Chapter 92
Raven
The room responded to Victor's toast, crystal glasses clinking in a chorus of forced civility. Julian's hand trembled slightly, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass. Victor's gaze remained fixed on him, a predator savoring the moment before the pounce.
As conversations resumed around them, Victor descended from the staircase with deliberate steps, making his way toward their table. Julian looked like he wanted to bolt but had forgotten to inform his legs.
"Julian," Victor called out, his voice dripping with artificial warmth, "I notice you've brought only one companion tonight."
"Julian," he called, voice dripping with false joviality, "I notice you've brought only one companion tonight." His eyes shifted to me, calculating, assessing. "Your father truly must trust our... friendship." A pause, deliberate and pointed. "And who might this enchanting young woman be? Not your girlfriend, surely?"
His laughter invited others to join, creating a ripple of polite chuckling around us. The message was clear: look at this boy, bringing a date to his execution.
Julian's voice cracked like a pubescent choirboy. "Just—just a friend! She likes the... the ocean, so she came along for the gala!"
I resisted the urge to close my eyes in despair. If this was the Crimson Brotherhood's heir apparent, they might as well start printing "Going Out of Business" flyers.
Victor's gaze sharpened as it landed on me, predator to predator. "Young lady, I hope you don't mistake this for some recreational beach party."
The room quieted, spectators eager for the kill. I kept my expression neutral, not bothering to meet his eyes directly—a calculated insult any power player would recognize.
"Recreational?" I allowed a whisper of amusement to color my voice. "Mr. Monroe, I've attended funerals with more entertainment value than this gathering. Even the Yakuza's annual cherry blossom viewing has better... atmosphere."
The subtle reference to a rival organization—one that would never be invited to such an event—landed exactly as intended. Victor's smile flickered for just a moment before reasserting itself with professional precision.
"Well," he recovered smoothly, "aren't you delightful? Ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy your dinner!"
As we returned to our table, Julian grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in like talons. "Are you insane?" he hissed. "You can't talk to Victor Monroe like that! He's butchered people for less!"
I removed his hand from my arm with two fingers, as if handling something unpleasant. "Predators respect strength, not weakness. Your terror is like blood in the water."
"My terror is the rational response to being in a room where everyone wants me dead!"
"Not everyone," I corrected mildly. "The waitstaff seems fairly neutral."
---
The dinner proceeded with the strained pleasantness of a hostage situation disguised as a social event. Julian picked at his food like it might bite back, while I sampled each dish with deliberate enjoyment, sending a message: I fear nothing here, not even poison.
"Raven, right?"
I glanced up to find a girl sliding into an empty chair beside me, champagne flute in hand and curiosity in her eyes. The girl I'd saved from an embarrassing tumble earlier.
"You have quite the presence," she continued. "I've been watching you since you helped me. There's something about you that doesn't... fit."
I took a measured sip of water. "Coming from you, that's practically a compliment."
She laughed, genuine amusement breaking through the practiced socialite veneer. "I'm Amanda Kincaid. A few years older than you, but I've never had that kind of... what would you call it? Sangfroid?"
Before I could respond, three men in dark suits appeared behind her like summoned shadows.
"Miss Kincaid," the tallest one said with practiced deference masking irritation, "your father was explicit about keeping you within sight at all times. You understand the... profile of many attendees tonight."
Amanda rolled her eyes with the practiced dismissal of someone born into enough wealth to make consequences theoretical. "I said I'd be back in five minutes. Can't a girl have a conversation?"
She turned back to me, lowering her voice. "Aren't you afraid? Most of these people have connections to organizations that make the FBI's most wanted list look like a kindergarten honor roll." Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Victor, who was holding court across the room. "Especially our host. Word is, he has some particularly nasty history with your friend's father."
I swirled my water glass, watching the light refract through crystal and liquid. "Afraid? I find it rather... restful, actually."
Amanda's eyebrows shot up. "Restful?"
"When everyone in a room is a potential threat, there's no need for guesswork." I smiled slightly. "It's the hidden dangers that require energy."
Amanda shook her head, leaning closer. "If you need an exit strategy, I can help. My father's name carries enough weight that even these people would think twice before causing trouble. I could get you both out."
Julian, who had been pretending not to eavesdrop, nearly gave himself whiplash turning toward us. His eyes widened with desperate hope. "Raven," he whispered urgently, "that's perfect! We should—"
"Thank you for the offer," I cut him off smoothly, "but unnecessary. Our profession has its own protocols for handling... awkward social situations. Running isn't one of them."
Julian's hope deflated faster than a punctured balloon, but Amanda's interest only seemed to grow.
"I knew you wouldn't accept," she said with a smile that suggested she found me exactly as she'd expected. "Impressive. Here's my number. If you ever want to hang out somewhere that doesn't reek of cologne and murder plots, call me."
After exchanging contact information, Amanda departed with her security detail, leaving Julian staring at me like I'd just tossed a life preserver back into the ocean while drowning.
"We might not make it out of here alive," he muttered darkly.
"Everyone dies eventually," I replied, sipping my water. "The trick is making the journey interesting."
---
As dinner plates were cleared and the gathering shifted into its next phase, guests began to circulate with drinks in hand, the choreography of power and alliance playing out in miniature across the ballroom. Victor Monroe ascended the small stage again, tapping a microphone.
"I hope everyone is enjoying themselves," he announced, surveying his domain with the satisfaction of a feudal lord. "What's a celebration without music, yes? I've prepared something special."
He inserted a small USB drive into the sound system, and the massive screens around the room flickered to life. A rock track filled the room as what appeared to be a music video began playing.
But the footage wasn't any music video I'd ever seen.
It was dashcam footage. Night time. A winding road. A woman walking alone.
The video quality was poor but clear enough to see a car—distinctive and expensive—accelerating directly toward the woman. The impact wasn't shown directly, but the aftermath was unmistakable. The driver's face appeared briefly in a flash of streetlight.
Warlock.