THE AIR in the private lounge didn't stay quiet for long. The heavy doors groaned open, and the sounds of the gala flooded back in—a discordant symphony of string instruments that sounded like they were weeping and the low, predatory hum of voices.
Grayson had been swept away by a tide of lesser lords and opportunists, all eager to press their luck with the new owner of Vane's seat.
From the doorway of the lounge, Mailah watched him. He stood in the center of a circle of demons, a glass of dark, shimmering liquid in his hand.
He wasn't the man who had cooked her food before. He looked taller, his posture straighter, and there was a wild, erratic edge to his movements.
"He's drinking the distilled essence of the 'tithe' wine. Combined with what he took from Vane? He's going to be absolutely smashed by midnight," Ravenson muttered, appearing at Mailah's shoulder.
