Page 5 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She knew it as the most exclusive demon gentlemen’s club in Angelene, a fortress of old money—not that she’d ever been inside. The sight clicked a terrible logic into place. There, business wouldn’t be done at a desk; it would be brokered in velvet-draped rooms over aged liquor. On a night like this, an Echelon-class demon like Agmon Alderrath wouldn’t be at a dark office, alone at home, or mingling with the peasants at Eldryn Gardens. He’d be somewhere people like him gathered.

It was a door worth knocking on.

She walked the two blocks and stopped across the street. Magic torches flanked the entrance, their light spilling gold across the cobblestones. Before she even asked, she already knew she’d never be invited in. The frowns and sidelong glances from passing demons made it clear she wasn’t welcome in this part of Angelene. She stood out like a loaf of sourdough in a jeweller’s display case—rustic, out of place, and far too nourishing.

Still, tucking the bakery box closer to her chest, Cassia crossed the street, skirting puddles left from the afternoon’s icy rain. She’d almost reached the doors when a tall, lanky demon in an ivory-and-black uniform stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

He looked her up and down. Then, with a wintry smile: “The Ivory Club is for demons only, miss.”

How predictable. Cassia lifted her chin. “I understand, but if you could kindly inform Mister Agmon Alderrath that Aura Cassia from Starlight Orphanage is here to see him, I believe he would speak to me.”

“Mister Agmon is busy, miss.”

At least he didn’t deny the demon was here.

She forced another measured smile. “Please. Just inform him that Aura Cassia from Starlight Orphanage is here on an important matter.”

The demon didn’t even blink. “The Ivory Club exists to provide Angelene’s demon society with a safe, peaceful, and discreet place for leisure and business. We cannot let just anyone inside.”

Just anyone.

The words should have stung, but she’d endured too many brush-offs to let another cut her open.

Heat prickled at her fingertips. She was a Kitchen Witch, her magic meant for hearth and healing—but desperation had its own language, and right now, her hands were ready to speak it. The demon must have sensed her intention. His expression darkened as he stepped back, his stance shifting, bracing for a defensive spell—or something more aggressive to sweep her off the doorstep like a cluster of dust.

Cassia glowered. The false politeness, the rejection, the fear for the children—it all boiled over. She needed to speak to Agmon Alderrath, now. If she let this moment pass, if she gave up and walked away, she’d never get another chance.

An idea came to her. Maybe a bad one. But what did she have to lose?

Cassia opened her mouth, and a sound tore from her throat—raw, sharp, utterly undignified.

It wasn’t a spell.

It was a scream.

The sound ripped through the refined hum of the street. The door attendant flinched back as if struck. A hush fell over the well-dressed demons a few steps away, all pretence of conversation vanishing as dozens of horrified, superior eyes snapped toward the source of the unholy noise:

Her.

2

ARK

The scent inside The Ivory Club was an assault—sandalwood and bitter herbs competing against aged leather and parchment. Old-world power and inherited privilege, thick enough to choke on.

Arkenoth tugged at his collar, resisting the urge to tear it off entirely. He’d been breathing this air his whole life, and still it lodged in his throat like a bone he could never swallow.

Across from him, Agmon Alderrath settled deeper into his armchair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. Firelight carved the sharp, unforgiving angles of his face, glinting off a gaze of pale, wintry grey.

A waiter approached, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. Ark watched as Alderrath’s gaze lingered on the waiter’s hands—the knuckles, the wrists, the hollow of the elbow. Marrow was a Sanguine Demon’s true sustenance; blood was for the desperate and the poor—drinking it was vulgar, a sign of inferior breeding.

But assessing a person’s marrow—the quality of it, and lineage it carried—was as natural to a Sanguine as breathing. And judging from the curl on Alderrath’s lips, the man had passed muster.

Alderrath’s gaze slid to Ark. “You still take burnt-oak liquor, don’t you? Three fingers, no ice?”

Ark’s jaw tightened. The same drink every time, but he preferred it at home, sitting in his own chair, in his own silence. Still, he nodded, tapping his fingertip against the chair’s arm as the waiter disappeared.

When his glass was in hand, he swirled the dark amber liquid slowly. A portrait of his ancestor loomed above him—an old face framed in gold, the first Varil, who had landed in Meredith during the Great Convergence and became the first Daemar.