“She’s a famous swimmer,” Marko says.
“I’ve heard of her,” Sloane perches on the arm of the couch, not too close to Marko and me, and not so settled that she couldn’t rise easily. “She swam from Florida to Cuba.”
“Indeed,” Marko grins. “And that is how we met.”
“Swimming the opposite way, were you?” Sloane says.
Marko’s eyes narrow slightly. “She’s funny,” he says to me, turning away from Sloane.
“When will the wedding take place?” I ask Marko, my jaw tight.
“Next week,” he says. “That’s as long as I can wait. You’ve never seen such a woman—as strong as a man! And twice as stubborn.”
He laughs his loud, booming laugh, then tosses down half his drink.
“I’m happy for you,” I tell Marko. “I wish we could attend—unfortunately, Sloane and I are traveling to Denver in a few days’ time. We’re opening a dispensary.”
“I heard you expanded to America,” Marko says, nodding slowly. “You were always ambitious, Ivan. I’m glad to see the hunger is still there.”
“I hope your marriage will bring you as much joy as mine has done,” I say.
Marko finishes his drink, setting his glass down hard on the end table next to the sofa.
“It is good to see you, my friend,” Marko says, standing up. He claps me on both shoulders, hard. “Let us not wait so long before the next time.”
Then, giving a slight bow to Sloane, “Forgive the interruption, and please enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Petrov.”
“Good night,” Sloane says shortly.
She doesn’t speak again until the door has closed behind Marko.
“He didn’t give us enough notice on purpose,” Sloane says. “He doesn’t want you at the wedding. And he certainly didn’t come to St. Petersburg to invite you. I’m sure he’s up to something in your territory.”
“Our territory,” I remind her. “And yes, I assumed the same thing.”
Sloane looks agitated, folding the throw on the couch and flinging it over the back cushion with too much vigor.
“You didn’t poison his drink, did you?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. “Though I was tempted.”
I put my hands on her shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscle at the base of the neck until she relaxes slightly.
She turns to face me. “I don’t like him,” she says, dark eyes fixed on my face. “He reminds me of my father—that same edge of madness. He’s got one foot in the real world, and one in his own head.”
I sigh.
“I wish you were there to tell me that in the prison camp.”
Sloane stands on tiptoe to bring her lips to mine.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Your alliance with him is over. We can be ‘friends’ at a distance.”
18
Ares
Because it’s been such a warm autumn, there’s no need for the shelter of the old stables on campus. Tonight’s party is taking place down on the Moon Beach.
You can’t actually swim on the beach—the riptides are too strong. But the crescent of white sand, and the black star-speckled sky overhead, and the crashing waves close at hand, all add to the wild air of two hundred students ready to cut loose.
Dean Yenin and Bram Van Der Berg have organized tonight’s festivities. In Dean’s usual overachieving way, he’s built not one, but four separate bonfires that blaze away like vast torches, calling everyone down from the school.
The air glows smoky red, the popping sparks and the scent of burning pine singing my nose.
I followed Hedeon down here, sticking close by his side as my mother advised.
Music blares from several speakers hung from the trees. Students are already peeling off their shirts in the combined heat of the bonfires. It only makes us look more savage as we dance on the uneven sand.
Uprising — Muse
Spotify → geni.us/spy-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/spy-apple
I’m surprised to see Hedeon also strip off his shirt, baring the awful scars on his back and arms. Usually he keeps his torso covered at all times. He throws the t-shirt aside with a defiant snarl, looking around like he’s daring anyone to comment.
Even his chest is burned and slashed, though not as badly as his back. One of his nipples is missing.
I catch several students peeking at him with shocked expressions. But the more bootleg liquor is passed around, not to mention handfuls of party drugs sold at outrageous prices by a Senior Spy called Louis Faucheux, the less anyone seems to notice.
Hedeon isn’t the first scarred mafioso. Bram has plenty of scars from his habit of getting in fistfights with anyone who annoys him, and Dean has a freshly fucked-up back that almost rivals Hedeon’s.
It’s always been Hedeon’s anger that repelled people, not his appearance.
I see that anger burning in his eyes more furiously than ever tonight.
He’s watching Ilsa Markov as she dances on the opposite side of the nearest bonfire.
Considering that she lives and studies with almost exclusively male students, Ilsa has a surprising amount of female friends. She’s funny, boisterous, and popular, in a way that makes me think half those girls have a crush on her. They’re certainly trying to dance as close to Ilsa as possible, with admiring looks at her athletic physique.
Ilsa is a blue-eyed Wonder Woman with a glossy dark ponytail, Amazonian thighs, and extreme confidence. A second circle of boys surrounds her group, led by Bodashka Kushnir and Pasha Tsaplin, who both hail from Moscow and have lusted after Ilsa since long before any of them came to Kingmakers.
Bodashka and Pasha are two of the conspirators who think my family’s territory is ripe for takeover since my father’s “absence” and my uncle’s “betrayal” have left us vulnerable to attack.
I’d like to walk over there right now and smash their heads together. They’re drunk enough that I could do it.
But I have to focus on Hedeon instead.
He approaches Ilsa directly, cutting through the group of giggly girls, drawing the angry scowls of Bodashka and Pasha, who had hoped to swoop in any moment.
Ilsa gives Hedeon an appraising look, her eyes roaming over his bare torso. Hedeon stands firm under her scrutiny, arms folded over his chest.
“I didn’t think you danced,” she says.
“I didn’t come over here to dance,” Hedeon replies.
“Come to offer me a drink, then?”
“No.”
Now a gleam of curiosity flares in those indigo eyes.
“What, then? Arm wrestle? Footrace? Ares knows there’s no better foreplay,” Ilsa says, shooting me a sly look.
I keep my expression neutral, though I can feel my neck getting hot, and not from the fire.
It’s impossible to do anything at Kingmakers without someone seeing and guessing exactly what’s in your head.
Ilsa knows the thrill of physical competition. She knows damn well that chasing after Nix gets my blood pumping in more ways than one.
Luckily, Hedeon isn’t going to be distracted.