Page 7 of A Dance Macabre

Letting my arms drop to a relaxed position, I sigh wistfully.Work.

Without bothering to answer, I stand up and stroll back into my private quarters while I mentally decide on an outfit for today’s meeting.

Having decidedon a burgundy three-piece suit paired with my favorite cream wing-tipped shoes, I make my way down to the second floor, ten stories below my private quarters. Most of the lower levels of the Tower are dedicated to the family business: Vainglory Media.

The only source of news and entertainment permitted in Pravitia.

Walking into the large library where the meeting is taking place, dozens of eyes shift to me—as they should—as I head for the long table, near the mosaic window. The dozen or so chairs are filled by my inner circle at Vainglory Media, all of them wearing the same signet ring. My family sigil.

Sitting at the head of the table, I give Dizzy, my right hand, a swift nod signaling her to begin the meeting. I try not to drift off as she fills me in on our most pressing affairs until finally something she says catches my attention and I spring forward in my seat, cutting her off.

“What do you mean youdon’t know?” I grit out.

Dizzy’s dark eyes flash me a defensive look but she answers my question in a calm and steady voice. “I had our best men investigate Mercy’sallegedbreak-in and they still came up empty-handed, we can’t seem to find who this belonged to.”

She delicately places the signet ring on the sandalwood table, an identical ring on her left pinky, and slowly clasps her hands together waiting for a response.

It would be an easy matter if only my most trusted wore the Vainglory sigil. Like Dizzy sitting beside me. She’s been working for me since she turned eighteen a decade ago.

But the ring is worn by everyone employed at Vainglory Media, and I can barely remember the names of the ones sitting at this very table.

“Does it matter?” Marcus asks with a laugh, seemingly trying to break the tension.

My glare slides to him, sitting a few chairs down. Shocked murmurs ripple across the room but Marcus seems unfazed. Emboldened by the longevity of his employment. Or the fact that he’s a distant cousin by marriage.

In truth, I understand why he dared to ask such a question: Why would I be bothered by anything to do with Mercy? I’m not.

But it’s the way he undermined me by saying those words out loud.

I continue to stare him down while I suck on my teeth, my fingers drumming both armrests. I detect the exact moment when he realizes his error. He practicallyshrinksin his poorly tailored suit. Abruptly, I stand up, fishing out my favorite fountain pen from my vest pocket, the cap flying off.

Marcus is either a complete idiot or fear has rooted him to his chair while I stalk toward him because he doesn’t move an inch before I have the sharp tip of my pen lodged in his cheek.

Oh, but now? He shrieks like a banshee, eyes wide with terror, while the sound of chair legs scraping on expensive hardwood floors reverberates around the room as everyone else gives us a wide berth. While Marcus is still frozen in his seat, I use the leverage of my shoe against his chest to forcibly pull the pen out of his bleeding face.

His screams turn into a wet gurgled gasp when my second blow sinks into his carotid. This time when I remove the pen from his neck, the blood sprays onto my face and suit. Flickingmy hair back out of my eyes, I lick my lips, tasting the coppery tang, and kick his slumping body along with his chair down to the floor.

Straightening back up, I take a long, centering breath. Pulling out my pocket square, I carefully unfold it and slowly wipe my face and neck. I delicately fold it back and return the pocket square to its rightful place before smoothing my hands over my tie and turning my attention to Dizzy. Her expression is hard, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t care who broke into Crèvecoeur’s property,” I tell her with a trace of boredom in my tone. “You can consider the matter settled.” Throwing my bloody pen on the table, it rolls toward her. She stops it with her own pen. The silence in the library is decadently thick while her eyes meet mine waiting for me to speak again. “Clean this for me, will you?”

5

WOLFGANG

Dizzy drapes herself over my shoulder, her fingers trailing over the black vicuña wool of my sports coat as we pose for the paparazzi outside of Vore. She doesn’t smile but knows exactly the right angles for the camera to heighten her natural beauty.

Like a siren resurfacing from the ocean depths, her black shoulder-length hair is smoothed back with gel, the silver of her suit reflecting the flashing lights like liquid mercury, and the plunging cleavage under her suit jacket could lure in a lot more than just wayward sailors.

She’s a perfect accessory for an evening out. One I use quite regularly.

We’ve always made a good pair for the tabloids.

But that’s as far as our relationship goes. Just another illusion for the Pravitia cannibals always hungry for more vapid gossip, something to sedate themselves with until their next hit.

As a Vainglory, I’ll happily be the one to supply it.

I flash the crowd one last dazzling smile before ushering Dizzy inside with a hand to the small of her back. As much as I adore the attention, they are not the reason I am here tonight.

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