by Thea Devine
Her body went boneless. Her dress felt as if it was weighted, pulling her down, into the quagmire, into the morass of Wroth's punishing expectations.
She couldn't breathe. She felt as if the blood were draining from her body; she felt time slow down. In her mind, she heard Wroth's voice detailing all the little disciplines he would impose on her once they married. Her knees went weak.
"Are you all right?" Trevor Smythe, as punctilious as ever. She swallowed hard. Someone had stopped Zabel to say hello, presumably one of his good newfound connections. "Could we—? I need a breath of fresh air. Could we move someplace where it isn't quite so crowded?"
He took her elbow, took command as she had hoped he would and turned her away from the threatening approach of Wroth, whose step faltered, as if he hadn't expected this defection, as if his mere presence alone would have turned her to immobile stone.
It didn't deter him, she knew it wouldn't, but it gave her a moment's respite from the threat of him accosting her, as Trevor Smythe and she threaded through a crowd in which Wroth could not in good manners try to apprehend her or make a scene.
"Just keep walking," she whispered to Smythe. "There's a most unpleasant gentleman who wishes to speak with me knowing that I would not wish to exchange even a word with him."
"Of course." He didn't ask who; he didn't ask why. He just acted, keeping them moving, keeping them out of Wroth's way politely, graciously, unobtrusively.
He was so tall, so strong, so unusually assertive tonight that she thought perhaps she should take another look at him tomorrow, because maybe—just maybe—he was the one ...
So here he was again, outfitted in Lujan's too-tight tux, his hand in screaming pain with nothing to be done about it, which had been the concurring diagnosis when he finally went to see a doctor, and now he must gear himself up for another evening of lighthearted diversion.
And look for a panderer while he was at it. Wyland's assignments were not easy. It could be anyone. It could be one of them, the them who were all around him, waiting to attack if he wasn't careful about what he said.
He was a dead man with a dead hand, and he was playing a deadly game with people who did not gamble.
Kyger knew it even more now because in these two or three intervening days between his visit to Wyland and this next invitation event, he'd done some research into the identity of the Khudama whose disciplines were so revered by the brethren.
It had been a quick trip to the British museum after his visit to the doctor, an idle thought as a way to get his mind off of the torturous throbbing of his hand. It had just been a way to pass the time.
He hadn't expected to find anything. And so he found something.
Khudama was real—an ancient scribe who had invented a system of governance and order that had been adopted over the years by military organizations—and others.
It was the others that caught his eye.
It was a fluid system of rank—it presupposed an organization, or community, would be formed into a world state with a leader who was to be known as the Patriarch, and each state would be divided into provinces, each governed by an Official, and with a descending order of deputies within each community which he designated as citizens, followers, aspirants, and enforcers.
It sounded so very much like the new world order that Tony Venable had advocated, preached, and sold to his adoring followers that it was stunning.
But how that had been corrupted into an overarching secret organization coded with sevens, a number, he came to find out, that signified supremacy, power, intellect, arrogance, and secrecy, was still a mystery to him.
And it proved nothing, except there was some underpinning to the signs and symbols that seemed to haunt him at every turn. But the connection.. . ? Venable had reconfigured the disciplines of Khudama to suit his own philosophy, his own ends.
And the Sacred Seven seemed to be something quite apart from that, except insofar as Venable had been one of them.
A revered one of them. Deep on the inside with the robes, rituals and a secret life, of which they all were a part, with vices that were such a tremendous financial resource for the brethren, they were contemplating continuing his program of recruitment and corruption.
And yet he had died.
No, he was murdered. And with a symbol that could have a seven carved in his chest.
Murdered by whom?
It didn't make sense.
He was one of them.
Except that the disciplines to which the brethren pledged themselves were not the precepts of Tony Venable.
Think about that for a moment. And about how dangerous Venable had become with his autocratic vision of a benevolently patriarchal society.
There was something there—something he couldn't quite catch on to yet—again. The connective tissue ...
Hell, what about his own connective tissue which was like raw meat in his hand. Cryder had to help him dress, and between them, they rigged up an unobtrusive sling, so that his arm had some minimal support.
He stared at himself in the armoire mirror. Nothing elegant here. The collar was too tight, the vest barely buttoned, and the trousers were just that little much too short. Add the sling to that .. . and his limp hand—he looked like a boxer who'd taken a fall.
He flexed his fingers, made a fist, let his hand dangle—no lessening of the pain, even with the support. How was he ever going to get through this evening ,.. ?
.., wait—something in that movement caught his attention. What? Wait-He curled his fingers into a fist again., and then draped his
hand and watched in fascination as his thumb and forefinger involuntarily formed a right angle ... Not a right angle—
... in the mirror, right before his disbelieving eyes—a reverse seven.
Holy shit.
Holy hellfire...
Where—? Where he had seen that... noticed that—?
He wracked his mind. Where in the name of holy seven had he seen that... ?
Hackford. ..
Holy saints—
... entering the card room at the ball—
He closed his eyes, thinking back—
Hackford, holding the whore's breast that night...
He'd thought nothing of it at the time, just that it had been Hackford's way of fondling a whore—
Except it hadn't. It had been something else entirely, and right under his nose.
Too much to call it a secret signal... ? Or—was it that simple—? And that covert and subtle and discreet?
God.
In a crowded room, who would notice?
In the heat of a whore's seduction, who cared?
Unless someone was watching, unless it was mandatory a signal be given ...
He tried it with his right hand, exactly as he remembered Hackford had displayed it.
In the mirror, reflected back to him—a right side seven. Christ.
Sevens everywhere. Secret seven, Sacred Seven ...
The clock struck seven—
It was time to go to a party . ..
Knowledge was an interesting thing. It wasn't that he was looking for signs, symbols or sevens. But now he was aware of the hand signal, he saw it everywhere. And it scared the hell out of him.
From the moment he stepped into Haverdene House, he thought—thought—he read the signal flashing everywhere.
And that was the thing. He might just be hallucinating. He was probably imagining it. The pain in his hand was making him delirious. Maybe...
He stepped into the elegant, burnished entry hall of Haver-dene House, presented his invitation and was escorted to the rear hallway and the gardens.
He paused between the two columns that framed the steps that led down to the garden pathway.
From this vantage point, the gardens seemed like a land of enchantment, with the soft lights, the colorful gowns, the happy buzz of conversation, people turning and greeting each other and those newly arrived, raising a hand w
ith fingers slightly curved in, and the thumb and forefinger pointing out and up ... .. . seven ... No. Yes.
Kyger stood for a moment watching. He wasn't imagining it, it was there. The hailed greetings. Seven. Someone holding out his hand to take another's. Seven. Casually strolling down a pathway, a hand pointing downward as one guest passed another. Seven. Gesturing in conversation. Seven.
This was insane. Sevens everywhere? Everyone? He shook himself. Forced himself to focus on the meandering guests rather than their gestures. Saw the Beddingtons, the Haverdenes. Saw a lot of familiar faces he couldn't identify, faces from parties, from cricket matches, from riding in Hyde Park.
And he kept seeing the hand movement, endlessly, covertly, discreetly, done and gone. Saw it everywhere.
Kept denying what he was seeing. And finally in the distance he saw something that made sense: Angilee.
Vanilla and chocolate, eminently edible and regal as a queen. Angilee. Who was doing just fine without his interference, judging by the two gentlemen by her side. He recognized one of them from the ball, but the other was a stranger. However, the dragon was very properly hovering nearby. Angilee had no need of his protection.
He stepped down into the garden and paid his respects to the Haverdenes before proceeding deeper into the crowd.
He felt like a lion in the jungle, surrounded, wary, edgy, as if there was unseen danger at every turn. Every one of them aligned with the seven. There was no other conclusion; enemies everywhere, or else he was sleepwalking through some kind of deadly dream.
No, it was real. He distinctly felt the stem of the goblet he picked up off of a passing waiter's tray. Felt the champagne bubbles tickling his nose, and the crisp liquid tingling on his tongue. Not a dream. Just signals and sevens everywhere.
Hellfire.
Keep away from Angilee.
Easy enough. There had to be five dozen attractive young girls milling around, looking for someone to talk to, to latch on to, to marry.
He could pretend.
"Hello, I haven't seen you before."
The speaker was young, beautiful, shy, even though she had accosted him.
"Hello." He bowed. "And you are?"
"Oh." She looked around her almost as if she were afraid she was committing some impropriety. Then she smiled. Anyone else would call her beguiling. "I'm Irene. Who are you?"
"I'm Kyger."
"Kyger—" She rolled his name around on her tongue, liking the sound, the fit.
"Would you care for some refreshment?" It was the requisite thing to say. She would say yes, he'd get her a glass of something innocuous unless she preferred champagne, and they would exchange a few flirtatious words until someone more likely came along.
"Thank you." She smiled again. Absolutely fetching, like a shy colt, eager and fresh and new. "Champagne would be fine."
"Truly?"
"We won't tell," she whispered.
A man could fall into those eyes and get caught in those long fluttering eyelashes. He looked for a waiter. She turned to speak to someone. He followed a waiter to pick off a flute of champagne for her, a warrior hero returning to his Queen of Troy with the prize.
And he stopped dead in his tracks.
She was standing with her back to him. She was wearing, properly, a lovely demure virgin white gown with little embellishment except for one telling decoration. At the small of her back, where the draping was gathered, there was a rose. A white rose.
He came up behind her with the champagne flute and touched her there to make her aware he was behind her, and then he handed her the flute, his hand still at her back.
On the rose. The same kind of rose he had seen in the display case in Tony Venable's training room: a pristine white leather rose. And all he had to do was look closely, and he saw there were more. There was a white leather rose pinned on the backs, shoulders, bodices, the belts of the gowns of every girl who was dressed in white.
It was stunning, all at once, all of this evidence of Tony Venable's influence everywhere, even in death.
Those roses were no accidental detail. Someone was procuring these girls. Someone at this party, someone with connections to Venable and the Sacred Seven.
Who, among them, all of them, who had made that discreet hand signal, recruited the girls?
They must have started at the onset of the Season—perhaps before—singling out likely candidates. But what kind of girl did they look for among the preening aristocracy that was so certain of its place and its customs ...
And why would any girl even agree to it... to be marked and set apart and made into an object of domination and dependence. It was just inconceivable, but all the signs, symbols and clues were right here before his eyes, in one of the most socially public places yet.. . "Irene—"
She turned, tilted her head, fluttered her lashes and gave him a speaking look out from under them. "Yes, Kyger?"
"That's a lovely dress. And that rose detail at the back ..."
She smiled, and it was the smile of the Mona Lisa, infinitely knowledgeable, mysterious, self-aware.
He was on very strange footing, but he pressed on, even though he felt as if he were in quicksand. "It catches a man's eye. Makes him look closer."
"Yes," she whispered. "Exactly."
Now what? Mention that he noticed the other girls? Not politic. And there was something in her eyes, the glittery, sheeny look of someone whose expectations had been met. And she was looking at him encouragingly.
He stared back, deep into her eyes, into those innocent, worldly eyes, that beautiful young face, that expression that said, ask me.
He didn't know what to ask.
She helped him. "Do you like what you see?" she whispered barely above a breath.
"Who wouldn't?" he said gallantly.
She waited a beat. "They said you could ask now." Another breathy whisper as if she didn't want anyone to hear her encouraging him.
"Did they ..." he murmured.
"I'm in training, you know. I promise, I'll be so good. I'll do just what you want, anything you want." She sent him another deep speaking look. "Anytime you want."
Somehow he kept the shock from his face. Somehow he looked past her compelling eyes, looked around him, and suddenly perceived what this party was about.
All around him, in little conversational knots, the girls in the white gowns with the leather rose detail were soliciting their potential masters.
Not the procurer, whoever he might be—the girls themselves.
Holy hellfire.
And here was the sweet little Irene, enchanted by the idea he might want her, he might buy her, and she would have the privilege of servicing him the rest of her youthful life.
Good God.
By invitation only. Signal you're one of us and you will be discreetly approached.
All those sevens. All these men. All these dewy young girls ... marked already by the white leather rose.
"Well?" There was just a thread of impatience in Irene's voice. He hadn't leapt at her offer; she was ready to move on.
What to say? "I would love to in other circumstances," he said gently, "but I have someone."
"Well, why should that matter?" Irene asked petulantly.
"It does."
"Is she here?"
Kyger shot a look over to where Angilee was still deep in conversation with Trevor Smythe. She was an out, an escape; he could make his way over, say a few words and get out of this slave market.
"She is. Over there."
Irene looked over there. "Oh," she said. "Well. Then you'll want to rescue her."
"I think I do," Kyger said. He didn't have to make a polite withdrawal—Irene just turned away and hooked herself onto the next passing gentleman.
Jesus. And all around him, negotiations were going on, or the girls had had no success and were moving on to the next prospect.
After all, that was why they were all here.
And the sociable, access
ible Haverdenes—they were involved, too?
It was a web of invisible strands tightening around him. The only thing that made sense was Angilee. And the whole thing with her had never made any sense.
Nor did it tonight. He ought to Just leave. He was feeling queasy enough at the situation. He felt as if he was a sojourner in a different kind of hell.
He eyed the situation with Angilee. She looked restless and uncomfortable, but there really was no reason to approach her other than Irene might be watching to see if he had told the truth or if he had just been looking for an excuse to reject her.
Hell, was this whole damned pornographic world watching?
He moved slowly toward Angilee, still undecided. Her gaze kept covertly sliding to one side, and when he looked in that direction, he saw why she was so edgy.
Her father wasn't ten yards away, hovering, waiting, engaged in impatient conversation with a tall, cool, ascetic-looking gentleman who was also staring tightly at Angileee, and it seemed as if both of them were just waiting for the right moment to swoop down on her and corner her.
To do what? What could they do in this company, where every move was suspect and everyone closely watched?
His gut tightened. There was danger all around, for him, for Angilee.
That man with Angilee's father—there was something ominous about him—the way he was looking at Angilee, as if there was a volcanic fury in him, and he couldn't wait to take it out on her.
... or was that the one her father had wanted her to marry ... ?
Hellfire.
If he even got near her .. .
He moved closer. The father and his friend moved closer.
Angilee saw them. She put her hand on Trevor Smythe's sleeve. The other gentleman bowed and excused himself, and the father and his friend moved closer.
Angilee looked panicked. She said something to Trevor Smythe, and he shook his head.
Kyger moved closer, and noticed that the dragon was nowhere around. The dragon had discreetly left Angilee and her potential suitors alone, hoping something would happen.
And something was going to happen: she was wide open for her father and her would-be fiance to approach her and prevent her from gracefully withdrawing.