Page 10 of Dance of Ruin

I’m inclined to agree.

Being smart comes with perks, of course—lots of them, especially if you’ve got the social skills to back up that intelligence. Being relatively sure you’re the brightest person in any room you walk into opens up a slew of possibilities. It’s like when Neo inThe Matrixstarts seeing “the world” as the code it really is.

I know. It soundsincrediblynarcissistic, comparing yourself to the savior/Christ figure in a film. But it’s not narcissism. It’s just fact. Although I’ve been called a “narcissist” for merely beingawarethat I’m a lot fucking smarter than most people often enough that I had myself assessed.

…Nope.Nota narcissist.

Just smart, with a healthy dose of cocky fucker and a few Machiavellian tendencies sprinkled on top.

I can’t help it. It’s not that I’m looking to stir up shit. I just get supremelyboredwith the world as it is, and without the string-pulling or the shit-stirring, that boredom can become overwhelming.

Back in high school, being the way I am got me into trouble. Again, not because I went looking for it, but because everyone around me—teachers included—had their walls up around me, thinking my intelligence meant I would know their thoughts or be able to unearth their darkest secrets.

I mean,it does, but not because I can read minds. I can readpeople.

So, I got bored. And when I get bored, I start…toying with things. Influencing people. Interweaving lies with just enough truth to beveryconvincing, and then seeing how far I can take those lies.

Luckily, high school was quick, because I skipped two grades. That meant I could go to Knightsblood University while Carmine, my older brother, was still there.

Now, high school might have been afraid of my brain and its weird mental lockpicking abilities. Knightsblood, on the other hand—the notorious “Ivy League School of the Mafia world”—welcomed me with open arms.

And it’s at Knightsblood that allthisbegan.

The Black Court.

From where I sit, sprawled on an elegant leather couch, I watch as the hedonism unfolds around me.

The music pulses low and dark—a slow, hypnotic rhythm that thrums through the cavernous underground cathedral. The air is heavy with the swirling scent of perfume, smoke, whiskey and sweat, the hum of pleasure-laced laughter blending seamlessly with the sensual movements of the people—mostly women—around me. Bodies writhe in the golden candlelight, all bare skin and silk. Pure temptation.

I grin beneath the mask covering my face as I breathe it all in.

The Black Court isn’t in session tonight. There’s no trial, no judgment, no execution.

Tonight, the five of us are merely meeting. But a Court meeting—whether it’s more of a check-in, like tonight, or something grander, like a trial itself—means the whole hedonistic, bacchanalian show.

That’s another thing about being the smartest person in the room and having the energy to match it: I fuckingcraveshit like this.

The excess. The stimuli. There's a roaring, derangedNEEDfor mayhem, violence, and chaos that is always with me, grinning like a madman over my shoulder from the back seat.

I call him my dark shadow.

It’s not psychosis. I’mnotcrazy. I mean, I frequently act like I am, but on a diagnosable level? No. Carmine, on the other hand… Well, I don’t think you need to be a board-certified psychiatrist to see my brother is wired differently.

I glance across the room to where he’s sitting by himself, just outside the revelry, a moody little emo fuck staring at his phone.

Granted, if I whathehad waiting for him back home, I wouldn't be interested in the bevy of gorgeous, half-naked women laughing and giggling their way around the party either. Maybe once upon a time, Carmine would have been indulging—at least begrudgingly, because, see above, moody little emo fuck. And woe betide whatever girl who was foolish enough to givehisbrand of crazy a spin.

But Carmine is a married man now, and I’m guessing the woman responsible for smoothing out some of his rougher edges is the reason he keeps staring at his phone. I’m also guessing if he wasn’t wearing his Hound mask right now I’d be rolling my eyes at the nauseating grin on his face as he texts her.

A shrill giggle pulls my attention across the room, to where another of our group lounges on a couch similar to mine, a leggy brunette sitting on his knee and running her fingers over the edge of his Wolf mask.

…Speaking ofdiagnosable sociopaths…

The Wolf, despite being masked, is clearly watching the girl on his knee like a predator contemplating his next kill. He’s not even touching her—his arms are draped over the back of the couch behind him. But you can see the tattooed fingers of both hands tap-tap-tapping in a manic, unhinged staccato that hints at the beast prowling inside of him. A hungry animal that doesn’t distinguish between pleasure and pain.

Yeah, good luck, sweetheart, I think to myself as I shift my gaze back to the girl giggling on his lap.

Five of us, and two are certifiably insane lunatics.

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