Page 16 of Carry Your Debt

Luckily for me, only the most powerful or notorious receive an annual invite to come and safely rub shoulders with their enemies. Even accounting for larger factions, it means there are always way more key players present than not, with most of them requiring a lot less mental power to pick out of a crowd than the average Underworld denizen.

Case in point.

A mere dozen feet from us stands a young woman sporting a blonde pixie cut, the lower half of her face covered by a golden veil.Cassandra Jane Priam, 27. Currently unaffiliated. Multidisciplinary doctoral degree in Mathematics.More commonly known as The Oracle, thanks to her unmatched ability for pattern recognition and statistics.

Cassandra holds herself stiffly, too polite to interrupt the three middle-aged men currently arguing over her head.Anthony, Christopher and Lawrence Moros, 46. Neutrally aligned. Premier bookmakers and owners of the Underworld’s largest gambling outfit.Known collectively as the Fates, theidentical trio of brothers are no doubt trying to puzzle out the Red Court’s long game—and all the ways they can monetize it. I’d even wager good money they’re harassing the Oracle for probability data as they wait for the big reveal.

I’m just lifting my champagne flute to my lips when there’s a sudden flurry of movement from nearby. Both of my Enforcers immediately go on red alert, each pressing in protectively before a goddess in a sleek, copper wrap—complete with matching serpentine headdress—appears like a vision through the parting crowd.

Aurora May Ellis, 24. Bounty hunter. Specializes in poisons and paralytics. True affiliation unknown, speculated Maenad.If you’re an Underworlderwho’s serious about needing someone found—and/or retrieved—thenthiscurvaceous, fiery-maned femme fatale is the person to call.

Medusa.

I may or may not have a teensy, tiny boss bitch crush.

Without so much as a word, she hooks a toned arm around the Oracle’s waist, spins her, and then proceeds to whisk her away, not bothering to glance in the Fates’ direction as she does.

To the casual observer, it might look like the simple intervention of a woman already fed up with every single man in the building. But to me, all it does is further feed my suspicion that it’s not just Medusa butbothwomen who are Maenads: members of a secret group comprised entirely of female thieves, hackers, and assassins.

As yet unconfirmed, but I do still gleefully file away the entire interaction and then reluctantly move on.

Just as I’m completing one of the north-south legs that dissect my southeastern grid, what could only be described as atremorbegins to make its way through the crowd. There’s a palpable drop in chatter that follows the ripple like a coldsnap, practically confirming that someone both prominent and recognizable has just arrived.

My attention naturally shifts toward the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse…and my tongue almost sticks to the roof of my mouth.

Because striding into the atrium—with all the confidence that comes from wearing one’s notoriety like a cloak—is a group of individuals so infamous in our world that I’m sureeverymouth in the general vicinity is now bone dry.

Knox and Dio must feel the exact moment I tense, each pressing a large shoulder to my own.

“What’s up, babygirl?” D rumbles against my ear.

“The Whitechapel Four,” I murmur back, concentrating on keeping all the exposed parts of my face arranged in as blank an expression as humanely possible. I’m almost positive they can preternaturally sniff out weakness andfuck—as the Gray Man’s mythical Librarian, I’m one of the biggest liabilities in attendance.

As a rule,Imperiummembersare expected to swear allegiance to a single criminal outfit or syndicate, as recognized by either the Northern or Southern Sovereignty. Anyone failing to do so must then register as a Neutral player and agree to offer services indiscriminately.

Strictly speaking, the averageserial murdererwon’t fall under either governance.

Unless they’re a group of certified psychopaths who find themselves mysteriously pivoting from serial killings to highly sought-after Underworld contract killings, of course.

The Scalpel. The Ghost. The Ferryman. The Muse.

The crowd parts around them like iron filings repelled by a giant magnet, granting the Four a violently wide berth as they make their way across the now silent room. They’re led by a woman with black, pin-straight hair, a smirk on her cherry-red lips, and as they move closer, I finally understand what’s ratcheting the usual tension up to an all-new level.

The Muse’s ivory cheeks are streaked with crimson, the effect almost a perverse mimicry of a weeping holy statue. But it’s not hereyesthat are the source of the bloody ‘tears’—it’s the horrific fucking ‘mask’ she wears.

One clearly handcrafted from a slab of human flesh, and recently—if the bloody rivulets snaking down her swan-like neck are anything to go by. Almost involuntarily, my eyes track their downward progress, down to where they meet the modest neckline of a gown in ruby red. It’s a simple dress, paired with what appears to be a startlingly intricate, bone-white corset.

On closer inspection, I realize that’s because the fucking bodice is literallyapreservedhuman rib cage.

“Gnarly,” Dionysus breathes in my ear.

“No fucking kidding,” I mutter, still surreptitiously trying to turn myself into that finely dressed wallpaper I normally hate so much. I’m not exactly squeamish when it comes to human viscera, but the idea of being close enough to somehow draw their attention is a tad bit daunting.

The other three flanking her are no less terrifying. The Scalpel and the Ghost both sport matching meat masks and blood-stained tuxedos, the latter stopping periodically to snap his teeth at anyone stupid enough to be openly gawking at them. The Ferryman, on the other hand, is in full head-to-toe combat gear, including a complicated-looking gas mask. But there’s no missing the festive streaks of red adorning the mask’s air filter or neck gaiter.

It’s almost like the four of them arrived at the Red Court, remembered tonight’s party was a masquerade, and decided to drop the nearest body in order to whip themselves up some homemade masks. All before stepping inside and falling subject toHospitiumfor the Symposium’s duration.

When they finally leave our line of sight, an agitated movement of bodies begins filling the space left in their wake. I adjust my angle slightly as the guests shift positions, and find myself immediately drawn in by the impossibly tall figure ofPapa Kado,49,parinof Louisiana voodoo gang, the Ghost Boys. Already a solid foot above a crowd on a good day, Kado’s height is only further emphasized tonight by the towering leather stovepipe hat that sits jauntily above a loa skull mask.

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