Page 413 of Shadowblood Souls
I catch snippets of conversation as I pass—talk about bills and policies and programs. It’s some kind of political event, but that’s all I know about why they’re here.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne glasses. I snatch up one so I have something to occupy my hands and to help me blend in.
I raise the rim to my lips, pretending to sip as the rising bubbles tickle my nose. The bitter smell makes me want to grimace.
And then I spot him.
When he prepped us for this job, Balthazar showed me several photos over the screen in the drawing room. He didn’t tell me the man’s name, but knowing the shape of the face with its deep-set eyes and knob of a chin was more important anyway.
My target is one of the sought-after guests with his own cluster of devotees. As I watch from ten feet away, he lets out a chuckle and motions with his glass of wine.
Whatever comment he makes that I can’t make out, it gets his colleagues twittering too. The man from the photos smiles warmly at them.
Nothing about him looks particularly villainous. For all I know, he’s a perfectly decent human being.
Balthazar wouldn’t tell me why he wanted the man dead either. A far cry from Clancy, who made an extensive case for us putting our talents to use when he sent us out on a mission.
No, my motivation for going along with our new captor’s orders is very simple. Either I kill this man, or Balthazar will kill one of the shadowbloods back home. Maybe more than one, if he’s pissed off enough.
I could call his bluff. I mean, there’d have to be a point when he ran out of leverage.
But then where would I be? Standing in a deluge of blood, knowing it was my fault?
What would be the point of defiance if all I get in return is Nadia’s death, Dominic’s, who knows who else’s?
I have no idea exactly how many of us Balthazar might decide are expendable after all.
So while I have nothing against the knob-chinned man I’m surreptitiously eyeing, my throat tingles with a contained shriek ready to be unleashed. A shriek every particle in my body wishes I could aim at the psychopath behind the screen back in the villa.
My target gradually circulates through the room, picking up new fawners and leaving some behind to pursue other objects of interest. He doesn’t look particularly concerned, but I notice a couple of men keeping pace with him from a discreet distance, buff under their slightly less swanky suits.
Bodyguards? How important is this particular man?
No doubt that’s why Balthazar sent me on this job. I won’t be going at him with my claws and supernatural strength.
With my scream, I can kill him from across the room without anyone having the slightest idea how to shield him.
And if anyone does realize something’s off before I manage it, Jacob and Sully can distract them with their own talents.
Marble columns stand along the edges of the room, some of them hung with velvet drapery. I’ll slip away into their shelter when I’ve decided to make my move.
Not yet. If Balthazar thinks I’m nothing but his tool, he’s even more of a lunatic than he’s demonstrated.
I ease closer to my target’s cluster of conversation, wanting to get some idea what they’re talking about. What he’s all about.
Why our captor might want him dead.
At first, I only catch some comments about a dinner some of them recently attended and a concert they’re looking forward to next week. Then one of the women close to my target leans in with an awed smile.
“You’ve done so much for fossil fuel interests in the face of all that pushback. People should look to you as a role model!”
The knob-chinned man laughs and waves off her compliment, and a bunch of his other colleagues heap on similar praise. Someone scoffs about “clean energy” as if it’s a ridiculous idea—“As if there isn’t always a price to pay somewhere.”
My knowledge of current politics is incredibly limited, but I know what fossil fuels are. Does Balthazar object to oil and coal, or is he holding something else against the guy?
As I continue meandering after them, I pass a woman who has the tip of a pen cap poking from her half-open purse. I brush closer and deftly retrieve the pen it’s attached to.
Jackpot. Now I need something to writeon.
