Masquerades And Deceptions I

The restaurant, if it could be called that, was a vault of quiet indulgence. The kind of silence that belonged to the well-fed and well-funded. The walls were draped in a red so deep it could have been soaked in arterial blood. A metal starburst of flush mounts dripped with suspended pearls of luminescence, their light shifting like captive fireflies embalmed in crystal. The air held the hushed weight of money, of discretion, of something old and inevitable. It smelled of salt-curled meats, crushed botanical spice, and the faint metallic tang of something not quite ordinary.

I sat as still as the ice in my glass, watching it melt with practiced indifference. My father, across from me, observed me in the same way one might observe a horse at auction—assessing, measuring, waiting to determine whether I was still worth the bid.

I called the waiter over for the third time that night, adding to the order of charred duskfish belly and truffled selmian oysters whilst Nicodemus had only ordered a plate of smoked umbergrouse.

"On second thought, add some aged mirren cheese with ember honey," I said to the pissed yet still smiling profile of a guy about my age as he was turning to move on to my order right away, because there was no one else inside the small ecclesiastical burrow Nicodemus had chosen for our "catching up." The other tables had been cleared, so it was now just ours stuck solely in the middle of the polished floors.

"Wait!" I yelled over with muted agency, standing up abruptly. The guy stilled. "Don't forget to make the braised elvar roe in Sevarin style." He nodded smilingly once more and briskly closed the distance to the door of the kitchenette.

"You're embarrassing yourself," Nicodemus said, finally, slicing into a piece of his something rare, something decadent dish as the chef had fawningly shared. The meat fell apart under his knife, seared outer layer giving way to the dark, wine-soaked succulence beneath the juices pooling into a small, controlled massacre on his plate. "Though I suppose that is, at this point, predictable."

"I like to keep things predictable," I murmured, voice laced with the ghost of my anger. "Besides, I fail to see how my refusal to entertain a gang of third-rate thugs is any reflection on you."

Nicodemus barely paused to sip his wine, an ink-dark thing that clung to the glass like syrup. "The Iron Wraiths are not 'third-rate thugs,'" he said. "They are an enterprise. One that serves a purpose. One that expects to be acknowledged with the proper decorum."

"They expect to be grovelled to," I corrected. "And I am not interested in playing sycophant to a group of men who spend their days deciding which civilian to bleed next."

Nicodemus exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, not quite laughter. "And yet, you are perfectly comfortable allowing my money to pay for your whims," he said. "Your education, I might remind you, is no small expense. Not a cent of which comes from the goodness of my heart."

There it was. The thinly veiled reminder that the ground beneath my feet could be pulled out at any moment, that my place in this world was not an inheritance but a favor, something that could be revoked with little more than a flick of his wrist.

Before I could formulate a response that would not see me disowned before dessert, a commotion at the front of the restaurant turned the collective attention of the room.

A man, breathless and unkempt, barreled in through the doorway leaving the door outflung.The two guards upfront moved to intercept him but Nicodemus raised a hand and signaled for them to let him through. The man huffed a breath of annoyance ,righting his coat as he and walked to reach us.

Up close I could study him clearly. His blue suit was well kept but over worn the fraying cuffs hiding a thin silver watch that slicked over his exposed wrist . His hands folded, knuckles blanched white. He looked tired, thin, an already wasted man.Desperation clung to him like a bad scent.There was a familiarity to him I couldn't quite place.

As I mulled it over,Nicodemus regarded him with a kind of polite interest, the way a man might study a curious insect crawling across a tablecloth.

"You look awful, Jonathan," He said, leaning back."Really. It's almost difficult to look at you."

Jonathan exhaled sharply, a frayed laugh. "Yeah, well. It's been a difficult few months."

Nicodemus tilted his head, considering. "Months? Try years. You've been circling the drain for a long time.

Jonathan swallowed. His lips were chapped ,his neck suffused with red, I could almost hear his heartbeat thick in his ears. "I need more time. Just—just a little more."

Nicodemus gave a small, placating smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "You've run out of time Jonathan. " I reached for my plate ,munching on the side berries.

"You've run out of everything. But, I must say, you've developed a rather unexpected—what should we call it?—bravery?" He paused. "No, that's too generous. Insolence."

Jonathan shifted, restless. "I know things, Nick. About you. About your business."

A flicker. Nicodemus's 's expression remained the same, but something had changed, almost imperceptibly. His gaze sharpened, the polite detachment edged with interest.

"Do you?" he said softly. "How very exciting."

Jonathan pressed forward, hands clenched. "I know about the shipments. The ones that don't make it onto the ledgers. The names that aren't in the books. I know exactly what you've built."

Nicodemus hummed his agreement of this. He glanced at his watch. "And what exactly do you intend to do with this knowledge, Jon?"

Jonathan hesitated, just a moment too long. "I want a deal. I walk away."

He smiled then, a real smile, one of genuine amusement. "Grasping at whatever last thread you think will save you, are you?"

Jonathan set his jaw. "I think you don't want attention."

Nicodemus nodded slowly, as if in thought. "Interesting." He adjusted his cuffs. "See, Jon, what I think is that you misunderstand the nature of our relationship. I have always been exceedingly patient with you. More patient than I should have been. Because, frankly, I liked you. Or I liked the idea of you—the way one likes an old book you know you'll never finish. Nostalgic, sentimental. But the thing is, Jon, nostalgia has its limits. And sentimentality is a very expensive habit."

His voice was an urgent snarl. "You don't understand, I—"

Nicodemus moved languidly, an artist arranging his tools, the brush of his fingertips against the napkin before setting it aside. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

"You are not owed understanding," Nicodemus said simply.

He moved swiftly ,the debtor barely had time to take a breath before they were on him, their movements practiced, efficient. A hand over his mouth, the crack of bone—his wrist bent back at an unnatural angle as he wrenched his arm. A muffled scream, swiftly cut off.

And then, with an almost apologetic efficiency, he slit his throat and Jonathan slumped brokenly to the floor.

I wasn't fully looking, my eyes trained on the berries ,my wolf supplied most of the information as well as the acrid smell of violet poison which stops a person from shifting, enveloping the bloody knife that Nicodemus set down on the white tablecloth.

No raised voices. No screams. Just the dull, wet finality of something vital breaking, and then nothing at all. The room absorbed the moment like a body absorbs poison—slow, inevitable. The staff did not waver in their movements, did not so much as flinch. One merely stepped forward, clearing the blood-slick remnants of what had once been a debtor as if it were a spilt glass of wine.

Nicodemus turned back to his meal, cleaning his hands with a napkin dipped in wine. lifting a hand to summon a waiter.

"The wine assortments," he said mildly.

The waiter bowed, stepping forward with a practiced smile, already prepared to list off the imported luxuries sourced from vineyards cultivated in volcanic soil, wines aerated through hourglass-like vessels infused with metals that hummed with residual enchantment.

I stared at my father, then at the empty space where a man had stood moments before. My fingers curled around my own glass, cool and delicate, steady despite the way my pulse drummed in my throat.

"You could have let him go," I said.

Nicodemus turned to me, his expression as impassive as the cut of his suit. "And you could have been a better daughter," he said. "Yet here we are."

I thought of Thomasina then—my sister, my rival, my father's greatest triumph. Thomasina, who did not resist the familial duties that had been etched into our bones before birth. Thomasina, who played the game well and without complaint.

And Valentina. Valentina, who straddled both worlds, who walked the halls of our university by day and knelt before the Iron Wraiths by night. Valentina, who had chosen to play their game rather than reject it outright, as if power was something she could pocket and wield at her leisure.

Nicodemus, as if reading my thoughts, smirked. "Your sister, Valentina, at least understands where her loyalties lie. She is not confused about what she owes me, nor does she feign disgust for the world that built her." He leaned back in his chair, regarding me with a detached curiosity. "Tell me, Davina, do you think your defiance makes you stronger than her, or simply more naïve?"

I did not answer. There was no answer that would satisfy him.

Nicodemus sighed as if bored already, swirling his wine. "Regardless, you'll both be expected at the family gala next week. I assume you've at least remembered that much?"

I clenched my jaw. Of course I had remembered. The gala was more than just another social affair—it was a battleground disguised in silk and champagne. And this year, it would be even worse.

"The Di Cortesi syndicate will be in attendance," Nicodemus continued, amusement glinting in his eyes at my silence. "It would be a shame if you made an embarrassment of yourself in front of them as well."

The Di Cortesi. The Iron Wraiths' oldest rivals, their most dangerous enemies. And they would be under the same roof, sipping the same rare vintages, circling one another like wolves pretending at civility.

I set my glass down carefully. "Is that why you insisted on this meeting?" I asked. "To remind me of my place before parading me in front of our enemies?"

Nicodemus tilted his head, expression unreadable. "I do not need to remind you of your place, Davina," he said. "I only need to remind you of what happens to those who forget it."

And it finally came to me why Jonathan looked so familiar. I'd seen a picture of him folded inside an article about the Moretti family on the brink of bankruptcy in it names had been listed Jonathan amongst them. In the picture he stood side to side with my father both of their faces flushed with youth one holding a ball under his arm. It should've been hard to pinpoint but the impression of Jonathan's beaked nose and pale blue eyes was hard to miss and I'd heard of a Jonathan before from my grandmother.

They'd been childhood friends.