“Have you heard the news?”
Vanessa melted into one of the clusters of partygoers, sipping her champagne as if she had been there the whole time, raising an eyebrow at the woman on her left’s excited utterance.
“There’s news? I must’ve missed it.”
They were ecstatic to have a newcomer, this circle she’d joined, explaining and reexplaining the same gossip she had steeled herself to hear repeatedly through the night. The group around her tightened ranks, their circle closing, excited whispers piling together into an indistinct susurration until the dark-haired woman on her left leaned in again.
“Jackson Hemming is running for mayor. You know what that means. Changes will be coming soon, mark my words, and they’re all in our favor.”
Vanessa had perfected an expression of artless innocence that served her well in the courtroom, and she employed it then.
“Running for mayor where? In Bridgeton? I didn’t think our election was for another two years! Just goes to show how much I pay attention, I guess . . . I can’t see a werewolf being elected, though, not with a human population of that size.”
Several of the other guests huffed in exasperation at the foolishness of her comment. Of course, not Bridgeton — despite being the closest city, one of the largest in the state, where political aspiration might ripple beyond the well-insulated bubble of these privileged partygoers. She feigned ignorance as they corrected her misassumption, explaining the power dynamics in tiny, neighboring Cambric Creek. Multi-species. Werewolves and shifters started the town, didn’t she know; should be running the town, and it was a relief that they would be again.
“I guess I’ve never been that interested in politics,” she shrugged, setting her empty flute on the tray of a passing server before turning to move on. The champagne had a sweet effervescence, certainly a top-shelf choice and fine for a crowd this size, but it was hardly his favorite. Correction: some expenses were spared. “Jackson Hemming, he’s the host tonight, right? I haven’t met him.” She turned away, unable to hold back her small, self-satisfied smile as the man to her right snorted in disgust at her ignorance.
She didn’t wait to hear their corrections. Jackson should be there, she thought, moving on to the next group of people. He ought to be schmoozing and rubbing elbows, participating in the ancient rituals, leaving his judgment and the stick that lived up his ass at the door . . . but this wasn’t his party, and that wasn’t her business. One group of people turned into two, then three, on and on, the same tired gossip, identical masks, all blurring together until she was finally able to ascend the stone staircase, pushing through the crowd at the open, gilded doors.
The interior ballroom was similarly populated with circles of clucking hens and circling servers, but she knew it would not stay that way for long. Soon the altar space would be thick with incense and smoke. The music, which was currently so courtly and mild, would escalate slowly, gradually beginning to rise in intensity, nearly without notice. A drumbeat that would seem to thunder in her chest until her heart had absorbed its rhythm would keep the crowd in thrall as the wolves entered — as they ran, as the women in their path shrieked, skins striking skin, hands fitting against the curve of hips, cocks slipping between parted thighs like puzzle pieces slotting together. For now, though, the music was sedate, matching the elbow-rubbing that took place amongst this crowd of the well-heeled elite.
A slow scan of the room showed her where the altar space was set up and the doorways through which the wolves would enter. And there, along the far left wall, she saw him on a raised platform separated from the crowd by a gilded railing. The evening’s host.
He was tall and impossibly broad, with wide shoulders, heavy with muscle, a brick wall of a wolf. The definition of tall, dark, and handsome, at least she had always thought so, his square jaw and firm chin providing a striking profile, even with the black domino mask concealing the top portion of his face. The golden railing kept him separated from the rabble in an aloof bubble in the midst of what looked like a heated conversation with several other men.
“That’s one of the Hemmings,” hissed the woman who had sidled up to where she stood, following Vanessa’s line of sight. Human, from the smell of her, one of the seat fillers. Bursting with recently acquired knowledge and overeager to share, Vanessa thought, a suspicion the girl all but confirmed as she plowed on. “He’s the host. And I think that might be one of his brothers behind him. And the short one is Hasty Harland. No, wait. That’s not it. Harland Hast—”
“Harmond Hastings,” Vanessa corrected, her eyes not leaving the bigger man’s black mask. “Of Hastings-Durning Pharma.”
The name didn’t seem to ring a bell for the human girl, unsurprising considering she hadn’t spent most of her ovulating life taking monthly heat suppressants bearing the Hastings-Durning name. Whoever had brought the girl was a name-dropper, but Vanessa gave her credit — she was clearly a quick study.
“But you’re right . . . that is one of the Hemmings, and the other is one of the brothers. Probably the one running for mayor. That’s all anyone is talking about.”
It wasn’t. Even with the mask, she could tell from across the room that it was Trapp standing beside Grayson, his megawatt smile hardened into a scowl, the only two expressions he seemed to possess, but this human didn’t need to know that. Better to cause confusion. That’s how rumors get started. Sure enough, the human woman’s eyes widened behind her own mask, and Vanessa could almost see the gears turning in her head, the way her eyes darted around quickly, looking for someone with whom she might share this newly gleaned nugget.
Whatever conversation was taking place between the men, it didn’t look like an especially friendly chat, and Vanessa rolled her eyes, turning away from the sight of the men and the human girl to insert herself into one of the many conversation clusters around the ballroom, hoping the ongoing gossip of the night wouldn’t overshadow the actual ceremony.
“Have you heard the news?” The blonde who addressed her was the same one she’d stood behind outside the doors, eavesdropping as the woman complained to her companion over having to wear a mask, waiting until the last possible second to slip it over her head. Vanessa knew that beneath the black domino, she had wide green eyes and a permanently frozen expression, thanks to a few too many trips to the aesthetician, her eyebrows arched in a creaseless forehead. “The wolves are coming back into power!”
The masks worn by each attendee were identical, adding to the air of mystery and hedonism surrounding the events, an excellent touch added by the party planners. Even with the masks in place, Vanessa recognized the blonde woman as the owner of a small jewelry shop operated by the same family for several generations, the russet-haired man to her left the proprietor of a Main Street restaurant and the satyr beside him from the local paper. A shifter couple with an important family name, a millennial bohemian who’d come wearing a nearly sheer stola, who had a loft in the city where she hosted gallery showings that doubled as prescription drug swap meets. The Cambric Creek elite . . . and you.
“I didn’t realize they’d ever left power. Someone should have told Jack,” she quipped lightly, earning a titter from several of the others, the satyr raising his champagne flute in agreement. “I can’t believe so many people drove this far to discuss local politics,” she went on, draining her glass. Every conversation from which she’d extricated herself had been of the exact same, circular nature, the last thing she wanted to talk about, and she’d only just arrived. “You do know that Cambric Creek is a flyspeck on the map in the grand scheme of things, right? From the way people are acting, you’d think it was the White House.”
