Page 15 of Carry Your Debt

The entire perimeter of the massive, copper-colored building swarms with unmaskedConcordiaguards and officials, all dressed in black attire with logos in their signature red. Directly outside the front entrance, there’s a petite man in a smart, aubergine suit who’s busy greeting each guest before permitting them to step inside.

“Invitation,”Marcus Nielman, 43, prompts with an impatient flick of his wrist.

Zeus holds out the ornately embossed black card he received on behalf of the junior representatives of the Gray Men syndicate. Sebastian and his Senior Council will enter together, with the more traditional members of theImperium in Imperiobeing very big on keeping the younger generations separated and ‘in their place’.

Another terse gesture from Marcus and then we’re joined by a set of guards who usher us onto the second checkpoint. This time, we’re subjected to a biometric eye scan and mandatory equipment check-in sinceno single person is permitted to enter a Symposium event while armed.

Names are never formally exchanged during this entry process, though an identifiable record of each attendee is kept for the weekend on the off chance a guest finds themselves in violation of the Law of Hospitality. So, with no official electronic guest list to pull from later, my presence at these sorts of events becomes more important than ever.

The third and final checkpoint is a secondary weapons pat down.

I’m not sure if it’s just because we’re all a little on edge or if the guys maybe sprinkled extra testosterone on their Wheaties this morning, butbothDionysus and Zeus let out matching growls when theConcordiaattendant gets a little handsy while checking my skirts for hidden blades.

“Down boys,” I scold, throwing them a mock glare over my shoulder, though somewhat mystified at their behavior. Albeit not as mystified as poorNiles Whiting, 26, I'm sure. I shoot the man with his sweaty hands on my exposed thigh what I hope is my best chagrined smile. “My apologies, I haven’t finished house-training them yet. They’re still get a little nervous around crowds.”

Wisely, Niles doesn’t utter a single word in response. His neck does remain a mottled scarlet though, as he hurries through the rest of my full body pat down at double speed.

Finally, when the five of us are each officially cleared for entry, our group is signaled to continue on through to the main atrium.

Soaring domes of stained glass, russet-colored stone blocks, and gothic chandeliers give the red-lit chamber a harsh, almost foreboding atmosphere. There’s absolutely no warmth to the massive, decadent space, despite the fact this year’s event is very much underway and it’s already filled with writhing bodies.

In fact, it’s how I would imagine stumbling onto one of the outer rims of Hell must feel.

Quite fitting, really.

Nobody acknowledges our entrance. Most guests are either entrenched in conversation, covertly watching one of the public displays of debauchery, or are themselves indulging in one of the sundry vices on offer.

Zeus keeps a possessive hand pressed to the small of my back, using it to steer me past a cluster of Victorian fainting-style couches and toward what appears to be an empty space next to one of the eastern wall’s alcoves. Smoke and low chatter ring the elaborately masked heads of the Underworld members occupying them.

No matter my Crew’s heavy feelings on the subject, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re here—formally—on behalf of the Suits, and as their Librarian, it’s still my job toobserve, observe, observe. That means my focus needs to remain as sharp as it would during any field mission, and not a single lackey in attendance can escape my notice.

So my face remains carefully neutral as I instinctively trace over each of the men’s faces, absorbing identifying features and ignoring the half-naked Courtesans scattered at their feet and draped across their laps for efficiency’s sake.

They all appear to be middlemen for Southern factions. Mostly Irish, but a few of them I know are tied to the stateside chapter of the British Islington crime firm.

To ensure I don’t miss anybody important, however, I do need to stop and start carefully sectioning off the room in itsentirety, which is best done using mental quadrants. Probably why Zeus picked the gap on the eastern wall in the first place; it’ll work well as a starting point, giving me a straight shot of the entrance, the bar, the small curtained stage that’s been raised for the event, as well as the stairs that lead to the upper chambers of the Court.

When I finally reach our designated spot, Dio and Knox take up their posts, immediately bracketing me like a pair of overly muscled bookends. Their matching black half-masks do absolutely nothing to hide their matching intimidating scowls.Zeus, conversely, plants himself directly in front of our group. One hand casually slips into his pocket, his shoulders angling in a subtle offer of privacy.I’m not exactly sure where Foster ended up during my trek.

Having the rest of my Crew close by does help settle some of the acid that’s started eating away at the center of my chest, but my lungs still feel tight at the thought of having to face the Gray Man himself at some point tonight. Knowing I can’t afford to be off my game for even a moment, I pull in a single, fortifying breath—an open invitation for my old friend, the killing calm, to slide on in and join me as my plus one for the evening.

Unfortunately, just standing around like finely dressed wallpaper always feels awkward at these types of hands-on parties. As if having heard my thoughts, Foster chooses that exact moment to re-materialize, silently thrusting a flute of champagne in my direction. I accept it with a bewilderedthanksbefore he’s gone again, melting back into the crowd like a trained spook.

Okay, then.

Obviously, I can’t imbibe, but I’m still oddly grateful he’s given these idle hands of mine something to do, despite his weird behavior.

Zeus eyes my decoy drink, then glances toward a passing server whose tray holds nothing but tall, elegant, crystal-cut glasses.“I’m going to go grab a whiskey so we can keep this looking as casual as possible,” he mutters before he too disappears, this time in the direction of the open bar.

And now that I’m no longer being blocked by his tall, protective figure, I finally get my first real, unimpeded view of this year’s Symposium, in full swing and in all its hedonistic glory.

A tingle of adrenaline skips its merry way across my scalp in anticipation, and I roll my shoulders, ready to begin working. Usually, having to catalog such a large group of people would result in a hefty mental recall cascade effect, just from the sheer volume of faces alone.

In this instance, however, having to first sift through a sea of obscuring masks and elaborate formal wear usually helps slow down the barrage of data. There’s no way I won’t go to bed later without a splitting migraine, but I should hopefully at least make it through to dinner before my brain starts leaking out of my ears.

Well, here goes nothing.

After sectioningoff the atrium and adjoining alcoves into four distinct areas—intending to use the grid search method to approach each quadrant—I decide the guests in my immediate vicinity are as good a place to start as any.

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