Pyro

Chapter 4

"Goddammit," I spat, fiddling with the tie. The black tie battled my spindly fingers, and I thrust it down in frustration. "Goddamned ties."

Quinn chuckled, lying on my bed, flipping through one of my random magazines. The pages rustled and he tossed my magazine aside carelessly. It thumped upon landing. "Dude, your dad is gonna rip you to shreds if you ruin that tie."

I sighed and scooped it up, wrapping it around my neck. I peered at myself in the human-sized mirror, staring at the gray suit. Completed with burnished black shoes and a light blue dress shirt, much like the one I wore earlier, the suit screeched "I HAVE MONEY!"

"Say, did you come by my house?" Quinn asked.

I stared in the mirror. My fingers twitched, aching to run through my hair and be rid of the slick gel that kept every strand in place. Should I tell him? I thought, clasping my hands together in an attempt to avoid fiddling with the cufflinks, wrinkling my suit, or ruining my hair.

"No. I left you that voicemail, then my dad had to make me stay for party preparations," I said, affirming my decision not to say anything. After all, I hadn't decided what to do about the offer yet.

I glanced at Quinn, still lying on my bed. "The maids just tiddied up my room."

He grinned. He jumped off the bed and brushed his suit, leaving my bed covers rumpled. It irked me, but I sighed, exasperated. "Whatever, let's just go."

I swung open the door and exhaled emphatically, descending the stairs. My fingers ran down the golden handrail, designs of flowers, leaves, and trees etched into it. Each of my steps echoed in the enormous mansion, as did Quinn's.

Quinn, out of breath and wheezing for air, caught up me and coughed out, "What has your knickers in a twist?"

I paused and frowned at him. "'Knickers in a twist'?"

He coughed once more and nodded. "Yeah. British people say that, right?"

I rolled my eyes and continued my descent, landing on the floor.

Maids bustling and carrying silver platters rushed by, cheeks red and puffy, sweat coating their skin. All of them wore their hair in ponytails or braids. On the flipside, the men's suits were prim, proper, and pristine; their hair was slicked back, keeping it in place. Father spared no expense assuring everything was perfect- even the appearances of the maids and butlers.

Quinn whistled softly. "Damn," he said, voicing my thoughts. A maid, blonde hair whipping behind her, tore past us. Quinn's eyes followed her. "Hey, who's she?"

I followed his finger and the maid, hair up in a ponytail, paused to talk to one of the young butlers, cheeks flushed. "I don't know all of the staff that work here."

Quinn smoothed down his suit, a sly grin spreading cheek to cheek. "Your loss." He strode to the maid, slicking back his hair. With his superlative black suit and a predatory glint in his eyes, he set off on a Sisyphean quest to 'seduce' the maid, as he liked to say.

The guy couldn't seduce his way out of a wet paper bag.

If it went anything like last time, a three thousand suit was doomed to be drenched with red wine and Quinn was destined to whine about how women don't know good men when they see them.

I looked on at the ballroom, the flowery damask tiles of the floor sparkling, ornate chandeliers oscillating, caterers, maids, and butlers hustling, and couldn't help but hold my breath. The sheer amount of activity before grand events never failed to astound me.

But, this time, something else busied my mind.

The man who offered me information on the Traders in exchange for my willing participation as a mercenary occupied my thoughts. Was chasing down Rebecca's killers worth becoming a killer myself?