Pulling up outside of the Deniauds', I let the engine continue its purr a moment longer before switching off the headlights and the Bugatti's ignition. The lights on the dashboard blinked out, and the engine and the music we were listening to died. Darkness and silence filled the interior of the car.

I'd finished death-dealing to the Yakuza just as early evening crept over the city's grey skyline. My father, brother, and I had woven through the guests and hotel employees spilling through the hotel's front doors in various states of dress and panic.

My twin sister, Valarie, waited inside my car, parked a little way down the busy street. Black smoke billowed from the top floor of the hotel, churning in angry streams to stain the sky a darker hue while fire truck sirens screamed and cop cars wailed their oncoming approach.

I'd slid behind the wheel of my Bugatti and swiftly departed, leaving Sander to make his way back home with Jeroen, and drove the two-hour journey to the Deniauds' estate outside of the city limits of Ascendria.

And here I was, staring at the mansion, suppressing the urge to reignite the engine and drive the hells away, fast. I was stuck here for two days. Fuck me.

Valarie sat in the passenger seat beside me. Her shoulders were hunched over as she tried to scratch at the flecks of paint crusted beneath her thumbnail. I slapped my palm over her hand, stopping her.

Valarie glanced up, surprise etched on her features. Her anxious gaze slid from mine to my hand resting on top of hers before she turned over her free hand, curling her fingers into her palm as she inspected the paint-speckled fingernails. A despondent sigh left her throat. "I sh-should h-have done my n-nails."

"Who gives a fuck?" I said, shrugging. Sure we'd be walking into a room of polished and primped faces doused with glamour spells, but my sister was a natural beauty and, better than that, real. She painted, why try to hide it? Her art was the place of solace in which she lost herself. Growing up, we'd been inseparable. Now, working for the Horned Gods, I was away from home a lot, but whenever I was back I'd find her outside, wherever she'd set up an easel, or lying on her stomach across a blanket, fingers blackened with charcoal or smeared with paint. A crease of concentration between her brows, teeth chewing on her bottom lip, as she captured whatever held her attention and brought it to life. I'd lie down beside her on my back, arms tucked beneath my head, and listen to the soothing strokes of her pencils on quilted paper or bristles on canvas.

I let go of her hand and rested it instead on the steering wheel.

Her violet eyes, gone a darker shade with unease, darted over her shoulder to the mansion. "I-I-I—I'm not s-sure about this." She had no control over her stuttering, no matter how many speech therapists she'd seen over the years.

"What? The whole selling you off to Byron like a broodmare?"

Her gaze shot back to mine, long thick eyelashes parting wide. Her fingers bunched in the silky fabric of her dress on her thighs, and her red-stained lips curled down on one side in disbelief. "He's n-not interested in m-me."

"Sure," I said, dragging out the word, looking away through the windshield at the iron lamps set within the privet hedge. The golden light cast downward and glanced off the car's silver hood. I'd noticed Byron's attention on my sister the last time she'd attended a House Gathering. It wasn't overtly obvious, but I had watched him watch her, his gaze following her wherever she'd drifted through the evening.

I turned back to Valarie, frowning slightly and rapping my thumb against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. "Listen, if you don't want to even talk to Byron, then don't." Fuck the old man.

She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head, and gave me a pointed look.

Yeah, both of us were screwed.

My father wanted me married off to Irma, and Valarie to Byron. Jeroen was ruthless in his endeavor to move us from Lower to Upper House. And the way our world worked, the deeply-steeped tradition we held onto, he'd get his way.

Valarie bowed her head and anxiously scratched at her bare arm with her paint-stained fingers. Her hair, black as a raven, fell like a glossy curtain over half of her face. She hid behind the locks, but not in the same way that I hid behind my mess of hair. She hid herself from others. I hid from myself. "I h-hate these k-kinds of gatherings," she said quietly.

"You and me both."

She straightened her spine slowly and pushed her hair out of her face with a hand, sweeping it over a shoulder, resolved on meeting all of Marissa's guests. But I could see her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"Relax," I urged her softly. I didn't want her stressed and worrying all the way through the weekend.

She inhaled a long breath and then released the tension-filled oxygen in a long exhale. "T-t-they t-think I'm weird."

"You are weird."

She snort-laughed, a glorious smile lightening her features. She wasn't classically beautiful, not like Marissa or Laurena. However, she was striking in a different way, a real way, which in my biased opinion made every other woman seem insipid no matter how much they'd sought to beautify their features.

A moment later her smile faded away, and her black eyebrows nudged closer as she gave something further thought. She shifted her body on the leather seat to face me more. "I-I-Irma?"

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the knuckles burned. I was mentally bracing myself to walk in there and face her. Praying to Zrenyth that she wouldn't be present. I was not ready for Irma-drama tonight, or any night. If I never saw her again, all the better.

"Why won't y-you t-tell me what h-happened?"

Because I didn't want to talk about the shit-storm that was Irma Szarvas. Instead of answering Valarie, I jerked my chin toward the mansion and opened the car door.

The Bugatti's scissor door swung up, Valarie's too. As I rounded the front of my car, in long strides, to stand beside Valarie, I swept my keen sight wide, taking in the glossy black limousines and shiny sports cars parked on the grass lawn. From behind us came the sound of gently falling water from the fountain set in the circular driveway.

The grand front doors opened to the mansion, bright light flooding out, and two male servants appeared. A chilly breeze swept up rust-colored leaves and sent them scattering across the cobblestones and up the terrace steps as they approached. I tossed my keys at one of them as they skirted warily around us to retrieve our luggage from my car.

Valarie chewed nervously on her thumbnail. I brushed her hand from her mouth and laced my fingers through hers, our callouses scraping against each other. Her skin was hardened and roughened from her time spent gripping paintbrushes and blades. She trained with our warband every day like the rest of us, but it was rare for her to engage in House business for the Horned Gods.

I arched an eyebrow. "Let's get this slumber party over with."

She burst into laughter, the sound peeling through the night air like chimes. "I p-packed y-your t-teddy bear for you. J-just in case," she said, nudging her elbow into my upper arm.

"Thanks. I'd be lonely without him."

Her smile widened into a grin.

"Game faces on," I reminded her.

Both of us dropped our smiles, affecting cold, bored indifference—the signature Crowther look. It was better to be feared, and better yet to put others off from engaging with us in inane chatter. Gods, I hoped Rosa Battagli wouldn't be there with her endless musings on cute-as-fuck kittens and puppies.

The uncanny twin-link we shared sparked up as Valarie abruptly half-twisted my way, her eyes narrowing. "Don't b-b-be mean to Rosa."

I mentally groaned. That was going to be impossible. "You only like her because she does all the talking and you don't have to."

She shrugged but didn't deny it. Then suddenly she pointed a finger and jabbed me hard in the chest. I shirked aside, batting her hand away. Fuck.

"Give me your word th-that you'll b-be nice t-tonight to ev-everyone, including th-the servants," she demanded, practically glowering at me.

I rolled my eyes but nevertheless agreed easily. "Sure, you have my word." Because my word was only good for tonight. She should have paid more attention to how she'd phrased her order.

We both turned our attention to the weather-worn stone steps leading up to the broad terrace and the oak doors cast wide. "Ready to meet the pretentious pricks?" I asked, my gaze sliding sideways to watch Valarie push back her shoulders. Determination gleamed in her eyes, and her delicate features hardened.

"F-fuck 'em," she whispered.

I squeezed her hand. "Fuck 'em."

***

The Great Room was alive with milling guests and chatter. Like most of the Houses, the Deniauds' Great Room was big and airy, with a vaulted ceiling trimmed with crown molding. A series of enormous chandeliers hung overhead, scattering diamond-like light; priceless artwork—museum-sized paintings—hung on the wall. Furniture and art pieces from all time periods decorated the room—a collection not nearly as old as the pieces we had in our home. My own family line was as ancient as the Horned Gods themselves.

My enhanced hearing picked through the room and the gossip of the rich and idle, and my truesight took it all in. Truesight was a rare trait within the Houses that allowed me to see past even the deepest glamour spun around the Horned Gods. All I was looking at was a sea of average faces. However, if I peeked from the corner of my eye, I would see what everyone else did: glamour spells woven over features—thinned noses and filled-out lips, brightened eyes, and sharpened cheekbones.

The 90s had rolled in and there were floppy boy-band haircuts, preppy sweaters, and more natural hairstyles with glossy waves and big hair clips. But the rest of the guests looked like they hadn't quite let go of the 80s. I was surrounded by frosted hair, poofed hair, mousse-scrunched locks with big fringes, mullets, and perms, or worse—a combination of permed mullets, Tom Selleck mustaches, and shoulder pads that had men and women looking like linebackers. Gods, so fucking wrong. Ruffled dresses, massive-bow dresses, metallic or eye-blinding patterned dresses. Pastel suits with sockless loafers.

My eyes hurt just looking at it all. I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut briefly to give myself a moment of respite. I stifled a yawn, rolling my shoulders back, and stretching the muscles and tendons. After dealing with the Yakuza, and sure, perhaps the second glass of whiskey didn't help, as well as the mindless, boring-as-fuck one-way conversation I was stuck listening to, I was shattered. All I wanted to do was pass out in bed for the night.

A servant had shown Valarie and me to our rooms for the weekend, and ten minutes later we'd made our way to the Great Room where the extended Deniaud family of elders and cousins had gathered to talk with their guests after dinner. Thankfully, we'd arrived afterward. There was no way I'd have survived biting my tongue, like Valarie earlier insisted I do, to play nice with the Houses during an entire five-course meal. Upon greeting Marissa and her parents, my sister and I presented ourselves to Byron and his sister, Laurena, who were seated and talking shop with some other boring-ass heirs. Byron had stood as soon as we'd approached. We'd bowed. His attention fixated on my twin, even when I'd done all the talking on our behalf, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, we'd drifted off to a corner of the room. And there I was, standing beside Valarie who was listening to Rosa Battagli drone on...and on...and on.

I snapped my fingers at a passing servant carrying a silver tray with champagne flutes, who stopped to take my order to refill my tumbler with whiskey right to the brim. I wanted to drown my sorrows in alcohol. I couldn't take this endless chatter about Rosa's trip to Rome and the fashion houses she'd visited, the Colosseum and Trevi fountain, and the gallons of gelato she'd consumed. Fancy ice cream for fucks sake. Yawn.

Rosa was wearing a dress with the biggest bow riding low on her hip. It was so fucking big, I was astounded that she wasn't toppling over. It had become fascinating to me. I couldn't look away. Every time she swayed on her six-inch heels, I expected her to keel over. I was even taking a side bet with myself that it was going to happen between her fourth and fifth drink of champagne.

Of course, her drinking could be the nerves. Her cheeks were pinked and she kept stealing glances at me beneath her eyelashes. Not so much flirty, more timid and wary, apprehensive that I was going to bark—Shut the hells up! I was tempted. So fucking tempted.

The servant returned with a fresh glass of whiskey. I savored the burn of alcohol as it slid down my throat, eyeing Rosa over the rim of my glass, practically daring her to utter one more word about the fashion trends coming out of Rome.

In some small way, I was grateful to Rosa and her inane chatter, which was well-known within the world of Houses. She kept everyone else away. Her and the fact that I looked like a ticking time bomb.

The only light in this evening, so many months after Gratian's death, was finally the generic questions and winced sympathy offered—mostly from the elder generation—came to an end. No longer were there any: I'm so sorry about Gratian. How is your mother coping? How are you?

They all knew I was there when Gratian died. But they didn't know the truth of it, the heart of it. Me.

Most of the time I felt numb and disconnected from everyone—a hollowness in my chest that rattled around with guilt. I missed him. We all did. Especially at times like this. Gratian always handled these gatherings better than I did, a charismatic personality who could spin on a dime from menacing to bestowing a winning smile accompanied by a hearty laugh. But he could be a dick for sure. And so could I.

Right now, wielding twin swords and hurling daggers at the Yakuza had left a dull ache developing in my muscles and my bones. I scrubbed my face with my hand, shifting my weight on tired feet. I opened my mouth and Rosa stiffened, her brown eyes growing wide with fear at what might be cast from my lips. The scent of her fright pinched my nostrils.

I yawned and she visibly relaxed.

Gods, I made her nervous.

I was pretty simple. Sure I might not have much of a filter, saying what was on my mind, and I didn't suffer fools. I liked sleek women, preferably under me moaning my name, the glitz that this world of ours offered, fine cigars, and fancy suits. But hunting—that was what flowed through my blood; what settled me in the days when I was so lost it hurt to draw a breath. Whether it was in the broken underworld of Ascendria, or stalking my prey in nightclubs with pounding bass lines, strobing lights, and sweaty, dancing mortals. Or where I truly was at home, in the ancient, gnarled forests, hunting lesser creatures—sinking into the silence of the woods, an instinctive beat of my heart matching the thing I was shadowing, a mirror of the beast inside me.

"Oh my gods," Rosa squeaked, swiveling around. She shrunk her shoulders inward as if she were trying not to be seen. "It's the Wychthorns, they're coming over here." She gulped down a large mouthful of champagne, wiping the moisture away with the back of her hand, along with a smear of red lipstick. She gave Valarie a pained look. "Laurena's just so...so mean."

The Wychthorn princess certainly was, delivering backhanded compliments with a smile. As Byron and Laurena crossed the room, guests stepped aside, allowing them to pass through. A few murmured greetings as they carried on toward us, but Byron had eyes for only one person—my sister.

"Mind if we join you?" Byron asked, stopping to stand in front of us.

I shrugged. As if we had any choice. Byron's family dictated everything we did in our world, so we couldn't exactly say no.

Laurena flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder and readjusted the tiara sitting on her head. A tiara—a Wychthorn Princess's crown. The tiara had gems in the golden fretwork, sapphires and diamonds. But it was on her hand that my hunter's eyes were fixed, her fingers curled around a rose-crystal champagne flute. On her middle finger was a golden ring with a large irregular gem that was seemingly cut from the stars. It wasn't a gem at all, but trapped moonlight.

And I wanted it.