Page 26 of A Sin So Pure

She walks in pace with me as we step through the quiet halls of Silas’s palace, an old castle-like structure that sits in the southern sector of the city. Our heels clack sharply against the marble floor: a mosaic pattern of black and silver stone that blends right in with the updated interior of the building. Silas is a monarch who keeps up with the times, a fact that provides me with a glimmer of hope that he’ll accept my offer today.

I shake my head.

“I had a weird morning.”

“Oh-kay,” Josie drawls.

“I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

Josie might not be able to read my thoughts without me opening my mental shields for her, but she knows me well enough to sense my discomfort. She holds her tongue.

We stop outside two artfully carved wooden doors, the entrance to the formal meeting room, and Josie hands me a file folder containing our permit application.

“Kill ‘em dead,” she says.

I snort. “Would make things easier, wouldn’t it?”

Her head teeters back and forth. “Depends on who you ask. I’ll meet you in the usual spot afterwards.”

Josie takes her leave, heading to the private lounge where all the Seconds wait. It’s their own kind of meeting, where they can size each other up or get intel, but in reality, Josie will shoot the shit with Leo for an hour.

I rest my hand on the gilded doorknobs and push, the metal ice-cold on my fingers.

The room is already set for eight, with water carafes and crystal glasses placed at each seat. Silver candlestick holders are topped with thin candles at the table’s center, lit and dripping black wax. My fingers graze over the tops of the overly large chairs as I circle the table. Carvings that match the entry doors curve along the crest of the seats, extending down the arms and ending in small black cushions on which to rest your wrists.

I bank around the head seat and my nose twitches at the crisp musk and smoke scent imbued in the upholstery. It’s reminiscent of an old book near a fireplace.

Three chairs line either side of the long table and another caps the head opposite Silas’s seat, which is reserved for the eldest Sin, Sloth. The rest are fair game, though there is an unofficial seating chart we abide by.

As if on cue, the doors swing open, and Sloth hobbles in. He carries a cane with him, a gnarled piece of wood that is about as ancient as him.

Fae age gracefully; even on their deathbed, most look no more than a human sixty.

Sloth is an exception.

With long gray hair and wrinkled walnut skin, his near four hundred years is obvious.

I walk across the room and pull Sloth’s seat back—the seat that Pride sat in before him—gesturing for the old man to sit. He huffs as he walks over, cane smacking against the stone floor with sharpfwacks.

“Always working, hm?” he says, a thin smile on his lips.

“You know I never turn off the charm.”

Sloth is as crotchety as elders come, the traditional take-no-shit type who is long past his days of ambition and refuses to give up his seat. He’s not unlike the former Pride in that regard, except he hasn’t shown any noticeable signs of the Fading.

Most of the younger Sins tolerate him, but I enjoy his company. I like to think of him as an uncle of sorts.

I perch in my own seat, which is directly to his right, when the door opens and in walks Envy. The candlelight glints off his glossy black hair like an oil slick.

“Sloth,” Envy says in greeting, giving Sloth all of two seconds of attention before gliding into his seat across from me. He unbuttons his red velvet suit jacket and lounges back into the chair, taking up far more space than he needs.

“Pride,” he says with a feline smile, stark white teeth shining. His hazel, mono-lid eyes roam over me, from my chest up to my face. When he reaches my deadpan glare, his smile falters. “Warm as ever.”

“To you, at least.” I snort.

Envy waves a hand, and his glass fills with liquor. The cups are ancient relics that fill with the desired substance of the holder, created before magic was so structured. He gulps a finger-full down and sniffs, the alcohol singeing his sinuses.

“Do we think this one will be fast or not?” Envy asks, licking his lips. “I have a date at eight downtown.”

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