Page 6 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Ark saluted the portrait before taking a sip, letting the burn of the liquor settle against his tongue. He looked at Alderrath. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here, or are we just admiring the decor?”

Alderrath leaned back, pushing shoulder-length silver hair from his forehead, the pale strands a stark contrast against the jagged black horns jutting from his crown. His pale-grey eyes seemed to darken in the firelight. “Are you in a rush? We haven’t seen each other for ages.”

Not long enough, in Ark’s estimation. “I have better things to do than seek your company.”

“A pity.” A thin, pale scar cut across Alderrath’s upper lip, pulling his mouth into a faint yet permanent sneer that made every expression look like a mockery. “I received your mother’s invitation to her Yulefrost Ball. I do admire her tenacity—parading the finest demon heiresses across the ballroom every year, hoping one will finally catch your eye. A noble, if increasingly exhausting, endeavour.”

Ark shrugged. “If you feel that way, send your regrets.”

But he already knew Alderrath would attend. His mother’s ball was the highlight of the season—everyone who was anyone angled for an invitation. The Sanguine wouldn’t miss a stage like that.

Ark’s gaze drifted to the fire, watching the flames lick at a log. Another ball. Another parade of eligible daughters, each one trotted out like a prize filly, their mothers’ smiles cinching tight as nooses. The ball was his mother’s annual attempt to wrench him in line—make him wear the mask, perform the part of a dutiful heir, and find a Chosen to be his future bond mate. The same performance, growing more tiresome with each year.

Alderrath set down his glass with a sharp clink. “Your indifference to our tradition continues to be a problem. This isn’t about a single party. It’s about your bloodline. Your legacy.”

“Is it not fortunate, then, that my bloodline is my concern, not yours?”

“A legacy is never just one man’s concern. It’s a duty to your family. To your faction.” Alderrath’s eyes didn’t waver. “To the rest of us.”

“You lecture me on securing a legacy, yet you remain unchosen yourself. Curious.”

A flicker of tension tightened the skin around Alderrath’s mouth; a brief crimson flush passed through his eyes. “I will secure a Chosen when it serves my strategy.”

“Then you understand my position perfectly.”

Alderrath leaned forward, his voice dropping low. “My sister, Lucindra, is a prime candidate. She would make an exceptional Chosen for the future Daemar.”

Ha. There it was—a move so transparent it was almost insulting. If Alderrath couldn’t claim the Daemar’s seat himself, he would tie his bloodline to it, relegating Ark to a crowned puppet with his sister’s hands on the strings. The entire courtship would be a beautifully staged coup.

“An interesting proposal.” Ark kept his voice soft. “Unfortunately for you, I have no interest in the Daemar’s seat.”

Alderrath stared at him, a scowl breaking across his face. “You are your father’s heir. The Daemar’s seat has passed through the Varil bloodline since Meredith’s founding. It is your birthright. Your duty.” His voice sharpened. “When will you stop running from it?”

Ark held his gaze. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of Alderrath’s expectations—the same ones he’d been chafing against his whole life. He set his glass down with a definitive thud. “The seat, your sister, and I are not pieces on your board.” He rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.”

He ignored Alderrath’s blistering glare and turned to leave. He’d only taken two steps when a woman’s scream tore through the club’s heavy silence—sharp, raw, utterly out of place.

It stopped him in his tracks. For the first time all night, something cut through the boredom.

“What in the Four Ancestors’ names is that?” Alderrath hissed, already rising, stalking toward the entrance.

Ark followed, slower. Anyone who could shatter The Ivory Club’s composure—and interrupt Alderrath’s scheming—was certainly worth a look.

Other demons had gathered in the lobby. He stepped into the circular room just as the woman came into view.

She stood framed in the heavy oak doorway, streetlights catching her mess of red curls. Her eyes—bright green and furious—darted around the room, as though looking for something. Or someone. In one hand, she clutched a brown pastry box, the kind of thing that belonged in a bakery, not a demon club.

She was clearly out of her depth.

She also didn’t seem to care.

The door attendant’s jaw had gone slack, his gloved hands faltering at his sides. One look at him proved he had never been trained to deal with this level of disruption.

Beside him, Alderrath stiffened. “What is she doing?”

Ark almost laughed. Instead, he let his smile curl slowly. “She was screaming your name.” He watched Alderrath’s jaw work, waiting for the obvious to land. It didn’t. “How much more clue do you need?”

The Sanguine Demon scowled. “But what does an Untethered witch want with me?”