The hats came off at the after party. In the upper floors of a private club, Jameson and Avery mixed with the younger set—and requested that every photo posted online be accompanied by the same hashtag: TDM.
There was more than one way to make noise, and the more they made, the more alive Jameson felt. Hyper-alert, he missed nothing as he and Avery made their way back through the throng of socialites.
“Did you see the way he kissed her on the stairwell earlier?” “I heard he overdosed in Morocco a few months ago.”
“You know there are four brothers, right? Do you think they all look like
that?”
“If you ask me, she’s not nearly as pretty in person.” “Can you believe—”
Jameson tried to filter out what people were saying about him, about Avery. He tried to focus on hearing something more, and one comment bubbled up over the rest. “It looks like That Duchess decided to grace us with her presence.”
Jameson followed the speaker’s haughty gaze and saw an elegant woman in her twenties. She was tall and lithe, her skin a deep brown, the cut, length, and fit of her bright yellow dress exquisite. Beneath a petite yellow hat, thick braids of varying sizes adorned her head. Those braids were gathered at the base of her neck and streamed down her back, all the way to her hips. More than one person seemed to watch as the woman closed her fingers around the stem of a champagne glass.
Jameson caught Avery’s hand and traced a symbol onto her palm. It was
a game they played late at night, each touch a message to be decoded—in this case, an arrow.
Avery subtly turned her head in the direction he’d indicated—toward That Duchess. By the time they’d wound their way toward her, she’d taken up position with her back to a wall.
“Can I get you anything else, madam? Sir?” The waiter who’d been assigned to Jameson and Avery the moment they’d entered the club, obvious VIPs, appeared once more.
Jameson decided to use that as an opening and looked to his target. “What are you drinking?” he asked That Duchess.
“Prosecco and the tears of my enemies.” Her voice was wry, her British accent crisp, refined, aristocratic. “With a splash of elderflower liqueur.”
“Do you have a lot of enemies?” Avery asked.
The duchess—assuming she really was a duchess—looked out over the club. “You know how it is,” she told Avery. “Some of us exist just a little too loudly for the comfort of those who would prefer we did not exist at all.”
 |
Midnight came and went.
“I have an idea, and you’re not going to like it,” Avery said. She traced letter after letter onto the palm of Jameson’s hand. S, P, L…
He closed his fingers around hers. “You think we should split up.”
“I’m either the bait or I’m not,” Avery told him. “And I won’t be alone.” She nodded her head toward the discreet position Oren had taken up nearby. “Give me ten minutes, and if none of the mysterious Proprietor’s emissaries seek me out, we’ll call it a night.”
Jameson wasn’t wired to step back, to let anyone else play in his stead. But she wasn’t just anyone. “Ten minutes,” he murmured. “I’ll be outside.”
 |
Leaning against the building, Jameson slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around a pocket watch. Three turns of the minute hand to
specific numbers, and a spring would release, the face of the watch popping away, revealing a hidden compartment. Jameson thought of the small object currently nestled there, an object he should have gotten rid of weeks ago. Right after Prague.
Resisting the urge to trigger the release was harder than it should have been. Six minutes. That was how long Avery had left.
“Hit your limit with that lot in there?”
Jameson looked up to see a boy dressed in a black trench coat. It took a moment for Jameson to place him. The waiter. “Something like that.”
The waiter hunched over his phone, a posture that very clearly said I’m on break.
“You off work for the night?” Jameson asked. “Or just taking a breather?”
The waiter straightened, his face cast half in shadow and half in the light from a lone streetlamp nearby. “Actually,” he said, seeming suddenly taller and broader through the shoulders as he took a step forward and pocketed the phone, “my work is just getting started.”
Instantly, Jameson’s mind took in a dozen different things—about his opponent, about the fact that they were alone on the street, about the way the streetlight suddenly flickered.
The guy was younger than Jameson had taken him for inside. Seventeen, maybe? Eighteen at most. But his eyes—they didn’t look young. They were a rich, deep brown, the pupils nearly disappearing into the irises. Based on his speech, he was British; based on his appearance, he was likely of Indian or Pakistani descent. The collar on his trench coat was popped. His features were angular and sharp, his black hair thick and just long enough to curl.
Long enough to grab in a fight. Jameson’s gaze went to the door to their right.
“It’s locked,” the guy told Jameson, his accent shifting, still British but markedly less posh than it had been a moment before.
“You came after me,” Jameson noted. “Not Avery.”
His opponent somehow gave the impression of shrugging without moving an inch. “All eyes are on her, and my employer was under the impression that you might be the bigger liability.”
Jameson adjusted his stance—slightly, subtly. “I’ve been called worse.” “My employer asked me to have a chat with you.”
Jameson had wanted the Proprietor’s attention. Apparently, he had it. We’ve had it all night, he realized, thinking back to the attentive waiter seemingly assigned to the VIPs.
“We want in.” Jameson decided to cut to the chase “Avery. Me. What would it take for us to join the Devil’s Mercy?”
“I’m afraid he isn’t terribly concerned with what you want.” The streetlight went out. Darkness. “Where did you hear about the Mercy?” The words came out low, threatening.
Jameson stalled, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. “Avery and I just want a taste of what the club has to offer. Just a few days. There must be something your employer wants.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m just the messenger.”
And what kind of message were you sent to impart? Jameson had never shied away from danger. His body settled into a ready stance, soaking up the adrenaline the way a sunbather basks in the sun. If you want to dance, messenger, let’s dance.
Light flooded the street. Avery stepped out of the building. Oren was right behind her. He propped the door open, ensuring the street stayed lit.
“Just a messenger,” Jameson repeated. That was all the recap of the situation that Avery would need.
“And not the only one whose acquaintance you’ll meet if the two of you keep this up, I’m afraid,” the messenger replied, slipping back into the waiter’s upper-crust accent with disturbing ease.
“I’m not scared,” Avery said.
The messenger looked at her, and the way his expression shifted made Jameson grind his teeth. Whoever this particular emissary was, whatever he was capable of, the set of his lips suggested a deep appreciation for beautiful women.
“There’s a list, love,” the messenger told Avery. “You don’t want to be on it.”
Jameson gave a small, affected shrug. “We’re on a lot of lists. I’ll have you know that most celebrity gossip sites rank me as the second-hottest Hawthorne.”
Avery rolled her eyes. “I thought you were going to stay away from those sites.”
Jameson brought his eyes back to the messenger’s. “I’ve never been
very good at staying away when I should.” Your employer was right, his tone promised. I am the liability here. He lowered his voice. “Just a taste.”
That was all they were asking for, all they needed—for now.
The Proprietor’s emissary looked from Jameson to Avery, and his gaze lingered there. “I’ll convey your message.” Avery’s, not mine.
Without warning, the door Oren had propped open slammed shut, drowning their surroundings in darkness once more. Two seconds later, the streetlight came back on.
The messenger was gone.
