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Lucian
In the mirror’s reflection, I straighten my tie, while Rand runs a wooden suit brush over my shoulders and down my back.
“Are they refusing to reschedule this?” I ask, tugging the cuffs of my sleeves.
“I’m afraid we’ve put it off too long, Master. They’ve grown impatient.”
In the tray of jewelry that’s on the table beside the full-length mirror, I fish through the few rings, including my discarded wedding band, for a silver oxidized, moth signet ring. The skull on its thorax signifies the Death’s Head species.
I slide it onto my pinky finger and curl my hand to a fist. “It seems they always grow impatient where money is concerned.”
“You know as well as I do, it isn’t money that draws them. They want assurance that you’re prepared to take over your father’s position in this organization.”
“And what do I have to do to prove that? What haven’t I already done to prove that over and over to them?”
“Your absence makes them nervous.”
“Does grieving count for nothing these days?”
“After two years?” He drops his gaze at the question. “Forgive me, Master.”
It’s no secret that I harbored little love for my father while he was alive, or that I’ve done my best to avoid as many of his business affairs as possible. Rand is also well aware that I don’t care for someone challenging my authority on the matter, either.
“I’ve provided the funding. The co
“It’s your presence. Or, and I mean no disrespect, lack thereof.”
Groaning, I step away from the mirror and clip on a set of cufflinks. “Is it my face they wish to stare at? Then, perhaps we should do away with the masks. That’ll be my first order of business.”
“Lucian …” Rand’s voice carries the weary exhaustion of a man who’s had to wrangle two generations of Blackthorns. “They meet once every quarter. It’s always been about strengthening your alliances.”
“Is that what it is? So, we’ve moved away from the carnival fuck-show to something more respectable, is that it?”
With a huff, Rand shifts his gaze. “While I don’t agree with your father’s decisions to invite female subjects to mingle at these gatherings, I do think there is some validity in them.”
“You’re saying you support the purpose behind this group?”
One thing about Rand is he’s never one to respond impulsively, so when he stares off for a moment, I know he’s chewing on the question. “If it’s mutually beneficial to both parties, I see no harm in it. It’s no different than these BDSM sex clubs, and bear in mind, these subjects seek out the group, not the other way around.”
“Do you think I sought out the group, when I was thrown into that hellhole institute for weeks?”
“Of course not. But respectfully, Sir, you were a bit reckless in your … pursuits. Your father felt an intervention was in order.”
“An intervention? Is that what he called it?” There’s no point arguing with Rand over what happened to me. He doesn’t know the details of my time there, the punishments I personally suffered at their hands, and never will. “I saw a man beaten to within an inch of his life because the amount of money he requested warranted it, according to the group. The difference between BDSM sex clubs and Schadenfreude comes down to desire. If given the money without the punishment, none of them would choose the torture.”
“Likely not. But nothing in this world is free, I’m afraid. If you’d prefer, we can arrange for a di
The thought of a di
“A masquerade, then. We’ll hire a crew to brighten up the atrium a bit.”
“If it’ll get them off my back ...”
“May I speak candidly?” Rand has never meant any disrespect, even on the occasions he has challenged my authority.
“Have at it.”
“They’re afraid your commitment has never been as staunch as your father’s and grandfather’s.”
“Well, they’re not wrong. But what’s the worry? I never had a choice growing up, why would I suddenly have one now? Because the dictatorship has ended? All my father’s death afforded me was the same damn shackles he and every generation since my great grandfather have worn without fail.”
“You know I understand, perhaps more than anyone. But this is your legacy, Lucian. If you won’t stay committed for your father, then do it for the son you were never given the opportunity to raise.”
“I wouldn’t have subjected him to my curse. I would’ve set him free, given him choices.”
“And forgive my being frank, but you know better than I do that the organization would never have allowed such a thing.”
They want me because I know things. Secrets they’d kill to keep buried. I only know such things because my own father made me privy to them. The day he introduced me to their little society was the day he slung the albatross around my neck.
“You would’ve undoubtedly been a better father than your own. But that is no longer your choice. Just as this is no longer your father’s.”
Odd to hear him liken my situation to death. Rand has always seemed to favor the organization above all other things. I’ve not yet determined if that’s of his own will, or what my father pounded into his skull all these years.
“What an absolute tragedy.”
On the way to my office, the unmistakable sound of Chopin fills the dark and dreary hallway, drawing me toward the atrium. Peeking around the doorway, I find my mother in her wheelchair beside the piano, on which the new girl plays with the finesse of a seasoned pianist. Chin lifted in the air, she doesn’t seem to follow any music, and I frown watching her. Not once has she dipped her gaze to the page, or bothered to flip to the next. As if she’s memorized the entire piece, note for note.
“I was told she can’t read music.” Rand’s voice from behind interrupts my staring, and I glance back to find him craning his neck for a peek. “Remarkable ability, wouldn’t you say?”
Turning my attention back to her, I don’t bother to answer, too focused on the dampness of her hair, as if she didn’t bother with it after a shower. The way those long black tresses fall about her slim shoulders and frame the warm glow of her face that’s obviously been touched by sunlight.
Vibrant with youth, she’s beautiful without even trying. Mesmerizing.
Beside her, my mother sits with her head tipped, eyes closed, drinking in every note, the way she often would when I played for her. Unlike my father, who ridiculed my love for piano, she encouraged it, would often have me play while she trimmed her flowers, or sat drinking her tea. The only true co
“We shouldn’t keep them waiting, Master.”
“No. We shouldn’t. Let’s get this shit show over with.”
I steal one more glance at the girl, the way she sways when she plays, as if the notes move through her onto the keys like a conduit. She opens her eyes and directs her gaze toward me. For one brief moment, a zap of embarrassment heats my face, and I turn away, like a school boy caught peeking through the windows.
The meeting with who I call The Blacksuits, or Chairmen of the Schadenfreude Collective, is always a dog and pony act. Established generations ago, the purpose of the organization is essentially to glean power, money, entertainment and stature from the misfortune of others, though they would undoubtedly have a far more eloquent and scientific way of describing it.