Page 8 of Liar's Heart
Jules West lost for words is a rare sight indeed. “He made it clear last night that he wants me in his space. I think he’d give me free rein of this whole fucking compound with very little effort on my part.”
She’s quiet for a minute in a way that usually means she’s mulling something over in her head. “Just spit it out, Jules.”
Her brown eyes catch and hold mine. “I still think working Doyle over as an asset is a smart move. He’s got a lot of access, and I don't think it'd really take all that much for him to start getting sloppy.”
I do my best to not show that I’m flinching on the inside. It's not what Jules is proposing so much as what I know it will cost her. She has ghosts that will never stop haunting her, even though we’ve put their corporeal bodies six feet under. I sigh. “We've gone over this. Many times. I don't want you to fuck Logan Doyle for intel. I don't want that for you.” She inhales sharply, ready to make her case all over again, but I hold up a hand to stop her. “It's different from what I'mdoing.” She scoffs. “Itis. Because at the end of the day, I'm never going to be free from the Society or their bullshit that got me to this point. Len too. But you're not beholden to them like we are. You can still walk away and do your best to live a normal life if you want. I don’t want you to compromise having that choice unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
She huffs. “Fine, I'll behave. For now. Don't yell at me for strategically hitting on him though. Might as well start greasing the wheel just in case.”
“Yeah, I'm not saying you can’t flirt with the guy, but if you're going to suck his dick, maybe do it because you want to, not to try to put spyware on his cell phone or something.”
Jules bursts into laughter, then shakes her head in mock disbelief. “Wow. Marriage has changed you. A whole thirty-six hours in, and you’re turning soft on me already. Who evenareyou anymore?”
I laugh right along with her. “Laugh it up now. We’ll see how soft you think I am when I’m doing my best distraught widow impression.”
Her smile turns vicious. “Fuck yeah, you will. Black always was your color.”
An alarm goes off on my phone, my reminder to get ready before it’s time to leave. Jules grimaces while I turn it off. “Shit. I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thanks. Text if you need anything,” I toss over my shoulder on my way out the door.
But something tells me to turn around and look at Jules one more time. Her mouth is pinched in a way it wasn’t moments ago, along with the corners of her eyes. She's worried. “What's wrong?”
She takes a breath before saying in an unsteady voice I rarely hear from her, “Just… please be careful.”
I give her a sad smile, touched by her concern. “I will. I'll text you when I'm done, okay?”
Not as her boss, but as her friend, to let her know she canstop fretting. Her shoulders slacken. “Thank you,” she says in a much steadier voice.
I rap my knuckles on the door twice to let her know I heard her, then head out. I have a meeting with the devil to get to, and he won’t be kept waiting.
Ninety minutes later, I’m zoning out, staring at the Persian rug in my father-in-law’s office. The pattern’s really busy, probably to help hide blood stains. No, Alec's office wouldn’t see a lot, if any, bloodshed. Not when he has a perfectly functional dungeon to use. One with drains in the floors and everything.
Alec’s victims would never even set foot in this room, only Ferrymen and the occasional client. Most people contract Charon’s services through the Council, which then sends approved orders to Alec to assign to his Ferrymen as he sees fit. Once the deed is done, Ferrymen report back here to confirm the order’s been fulfilled and deliver any trophies at the client’s request, typically hearts to be preserved and kept. In exchange, Charon presents them with an obol to mark their kill, symbolic of the mythology he’s based in.
Somewhere in the house where I now live, there’s a bronze coin that marks Ox’s death.
Somewhere in the house where I’m currently sitting is his heart.
I want them both. I’m not stopping until I have them both.
Just knowing his heart is here, that I’m the closest I’ve ever been in eight years to the piece of Lennox Prescott that fucking belongs tome, has me both sick with fury and delirious with hope. Disgust joins the mix every time Alecflashes one of his simpering, saccharine smiles at us, making my stomach writhe like it’s full of eels.
The longer I sit staring at the man, the more grateful I am that Ender must take after his mother in appearance. He and Alec have roughly the same build and share the same brow and jawlines, but Alec's sandy-brown hair and green eyes are so different from his son’s. Different enough that I don’t see one when I look at the other. Thank fuck for small mercies, second only to how Ender is taking point for us both during this meeting.
“You’ll both be here by six thirty p.m. on Saturday,” Alec orders in a deceptively light tone. “Guests will start arriving at seven, and you’ll help greet them.”
“Merrick and I aren’t available Saturday,” Ender counters, almost sounding bored. “Whatever it is you’re hosting, we’ll have to miss.”
“Nonsense. You’re the guests of honor. You’ll be there,” Alec volleys back.
“If we’re the guests of honor, then why are we only now learning about this five days beforehand?”
Alec’s eyes round in mock innocence. “Your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail, I guess. It doesn’t matter. The party is so I can announce your marriage to my friends and colleagues since not all of them were invited to the wedding.”
Ender’s voice is unchanged, but the energy rolling off him is winding tighter and tighter. “Are they not Society? Why didn’t you invite them if they were so important?”
“No, they’re Society,” his father hedges, “but the Council was in control of the guest list, as you know. If I'd been able to invite them, I would have, hence my hosting a party to allow me to do so.” Alec’s smile remains plastered on his face, but his eyes turn to flint. “You might not care about the opinions of others, son, but I do. I’ve given you a hell of a long leash over the past few years. Too long, apparently, since you seem to have forgotten that you are a Sinclair and have a responsibilityto this family. You will be here at six thirty Saturday night, dressed in a tux and masked. You will smile and shake hands and act like the fucking heir of Charon, who is blissfully in love with his new bride. And at the end of the night, if you play your part well, I’ll be so kind as to let you continue playing at that little company you have and not drag you and Roman both back to ferry.”
