Page 53 of The Bargain

Which will piss off the Pearsons—who were probably going to get rid of me the moment the elections are over, but will destroy me if they can pin their inevitable loss on me.

Which means I’ll be back to being the old Elias Lennox, with nothing to my name except whatever I have in my pockets.

Unless I manage to make my time here count.

The bargain, the Brotherhood, Desdemona.

Mazzati lives in a world where a brilliant mind is a useful tool, and hard work pays off. But this isn’t the world I live in. Can’t pop his bubble, though, can I?

“Sure, sir,” I lie with a smile. “I’ll apply.”

The Montgomery estate is just like Benjamin himself: lofty, over the top and painfully posh. It’s set deep into acres of land, with an endlessly long gravel path lined with columns of Italian-style cypresses.

Montgomery, for such an uptight overachiever, must really have something to prove, because he’s gone all out for this party. There are black draperies and blood-red lamps and candelabras ablaze with actual candles—the Halloween decorations are so goddamn lavish they’re not even tacky. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found out the skeletons were from actual dead people.

That’s exactly the kind of thing a filthy rich creep like Montgomery would have on hand.

I’m distracted from the moment I arrive—Mazzati’s words stick to me like a tiny bit of tape you can’t seem to flick away. With my good word and your brilliant mind, Elias. No reason whatsoever you wouldn’t be perfect for the scholarship.

Except a million reasons.

I shake my head, annoyed, and look around. I underestimated how difficult it would be to find Desdemona in such a huge place, especially when everyone is dressed up or in disguise.

Just like the decorations, no expense has been spared on costumes, that much is obvious. With my black jeans, black T-shirt, black gloves and cheap plastic ghost mask, I must look barely one step above staff.

Actually, scratch that. Two waitresses walk past me, carrying trays of some gruesome-looking cocktails.

I laugh to myself.

I look way poorer than the staff.

With a shrug, I turn and follow the strident music into a big drawing room so fancy it has a grand piano in one corner. Two mermaids sit on the black velvet bench, and a nurse with long black hair and a slit throat half lies on the glossy lid. None of them are the beautiful monster I’m hunting, though.

It was definitely a mistake not arriving here with her. She should be on my arm, fake laughing at my jokes and fake trembling at my touch. Fucking Mazzati—with his well-meaning teacher optimism.

As if I could ever even afford to dream of Harvard. As if hard work has ever been enough to get me into the places I need to get into. As if my life has ever been that⁠—

And then I finally spot Desdemona.

And Mr Mazzati and Harvard and the scholarship and physics all go flying out of my mind.

In a sea of girls dressed like slutty devils and slutty angels and slutty zombies, I expected Desdemona to be a beacon of restrained elegance. Maybe wearing a long pale gown with a splash of blood for effect, or the toga of some Roman dictator.

But in fact—Desdemona is just as slutty as any other girl.

She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform: a tiny blue top with long sleeves, cropped right beneath her breasts, exposing a flat stomach, taut with muscles. Her skirt, blue with flashes of silver within the pleats, is just as tiny as her top, exposing long, toned thighs. She’s wearing thigh-high socks, tennis shoes, and her golden hair is in two long pigtails. There’s a slash of blood in the middle of her belly, like she’s been sliced across her abdomen—right where I left a trail of my own very real blood, what feels like a lifetime ago.

“Fuck,” I bite out beneath my ghost mask.

Remember why you’re really here, Lennox.

But she’s looking up as if she heard me, even though it’s impossible that she would have, because the music is so loud and there’s so much noise and so many bodies all around us. Our eyes meet. My breath catches, sputters—the scratching of an empty lighter.

Desdemona curves her lips and arches her back, the muscles rippling in her thighs and stomach, and god—why wouldn’t I go to prison for her?

She’s holding a silver-and-blue pompom in one hand, the other wedged under her arm, but she raises her free hand in the air between us, palm tilted up, and she crooks her finger at me.

Come, the gesture says.