Page 1 of Black Reign

1

Another wedding invitation.

I turn the thick cream card between my fingers, watching firelight slide across the black foil edging.

Embossed.

Hand-lettered.

Custom stock so heavy it could probably survive a small-caliber round.

Very Haverhill.

Then I notice the tiny superscript beside the date.

I stare at it.

There is an actual endnote at the bottom of the invitation.

My mouth twitches.

Naturally.

Kane Haverhill—NBA point guard, multimillion-dollar shoe deal, professional pain in everyone's ass—put endnotes on his wedding invitation for Hannah.

His Bookworm.

His Endnote.

I lift my glass toward the card.

"Pathetic."

The fire answers with a crack.

I take a slow drink of Scotch old enough to have witnessed several European governments collapse.

Two hundred years.

Malted.

Smoky.

Nearly impossible to source.

My father owns twelve bottles.

He used to own thirteen. There are certain advantages to being a Blackwell.

The invitation rests across my knee while bitter wind lashes against the tall windows of the Newport house.

House is generous. Castle is more accurate.

My great grandfather bought the place before I was born because apparently a normal oceanfront estate wasn't sufficiently dramatic for a Blackwell.

Stone walls.

Turrets.