Mirth huffs.
And Tommy laughs. He laughs, shouts in pain, and shifts back into his wholly human form.
“Oh!” Kitty cries. “You did it, Tommy!”
The boy in my arms shakes from the effort, and he’s still wounded enough that he needs a healer. But he meets my gaze steadily.
“Good,” I say. Then I finally look up to address the next issue.
Not that Mirth isn’t in complete control, but I’m fairly certain all this manic laughter isn’t healthy for the inflicted. Not that I care. But Mirth wouldn’t normally hold her power so tightly if she was cool with just going around murdering people.
Three elders of the Merton bond group— the ones who invited me here, and whom I left behind at the table— stand before the stage in the center aisle, seemingly locked in a contest of wills. With Mirth.
It’s a one-sided contest.
Mirth appears equal parts amused and annoyed, but in that detached way that peerage has of making everyone feel beneath them.
I’m thankful she’s never looked at me like that.
To be fair, ranking among peerage is often a nebulous thing. No one but her father outranks Mirth, no one but Mirth outranks me. In this room, at any rate. Lord Savoy, Sully, who is supposedly nearby, completely outranks me.
The Merton bond group as a whole outrank just about everyone they come into contact with. And others tend to treat them accordingly.
But one on one?
There’s no contest of wills they could hope to win, not by rank or by power, when faced with Mirth.
Evans, aka Viscount Boyne, situated between the other two Mertons, is a powerful shield mage, and his power flickers over the trio now. Apparently he plays squash or who-the-fuck-knows-what with Eli. I was barely listening to him tonight, to be honest. DeVere, a baron who attended school with my much older deceased brothers, invited me to the auction. We raninto each other at a totally rigged poker game at the archaic gentleman’s club where Eli suggested I stay whenever I’m in London. I made my first appearance at the club tonight instead of showing up on Mirth’s doorstep uninvited.
Then there’s the head of their bond group. The elder Lord Merton himself. Vincent. Isla and Archie’s father.
All three Mertons look smug as fuck. Presumably because they think they’re withstanding the onslaught that’s bringing down over half the other toffs in the theater now. But I can clearly see that Mirth isn’t even trying to affect the Mertons … to infect them? I’m not entirely certain what her power is, not even with it spread out before me in all its glory.
Honestly, it’s possible she’s holding back even now, having crafted a protective perimeter all around us and only lashing out initially to protect me. The farther away the audience members are from the stage, the less they appear affected.
The main doors also appear to be sealed. Likely a security measure by the auction coordinators, but it’s working against them now.
“That’s enough, Mirth!” Lord Merton snaps. As if he has any right to speak to the princess in that tone, let alone address her without her titles while in public.
“Do you think I’ve made my position clear, Lord Merton?” Mirth asks, utterly amused.
Lord Merton huffs, glancing at me with a deep frown. He doesn’t bother looking at the kids at all as he shifts his imperious attention back to Mirth. “Just take the children and go. I’ll clean up your mess.”
“Your mess,” Mirth says. “Unless you’d like to try to convince me that my soul-bound mate is the head of this chapter of the Möbius Group?”
The other two mages glance at each other. It’s a quick but guilty-as-fuck look.
“Don’t be silly, Mirth. You obviously can’t penetrate Viscount Boyne’s shield, and you certainly can’t stand against me should I decide you need … quelling,” Merton says, angry but trying to hide it. “And even if I do let you go, allowing you to take the children with you, you can’t prove that we knew anything about this …” He nods toward the cage at my back, as if unwilling to lower himself to even say the words ‘child trafficking.’ “Or this … so-called Möbius Group.”
He doesn’t fool my nose. Or the reach of Mirth’s weaponized empathy essence, presumably.
“I’ll take that as a challenge,” Mirth says, smiling.
Coda cackles over Kitty’s phone speakers. “Grandpa has no idea what any of us are capable of. I’ve already got his financials at my fingertips. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll start excavating the centuries of fucked-up shit his family trades in.”
That’s a promise, not just a boast, for a tech as skilled as Coda.
“Yes, very short-sighted of him.” Mirth laughs, quietly gleeful.
