Siege of Shadows (Effigies #2)(66)
“They seriously just handed me a pamphlet about the damn house.” I rolled my eyes, trying not to make my uncomfortable tug at my frilly yellow dress too obvious. It was Lake’s dress, which she’d managed to stuff me inside while screaming at her agent over the phone because the TVCAs were just around the corner and the single she’d recorded back in February had yet to see the light of day. It was because of her Herculean effort, and her arsenal of makeup and hair combs, that I looked halfway camera ready.
And, my, were there a lot of cameras.
Blackwell had let the photographers and reporters into the mansion, and they were certainly working. Flashes of light nearly blinded me as they snapped pictures of the important-looking men and women from different countries who drank wine under the high, arched ceiling.
So many dignitaries. So much power and wealth in one tiny space. Some individuals I recognized, and some I didn’t. I thought I could just slip by them unseen like a trick of the light. What I wasn’t prepared for were their eyes on me as I passed by, their hands reaching out to me and pulling me into their circle to say something, anything. To me. A British member of parliament, a Ghanaian diplomat, an Australian media tycoon. Congratulating me on successfully completed missions, asking me about our plan to take back Saul.
One asked me how school was going. This was insane.
I held my little black cross-body bag closer to me. “I’m being homeschooled right now,” I explained with a nervous smile to a Mexican consul general stationed in Ottawa. Sibyl had hired an instructor to come in once or twice a week and, not surprisingly, I’d learned even less than when I was struggling to stay awake in Ashford High. “Th-thanks for asking, sir. . . .”
“My daughter is a big fan. Would you mind?”
Before I’d even decided on an answer, he whipped out his phone and snapped a picture of us both. I didn’t even want to know what kind of bizarre shape my mouth had contorted into.
“Everyone, please,” said someone by the door, presumably working for Blackwell. “If you’ll follow us into the reception hall, Mr. Blackwell would like to give his welcome.”
The reception hall was majestic with a high vaulted ceiling held in place by white marble columns. The tapestries stretching across the eggshell-white walls looked hundreds of years old. Some admired them, drinks in hand, while photographers snapped their photos. Busts of philosophers were perched atop dark oak tables, tucked into corners. That’s where the servants stayed with their trays of food and drinks. The man by the grand piano at the head of the room was also sitting idly, waiting for word to continue his performance.
The not-so-subtly intimidating men and women standing at attention by entrances and around corners—they must have been Blackwell’s security. They looked Sect-like in their shades and black suits, but they probably worked here full-time. Every once in a while, I saw them tilt their heads and open their mouths as if speaking to an invisible friend, so I knew they were probably communicating to each other through their inner earpieces. I guess with this many powerful people in one room, security had to be vigilant.
“Maia, you’re here.”
My heels halted against the marble floor. Brendan slipped out from the crowd and strode toward me in his finely cut Italian suit, his hair slicked into a preppy style, almost Rockwellian in its celebration of the cheesy fifties aesthetic.
“Hopefully not for long,” I mumbled, wrapping my naked arms around my chest. “Hi, by the way,” I added more loudly.
That, he heard. “Good to see you. Uh—are you okay?”
My neck was chafing from Dot’s neck-band. Lake had given me a white crochet band to wear around it, and it worked pretty well against the steel. But the back of my neck was still burning, and since I was too afraid to take the collar off, I tried to rub it against the skin. Hence, Brendan’s quizzical look.
“I’m okay,” I answered, wincing. “This place is really something, isn’t it?”
At the center of the room was a tall, white stone statue of a naked woman, her long hair wrapped around her body like robes, holding what looked like a white pearl high above her head. Blackwell certainly didn’t skimp on extravagance.
“Well, now that you’re here, there are a few people I want you to see—” Brendan started, but he was cut off by Blackwell’s booming baritone voice reverberating down the room through the sound system in the walls.
“Everyone. I want to welcome you and thank you for coming as my guests this evening.”
It was fitting for a man of Blackwell’s means and ego that he would be addressing us from above. Though there were a few patrons on the first steps of the spiraling, kingly staircase off to the side, only Blackwell stood on the second floor above us, casting his gaze down at us from behind the gilt bronze and wrought-iron railings. His long, thick black hair draped over his white suit in lavish curls, and a row of rings climbed several of his fingers, catching the light of the nineteenth-century chandelier dangling high above him.
Blackwell didn’t need a microphone, but he seemed to enjoy speaking into one. “This estate, as you may have read in your pamphlets, was purchased by my great-great-grandfather Bartholom?us Blackwell II more than a century ago. Since then, our doors have always been open for our colleagues in the Sect and our esteemed friends around the world. It has been our family pursuit to contribute our wealth, resources, and connections toward the higher purpose of ridding mankind of the mysterious demons plaguing us. And indeed, we have taken this duty seriously from the moment we were appointed to the high position of Council representative: a position of responsibility I, Bartholom?us Blackwell VI, take just as seriously as my predecessors did.”