Page 12 of Dance of Ruin

What the fuck was that?

Ishouldbe indulging. That’s part of the game, part of how I keep my edge sharp. Who the fuck cares if they were Mensa members. Or, you know, capable of solving a riddle that shouldn't be beyond a nine-year-old kid.

It’s not like I was recruiting them for a fucking think tank.

I glare into my drink. For a second, I consider going back over there and trying the game with someone else. But then my mind drifts back to the rooftop last night. To the girl with the trembling lips. With the wild, staccato pulse in her neck beneath my grip. With the wide, shocked eyes when I licked her blood off my finger.

Like I said, I’m not a psychopath. I wasn’t going to just let her fall.

But part of the game is letting people think that Imight.

Is it regrettable that she saw what she did last night? Obviously. And yes, it’s worse because she and my sister dance together. It would bemuchbetter if she were some rando.

But I know Naomi won’t talk. For one, she’s too…rigid. I don’t know her well. Not at all, really. But I know enough about her to know that girl is wound up tighter than Carmine’s ass when you make a joke about Lyra leaving him—which, for the record, is not advised.

Trust me and what I’m pretty sure is a hairline crack in one of my ribs.

Naomi’s beyond “good”. She’s so “good” that Iknowshe’s willing to keep quiet, even if what she saw was a crime. In her mind, a personal direction to her is more important than right and wrong.

No, she won’t say shit. And even if she did, I have an alibi for last night. The rooftop was dark, the city loud. There are no cameras up there. People disappear all the time.

Just the same, I’ll need to remind her at least once more not to mention what she saw. I’ll be subtle—maybe a dead rat nailed to her door with the words “snitches get stitches” written in rat blood.

What? A flair for the dramatic is a sign of a sharp mind. And again, I’mnotfucking psychotic. Pretending to be one always gets your point across, though.

Plus, it’s just plain fuckingfun.

But as I swirl the whiskey in my glass, I’m not thinking about nailing rodents to Naomi’s apartment door. Not really.

I’m thinking about her parted lips, and the way her breath caught when I licked her blood off my finger.

“Raven.”

My thoughts scatter as I turn, spotting the rest of them headed for the door to the inner sanctum of our world down here.

The Bull nods his chin at me. “We’re going in.”

I nod back, knocking back another sip from my glass before following the rest of them into the room that we andonlywe ever enter.

The music and laughter from the party fade away as we step through the door, leaving the debauchery behind.

Five chairs around a circular table in the center of the chamber. No throne. No head of the table. All of us, equals.

Five Shadow Kings, like it’s been since day one.

We take our seats, all still masked. The Hound, my brother, leans back, tracing a finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. The Bull stretches his huge frame out, rolling his muscled neck, and The Wolf leans forward, elbows braced on the table and hands clasped like he’s seconds away from snapping someone’s neck. The Stag nods silently as he takes his seat at the same time I do, both of us reaching into pockets for cigarettes. He gets his lit first and then tosses me his lighter, which I use with a nod of thanks and then throw back his way.

I exhale a slow plume of smoke as Carmine clears his throat. “Let’s talk about it.”

By “it”, he means the fact that someone’s been poking around the Court.

This isn’t anything new, of course. There’ve always been whispers about us and the vigilante justice we mete out. Rumors like that spark all sorts of interest, so it’s not unheard of to have people trying to sneak their way into our world, if only out of sheer curiosity.

But something feels different this time. This isn’t someone merely poking at a rumor. Over the last couple of months, it’s felt more like there’s a concentrated effort to test our boundaries and probe for any weakness. It feelsverypurposeful. Very orchestrated.

“They’re methodical,” The Stag growls quietly, taking a drag of his smoke. “Whoever they are, they're not just sniffing around for shits and giggles. They’re looking for cracks.”

My brother leans back. “Do we think it’s Kir?”

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