Page 31 of A Dance Macabre

Mercy seems to choke on Claire’s remark but pulls away without saying a word. Snapping at one of my employees to follow her with one of the umbrellas, she turns and storms up the large entrance steps.

My eyes can’t help but watch her disappear inside as I gingerly bring my palm up to the rain. It practically sizzles with relief when the drops hit my skin. Taking a few lungfuls of air free of Mercy’s perfume, I collect myself, securing the Vainglory mask even tighter over my face before following her inside.

Sittingon the far edge of a velvet settee, Mercy on the other side, we face Claire in the drawing room of the ruler’s quarters. We’ve been answering her vapid questions for the last three-quarters of an hour. I was the one to vet the questions personally, but they’re boring and superficial nonetheless.

I’m uncertain if it’s the change of scenery or the implicit safety of knowing the answers to the questions before they are even asked, but Mercy has been considerably warmer in attitude since the interview began. An untrained eye could hardly tell she lacks any media training by how she’s answering Claire’s questions.

I just might have underestimated her yet again.

Claire asks a final question; something to do with our upcoming inauguration, and I respond with barely a thought, my answer already perfectly crafted.

“Alright then,” Claire says, “I think we have everything.”

Relieved, I move to stand up, but I notice her pause as if considering something. Her head tilts to the side before she inches closer to the edge of her cushioned seat, her eyes sparkling with renewed interest. “One last question before we wrap up, if I may?”

I press my lips together before answering. Her curious demeanor tells me this question is improvised. My eyes slide to Mercy, and she gives me a small nod. I give Claire the go-aheadwith a wave of my hand before I stretch out my left arm across the back of the settee. I realize too late that my hand is now only inches away from Mercy’s shoulder, and I curl my fingers into a fist to widen the space between us.

“I would love a statement from our two rulers on the pamphlets that have been found circulating the city.” Claire watches us carefully, and then adds, “The ones calling for an uprising against the founding families.”

20

WOLFGANG

The room falls silent. The air turns into frosted ice, and I can practically see my breath when I let out a small puff of air. Claire’s gaze lingers on mine, then moves to Mercy whose facial expression doesn’t betray any of her inner thoughts.

The only small tell in her cool exterior is the twisting of one of her rings around her finger. I have a knee-jerk reaction to place my hand over hers, and I’m thankful I’m just far enough away not to follow through.

My attention returns to Claire. Something about her body language and the careful way she delivered the question informs me that it was not meant to be incriminating.

She’s just merely doing what I employ her for—reporting. My eyes slide to Bartholomew standing near the door. His eyes are wide, thin lips pressed together, gaze ping-ponging from me to Claire. His alarmed expression, however, makes me question ifheknew.

I’ll deal with the weasel later.

I break the tension by letting a warm chuckle roll off my lips while I smooth a hand over my trimmed beard and stand up.“Claire, darling. An insurrection?” I ask, my voice as sweet as honey. Straightening my suit jacket, I button it closed while my hard stare pins her to her seat.

My power tingles up my nape. The tether between us tightens. My grasp on her psyche strengthens. Her expression turns soft. Malleable.

“That would be a waste of everyone’s time, don’t you think?”

Her eyes appear slightly dreamy when she answers. “Of course.”

I clasp my hands together. “Now that’s all settled,” I say slowly, having trouble keeping the ire out of my tone, “The interview is over.”

With a flick of the hand, I dismiss my staff, except for Bartholomew. I turn my back to the exiting crew and stare out the window at the dark rainy Pravitian skyline. I ignore Claire’s parting pleasantries, my jaw clenching harder with every passing second until finally the clatter of her heels and the shuffle of assistants following her out fade into nothing.

Swiveling on my heels, I stalk across the room, slamming Bartholomew into the wall. I feel his yelp vibrate against my palm as I hold him steady by the neck.

Mere inches from his face, I growl, “You knew.” I slam him harder into the wall, his head bouncing against the portrait above us, nearly knocking it off the wall. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t gouge your eyes out and feed them to the dogs.”

His gaze widens, sweat trickling down his temple. “I — I had planned to tell you, Mr. Vainglory, I s — swear, I really was.” He swallows hard before continuing to babble, “But with the Lottery and — and the exchange in power, I was just waiting for the right moment. You already had so much on your plate. Forgive me, sir. I — I was going to tell you, I promise I was.”

“Wolfgang.” Mercy’s tone is sharp, and my impatience spikes with her interrupting me.

I twist my head to the side, teeth bared, catching Mercy’s gaze from the corner of my eye. She’s stood up from the settee, her expression now a lot more transparent, revealing a worried crease between her eyebrows. I say nothing, waiting for her to speak again while tightening my grip on Bartholomew’s throat. Something about hearing his pained gargles calms me somewhat.

“We should speak in private.”

Logically, I know she’s right, but every muscle in my body is singing for bloodshed. When Mercy sees I’m not moving, her gaze turns slightly miffed as she lets out a small puff of air and cocks a hip.

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