Page 1 of Lords of Misrule
One
Rowan
“Masks on boys. We’re in and out on this one.” I straighten my own gold Krampus mask and throw the burlap satchel over my shoulder. Tightening my grip on it with the black driving gloves I have on. We’re dressed in all black from head to toe minus the masks to keep a low profile.
Tonight’s the night we’re collecting fucking dues on Professor Colin Mitchell. He’s been betting a lot of money on our little side games and losing again and again. Always coming up with an excuse for why he doesn’t have the money yet. Always using his rank as a professor as a shield to keep him from feeling the consequences. But Finn’s in his class, and the good prof has bragged one too many times about the artwork he’s got in his personal collection. So we’re about to make it a little lighter.
“Fuck these things are creepy as hell.” Hudson looks himself over in the mirror in our living room, the brown of his shaggy hair curls around the silver color of the mask. The three of us all play hockey for Vermilion, and we’ve lived together just off campus since sophomore year in this giant old Victorian. It’s a notorious party house, haunted by the dead and the living, and the first place I’ve really been able to call my own.
“Yeah. That’s the fucking point.” Finn shakes his head, pulling his copper mask that matches mine down. He looks like something out of a nightmare. Finn’s a massive guy, bulky six foot four, muscled and tattooed. He’s the team’s enforcer, and mine as well.
While Hudson’s a newer addition, Finn and I have been friends since high school. Back when I was the poor scrawny weird kid who always got picked on. My grandparents offered to pay for me to play a sport if it’d help pull me out of my shell, and I chose hockey. That’s where Finn and I met, and I assume he adopted me because he felt bad for me. The thing about Finn is he’s a fists first, talk later sort of guy with more broken noses than he can count to show for it, but he has a soft spot for the broken ones.
Not that I’m broken anymore. Because now I run the books behind the scenes and the plays on the ice. We might not make the pros but that doesn’t mean we’re not getting out of college without a nice little nest egg to get us started.
And the first step to that is collecting our fucking dues.
“This is an in and out operation. I got the keycode to the house from the maid.”
“You fucking would.” Hudson laughs, always amused at the fact that I have a revolving door of one-night stands while he’s still fucking pining for his long-distance girl.
I shoot him a look, and his amused expression drops from his face.
“We cross campus like we’re just part of the rest of the revelry here tonight. Sneak in the house, grab the paintings off the wall, put them in the sacks, and get back here. No detours. No loud noises. No fucking around. In and out. Got it?” I look at both of them, their heads bobbing and eyes closing in agreement.
We need the fucking money from these paintings—whether we just use them as leverage over the professor or we sell them on the market is yet to be decided. Mostly because I still need to find someone who can fence them for us. Cars, drugs, cash, guns. Those are the kind of items I can move easily when I need to. Rare paintings aren’t really in my wheelhouse, and my connections to people who can handle them are pretty fucking slim.
But I’ve got my own people I need to pay—including guys on the roster with coin-operated consciences who are only willing to throw a game if there’s a nice payday at the end of it. So it’s do or die tonight. If I can’t throw games, I lose my control over the bets and the books. I can’t pay the people who win. And then I’m the one who has bad people breaking into his house in the middle of the night to get their dues.
“We got it, Rowan. Let’s go.” Finn nods for me to lead the way, and we head out into the night.
It’s fucking freezing this time of year and where an ocean breeze might bring in a little bit of warmth, the wind off the river just whips around your body and freezes you in fucking place. Our all-black outfits are only so warm. Meant more to conceal our identities than to run around singing Christmas carols tonight.
St. Nick’s Day on campus is raucous as hell. It doesn’t start until tomorrow, but some of the guys have turned it into a two-day party—one that starts on Krampusnacht. The last big one before everyone goes home for the holidays—assuming they have someone to go home to. Keg parties are raging on almost every block, bonfires are burning in front and back yards, and drunken carolers stumble down the street singing Jingle Bells out of key.
We jump the back fence and head down the alleyway to the road on the far side of campus, trying to go unseen. I hear the sound of a creaky back screen door slamming shut, and glass crashing against glass. I look up to see someone on their porch, chucking an empty bottle of vodka into the recycling bin before they light up their cigarette.
I could fucking go for one right now. I quit a couple of years ago. It was a nasty fucking habit of mine. One I picked up in high school and did me no favors on the ice. I tried not to smoke during the season and then finally quit when I could feel it in my times. Not that it fucking mattered since I’m not going to be playing much more anyway. Unless I pick up a recreational league and skate around with a bunch of middle-aged dads wanting to relive their glory days, I have a few months left before it’s over for good. I shudder at the idea of being some washed-up has-been. Though the silver lining is that I could have a cigar when I want.
We finish our walk to the professor’s house, largely unnoticed. The masks we wear blend in with all of the elves and Santas and other holiday creatures roaming the streets inebriated and disoriented. I stare up at the massive brick structure that sits on its own rampart among a row of other old city homes. Most of them are occupied by professors or coaches, but a few people, unrelated to the university, live here too for the prestigious ivory tower address.
Professor Mitchell is an unassuming man in what I’d guess are his thirties. I took a class with him in my sophomore year, and Finn’s in his class now. We both started out pursuing arts degrees. Me because I wanted what I thought would be the easy way out, and Finn because he actually really loves art. The irony is that I practice less and still have about the same amount of talent as he does—the kind that isn’t getting either of us into any galleries or earning us money if we aren’t stealing it. Which is exactly why we’re standing outside the man’s home right now.
I hope the code to get into the house is right. The maid had been a long con when I started suspecting that the professor wasn’t going to pay up the thousands of dollars he owes us, and Finn argued he had to have the money given the artwork he owns. I bumped into her at a local bar, struck up a conversation with the mousy little thing, and had her eating out of the palm of my hand by the end of the night. The first night wasn’t a burden, but the weeks after when I had to pretend I gave a flying fuck about anything she had to say? That was more difficult. Pretending to date her and having to come up with ways to dodge all her requests to meet her parents and friends had been something akin to torture.
But it had gotten me access to her phone where she kept all her notes about the houses she cleaned. Where they kept the cleaning supplies, quirks they had about how they liked things, and most importantly codes to get into their homes and disable their security systems. Professor Colin Mitchell being at the top of that list with a note that he tipped well too. Another thing that makes me feel less guilty about taking what he owes.
“Take it from the rich. Give it to the poor,” Hudson muses, more to himself than anyone.
“Don’t you think that’s a little fucking ironic?” Finn side-eyes him through his mask.
Hudson’s rich as fucking Croesus. Or at least his family is back in New England. Where his girlfriend and the rest of the things he probably should be focused on are. But he ran off for a whole host of reasons I can’t blame him for. The only problem is, now he just has an annoying habit of pretending he’s poor while still walking around in designer shoes and clothes with a slowly depleting bank account that still manages to put the rest of ours to shame—not that it takes much. At least for now. But I have every intention of turning the fucking tables for all of us.
“Ironic? No. Poetic—yes.” He hums before he starts up the steps.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise. I wanted to be sure there weren’t any floodlights or other potential pitfalls before we went rushing up to the house, but apparently, we’re just going to fucking Leeroy Jenkins this shit like a bunch of fucking amateurs.
Finn and I follow him up to the porch that wraps around half of the house. We walk around to the side door where the trees keep us obscured from the street and the neighbors. It’s also where the entry keypad is. I glance at the windows one more time. The lights are all off and the house looks deserted. According to Finn, he has a conference to attend this weekend and is halfway around the country.
