Vengeful (Villains #2)(120)

Eli spotted the two EON soldiers, carving their slow security sweeps through the thickening crowd.

The hall echoed with laughter, the light low, the air dancing with champagne flutes and jewelry and bodies clustering close. Bystanders. Moving pieces. Distractions.

Stell was at his shoulder.

“When the time comes,” said Eli, “will you be able to get the bystanders out?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Stell. “Getting their attention might be difficult.”

Eli scanned the space, thinking. The windows were high and narrow, useless, the crowd thick . . . but that could work in their favor. Panic was contagious. Like dominos, all you had to do was fell the first one.

“I’ll be right back.”

Stell caught his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“To get you a gun.” Eli nodded at Marcella’s security, all dressed in trim black suits. “Haven’t you noticed? The guests may not be allowed to carry, but her men certainly are.”

Stell didn’t let go.

“At some point,” said Eli calmly, “you have to let out my leash.”

The director stared at him for a long, hard moment, and then his hand finally fell away. Eli turned and slipped through the crowd, trailing one of the security guards as they split off down a hall toward the bathroom. Eli followed him in, watched the guard vanish into a stall, waited for another man at the sink to finish washing up and leave. Eli slid the bolt in the man’s wake, and approached the stall door.

It swung open, and Eli slammed his shoe into the guard’s chest, sent him reeling back into the wall. Eli caught him by the tie before he could fall, drew the guard’s holstered gun, and pressed it tight to his chest to muffle the shots.

Eli eased the body back onto the seat.

It had been a long time since he killed a human. But forgiveness would have to wait.

He returned to Stell’s side, and presented the director with the stolen gun, low and easy, as if it were a handshake among friends. Stell looked at him with bald surprise. They both knew that Eli was the one holding the weapon, Eli the one with his finger near the trigger. But he spun the weapon in his hand, offering Stell the grip instead of the barrel.

After a pause, Stell took the gun, and Eli turned and plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray. He might as well enjoy the party.

*

“LAST call for second thoughts,” murmured June. “Or second call for last ones.”

Rain drummed on the roof of the town car as it pulled up outside the Old Courthouse.

“Don’t be somber,” said Marcella. “It’s a party.”

“It’s madness,” countered June.

Marcella’s lips twitched. “Good thing there’s method in it.”

It was a gamble, of course. A risk. An ambitious play.

But she used to tell Marcus, the world wasn’t made for the faint of heart.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And if Marcella’s plan went up in flames, well, she’d take the whole damn city with her.

As she stepped out of the car, the broad umbrellas appeared again, ushering her to the waiting bronze doors of the Old Courthouse.

From inside, Marcella could hear the clink of ice and crystal glasses, the murmur and melody of an eager crowd. She brought her hand to the polished metal, splayed her fingers across the surface, gold nails gleaming, as June and Jonathan took their places behind her.

Marcella smiled.

“Showtime.”

*

MITCH’S car screeched to a stop in front of the Old Courthouse.

Pain lanced through Victor’s side as he got out, but he didn’t dare turn it down, not with the episode building in his bones.

“Victor—” started Mitch.

He glanced back. “Remember what I said. Find Syd, and leave.”

Victor climbed the short stone steps, pushed open the bronze doors, his free hand wrapped as casually as possible across his ribs. He handed his invitation to the suit at security, who hesitated at the blood flecking the cream paper.

He looked at Victor, who stared coldly back, leaning on the man’s nerves as he did until the discomfort registered on his face.

The security waved him through.

Victor headed for the atrium, doubling back at the sight of the coat check. His eyes trailed over the jackets and shawls that had already been checked in, landing on a black wool trench on the left, with a high collar and black leather trim.

Victor flagged the clerk. “I lost my ticket,” he said, “but I’m here to claim my coat.” He nodded at the trench.

The kid—and he really was just a kid—wavered. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I can’t return a coat without a valid claim—”

Victor forced the kid’s mouth shut, watched his eyes widen in surprise, confusion, horror as he pinned him still. “I can break your bones without lifting a finger,” he said smoothly. “Would you like me to show you?”

The kid’s nostrils flared in panic as he shook his head.

Victor released his hold, and the clerk stumbled back, gasping, fingers trembling as he pulled the trench from the rack.

He shrugged on the coat. He felt in the pockets and found a twenty. “Thanks,” he said, tucking the cash into the short glass jar.

The atrium was crowded, full of bodies and noise. Victor made a slow circle of the chamber, hugging the outer edge as he wove between guests, scanning the crowd.