Siege of Shadows (Effigies #2)(67)

As Blackwell continued with his speech, Brendan scoffed next to me. “That’s not what my father tells me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked in a whisper so none of Blackwell’s “esteemed friends” could hear us trash-talking him.

“Once the Sect got out from under the control of the British Crown and established itself as an independent agency, Blackwell II bribed and blackmailed his way into a prominent position—or at least as prominent a position as they were willing to give him.”

How had Director Prince put it? Ah yes, the “ceremonial crust on the Sect’s toe.” It was good to know his oldest son shared his naked disdain.

“That’s not part of the official canon, of course, but the relationship between the Blackwell family and the Sect certainly isn’t as harmonious as Blackwell’s trying to paint it. But the Sect benefits from his huge amount of wealth and resources. And I suppose he benefits from nepotism.”

“Like your dad helping you snag Sibyl’s job after the Council kicked her out?”

Brendan’s ears flushed red, but before he could stutter a coherent response, the room broke out into applause. I hadn’t even heard the rest of what Blackwell had to say, but it probably didn’t matter anyway. He was rich and powerful, and so were the people here. It was a language they understood even without words.

I wondered how it felt to inherit so much wealth and power. Blackwell looked foreboding, looming high above us, framed, perhaps fittingly, by the large, golden-rimmed acrylic painting on the wall behind him: a painting of a medieval knight standing atop a mountain of bodies, sword tipped against the head of a pleading skeleton. A man conquering death.

“There’s Director Prince with Senator Abrams of British Columbia,” Brendan said, pointing toward the other side of the room once the crowd had dispersed.

I guess his father was one of the people he’d wanted me to see. I hadn’t even known he was coming. One would think he’d have better things to do, but then this was all about optics. Arthur Prince looked much bigger in person, taller and brawnier in his gray suit than any of his sons. The other man, Senator Abrams, was practically dwarfed by his size, though his girth more than made up for it.

And next to them with a wineglass in hand . . .

“Is that Tracy Ryan? That crazy senator from Florida?”

Indeed it was, her pinched face unmistakable. She was tall too, but she looked like a scarecrow next to Prince. Her short brown hair bounced as she nodded good-bye to Senator Abrams after he answered his cell phone and left the two.

“Good, there are cameras,” I heard Brendan say before he put his hand on my shoulder. “Maia, I want you to meet Senator Ryan and Director Prince Senior.”

I blanched. “And say what?”

“Exchange pleasantries. Let them know you’re working hard. We just need to appear to be getting along with the rest of the world here. It’s why you came, remember? Wait here.”

As he walked up to the pair, I wondered what the threads would be like on the Doll Soldiers forum. Maybe the title would be, Maia Builds Bridges with Senator Tracy Ryan, with a set of pictures of me shaking hands with the woman widely known for her xenophobic, anti-immigration rhetoric and misogynistic policies straight out of the Baroque period. Of course, it would more likely be, Maia Selling Out to Political Trash, or, Self-Hating Daughter of an Immigrant Cosigns Racist. Or maybe, Maia Hangs with the Woman Who Once Suggested that She and Her Friends Be Locked Up and Tortured.

I turned right around, the bag over my shoulder swinging by the chain, and almost ran straight into Rhys standing behind me in a gray suit tailored perfectly to his tall, lean body.

“Maia. I . . .” He reached out to steady me. “I thought that was you. Your hair . . .” He pointed to his head, and my hand unconsciously went to my thick, curly hair. Still, I said nothing.

He looked even better than he usually did. He filled his suit nicely, his physique sturdier than his brother’s, his proportions cruelly phenomenal. I swallowed my greeting. It slid down painfully.

I’d already decided he couldn’t have killed Natalya, so I should have been more comfortable around him. I should have already sorted out the conflicted mess that were my emotions, but they were still in turmoil. Was it because of how I felt about him? Or was it the shadow of his secrets refusing to be put at ease? I couldn’t tell.

His long lashes fluttered as he blinked nervously before steeling himself with a cough. He kept a little amiable smile strapped to his face like a shield, but it wouldn’t make me forget that night Vasily had picked him apart piece by piece from the inside with his words alone. Or the tears streaming down his cheekbones as he’d looked at me, ashamed.

He waited for me to say something, but whatever I could say fell limp on my tongue. I hadn’t even known he’d be here. Are you okay, Rhys? I thought. I wanted to say at least that.

“Your . . .” The word came out timid, unsure. “Your wrist seems okay now,” I said, pointing at his arm. His black wrist brace was noticeable, but his hand looked like it could move a lot more easily now.

“Yeah,” he said. “The doctors did what they needed to. And I’ve been resting.”

“That’s good,” I told him, and my little smile seemed to encourage him. His face brightened hopefully at the sight of it.

“Maia,” he said finally, taking his chance. “I want to—”