolf. Perhaps you might sit in on a Syndicate meeting soon." She pauses, adds casually, "If you like."
"I would like that very much," I assure her.
Her fingers brush tentatively over mine in a feather-light caress. "Good. And now I should leave you to your gardening." She stands, gives me a little nod. "Good night, Aurora."
"Good night, Hadria."
I watch her silhouette fade into the shadows and find myself trembling. With fear? Anticipation? Or something else entirely?
I don't know.
But I feel myself changing, reshaping, coming alive, just like the night garden under my hands.
CHAPTER 18
Aurora
I smooththe sleek black fabric of my skirt, my nerves making my hands tremble. Today—tonight—I'll be attending my first Syndicate meeting, about a week after Hadria first suggested it. The thought thrills me, even as anxiety flutters in my chest. I want to prove myself, to show Hadria I can be useful, that I belong in her world.
I want her totrustme.
In the mirror, I critically examine my appearance. My white blouse is pressed crisp, waist nipped in by a high-waisted pencil skirt. A far cry from the diaphanous wedding dress I wore on the day most of the Syndicate members last saw me. I sweep my hair up into a ponytail, like the kind Lyssa wears when she goes out to work, and I stare hard at my face. I've used a bright orange-red lipstick that I hope looks sophisticated, and only added a touch of mascara to my eyes. Anything more and I'd feel like a clown.
But anything less, and I'd look too young and innocent.
A knock interrupts my primping: Lyssa has arrived to escort me. The tall blonde sweeps into my room, eyes taking in every detail.
"Well, well, look who cleans up okay," she remarks. "Won't hurt to have some eye candy at the table."
I bristle slightly at the implication I'm only there for decoration, but Lyssa's biting humor is the closest she gets to a compliment. I'll take what I can get.
"And it goes with saying that you'll keep those painted lips sealed and your ears open," she adds pointedly. I nod, and she gives me a critical look. "You know, Suzy, I think Hadria's making a mistake with you. You mightlooklike some delicate flower with nothing between the ears, but I think you know exactly what you're doing. If it was up to me, you'd be kept chained up in a dungeon somewhere, instead of allowed to roam free-range."
I lift my chin. "Good thing it's not up to you, then, isn't it? It's up to Hadria."
Lyssa stares at me for a long moment before giving that wild, strange laugh. "One day you'll sass the wrong person at the wrong time, Suzy. Pray it's not me. Come on."
I fall into step behind her. We travel the now-familiar hallways and stop before the imposing doors of the war room. For the first time, my eyes fall on the engraved insignia with new understanding: a three-headed dog wreathed in thorns.
Cerberus. Of course. The guardian of the gates of hell is the insignia for the Styx Syndicate. I have to suppress a giggle at the over-the-topness of it all.
But my giggle dies fast when Lyssa pushes those doors open, ushering me into the chamber again. Hadria has not yet arrived, but her lieutenants are gathered, absorbed in tense discussions. I easily identify the most senior members among them, the ones I've picked out carefully during my nightly observation ofcomings and goings. I don't know any last names, but I know by now their first and code names. Tony the Taxman—it took a while for me to make sure they weren't calling him the Axman, and I still have no idea why he's called what he is—is talking in an undertone to a few men and women I assume must be part of his regular crew, from the way they all lean in to listen together, comfortably close. "Ricky Half-hands" is already seated, tapping one of the few fingers he still has left on the table, moodily staring at those hands of his. And the ice-blonde with the accent (Angie the housemaid let slip once that it's actually Romanian) I now know is called Ilona the Impaler—seriously—is pouring herself a drink from the side bar. Along with Lyssa, whom I've heard several people call "the Wolf," these are Hadria's four most trusted lieutenants, her inner circle.
I desperately want to know how they came by their names. But I haven't got the nerve up yet to ask someone who would definitely know, like Lyssa.
But the room is full of many more people than just those senior mercenaries. There are at least fifteen soldiers who I know are allotted seats at the long oak table, and another twenty or so recruits are clustered in groups around the room. Lyssa points me to stand next to Mario in the group behind her seat, the guy I bested in training. He gives me a grin and a fist-bump. To my mixed distress and delight, a lot of the recruits have started calling him "Sweetheart" in reference to my taunting him with his own words that day. Thankfully, he seems to find it as funny as they do. The other trainees greet me with nods and handshakes. We're the bottom of the food chain here, especially me, but at least I've won alittlerespect from them.
A sudden hush falls over the room, and I turn to see Hadria entering from the side door, the one that leads into her office.She's clad in one of those sleek black suits that hugs her supple form, no shirt on underneath so that the jacket skims over her breasts and I have to restrain myself from staring. Her raven hair is like spun silk, falling to the tops of her shoulders in shiny waves, no matter how roughly she likes to shag it up. And her face…that compelling face could inspire poetry.
Or sins.
