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“Oh, not much to do.”
Since when did that ever keep him from work?
“I can catch up on local politics right here with The Gladium Post,” he said, gesturing to the folded paper in his lap.
I picked up the paper, glancing at the headline, When Will the Devlin Butchers Strike Next?, written by Bard Woodblade, one of their lead reporters.
“So, girl. You still have your eye on The Post? Best be working hard if you do. Not many get the chance at one of their positions. Especially not women.” His jab was meant to bolster my ambition, rather than discourage. I knew that now. Once, I would’ve taken offense, but I’d learned his ways.
“I’m working hard. No need to worry. As senior editor at The Herald, I get to choose from the best stories.”
He pierced me with the grave look I’d grown up knowing so well. “Don’t choose from the best. Choose the best. There is no other way to climb high and far. You’re a Cade, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. Remember that.”
I glanced down at my fingers, pulling at a loose thread in my jacket. “I have no problem acknowledging who I am.”
“Hmph. Really? Then who is Marina Creed? I’m assuming that’s your pseudonym. Unless there are two senior editors at the university paper.” My father had been reading my articles. My mouth fell agape for about five seconds before I took hold of my wits again. My father actually read my articles.
“I am perfectly proud of my given name,” I said, clearing my voice of emotion. “I want to make my way on my own, not on the back of your accomplishments.”
He rubbed his forefinger along his lower lip, an old habit of his when he fell into deep thought. He stared past me out the window. After a few minutes of listening to the steady crackle of the fire and the hollow ticking pendulum of the clock in the foyer, he gazed down at me with the old hard look I knew so well. “You know, girl. You’re more like me than any of my children. You have a spine of steel,” he said with an appraising stare. “Just know, that steely spine of yours can get you through a great many trials. But steel that is untested by fire is brittle and will break if it bends too far.”
I considered his words as he went back to gazing over my shoulder out the window, rubbing his forefinger along his lip in pensive silence.
It made me cringe to be compared to the man who exiled my sister from the family because of his own prejudices against the Morgon race and who had once ruled over my brother like a tyrant. He was right. He was so right. I tempered the anger burning in my chest.
In childhood, Father was the one who forced me to get up when I fell down, who taught me to ignore the pain of scraped knees and elbows, who sent me to bed alone so I might learn independence rather than the life of a coddled child. In short, he made me the strong woman I was. After Jessen left and married Lucius, he demanded that I spend less time with my mother, a sweet but meek woman, and more time with Demetrius. My father made me who I was. Was it his regret of losing Jessen that made him change toward me? Or had he always seen my iron will as a reflection of his own?
“An early snow,” he said, gesturing toward the window.
I stood and watched chunky flakes flurry down in a steady torrent. The sun blotched out by a pall of gray.
“Very early,” I added.
“Best keep warm. It’s going to be a deep, cold winter.”
Chapter Eleven
The bell gonged, signifying the end of the game. To me, it sounded like the ominous toll of doom. Kris, part of tonight’s cover, beamed her bright smile at Kraven, laughing at some joke, as carefree as ever. Forcing a smile, I wore my full façade of party girl. On the inside was an entirely different matter. I’d set myself up as meat for the slaughter. I was confident that Kol and Lorian and the rest of them would protect me. Still, the idea of where I might be by the end of the night should our plan come to fruition chilled my blood.
“Awesome! Let’s go.” Kris bounced out of her seat toward the door with Kraven close behind.
I’d been forbidden to tell Kris the details of tonight’s plan, keeping those in the inner circle to a bare minimum. But she was my best friend, and everyone knew the unwritten rule. When you were sworn to secrecy about something, that included everyone except your best friend. So, of course, I told her everything. Besides, if I didn’t tell her about my pseudo-seduction of the creepy Borgus guy, she’d think I’d lost my mind and scare him off as soon as he started leering at me. At first, she was hesitant, being more on the cautious side of care than me. But as soon as I told her there would be a bevy of Nightwing Security around the place, she was more than willing to be my accomplice for the evening.
We jostled into the corridor. Kraven stood at our backs, his wings partly open to keep others from running into us.
“Now, the espionage begins,” she whispered in my ear.
I elbowed her. “Kris,” I hissed in warning.
She winked, stepping aside so Kraven could sidle between us.
“You know, this isn’t your typical club. It can get kind of rowdy down there,” he said.
“Sounds fun to me.” Kris smiled.
Kraven looked a little smitten. How could he not. Kris flipped her soft, honey-brown hair over her bare shoulder, tucking her jacket under her arm. Her halter-top of deep purple accentuated the blue-violet of her eyes. Kraven’s gaze skimmed down her black-clad slender hips and legs when she wasn’t looking. The poor guy was a goner.
Kris had dressed more modestly than me. After all, I was supposed to be bait. I needed to stand out. And I made damn sure of it. I wore skin-tight white patent leather pants with red criss-cross stitching on both outer seams from hip to ankle, and a blood-red corset under my black dragon jacket. I’d been the receiver of numerous lecherous stares by men and venomous glares by women the whole night, but the unwanted attention was worth it if I drew the one Morgon we were looking for.
