The First Age

Wasn't the first time a girl had left him on the dance floor. Wouldn't be the last. Xander shook his head and wandered back off the dancefloor. That went well.

Kristian grabbed another drink from the bar, this time not stopping or mingling. He walked the edge of everything watching and scanning the light auras. If there was anything new to pick up he'd do so. But perhaps flirting and mingling weren't the game for tonight. His head was starting to hurt again.

Carter navigated the party with an ease that belied his lack of invitation. The mask—a simple black one—hid his identity just enough to make him feel comfortable, even as it allowed him to blend in with the other guests. The masquerade was a sea of people, but where every guest seemed more beautiful than the last, Carter’s eyes were fixed on only one: Colette.

His heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and resentment as he watched her from the periphery. Colette, resplendent in a blue gown that shimmered under the chandeliers, moved with effortless grace. Towering protectively over her was Adrian, whose name Carter came to learn and her date for the evening. Carter’s jaw tightened every time he saw Adrian's hand on the small of Colette's back, guiding her here and there.

How had she climbed so high, so quickly? How had she replaced him so easily? The questions gnawed at him, fueling the fire of jealousy that burned in his chest. It was incomprehensible how Colette could have moved on so swiftly. Hadn’t their relationship meant something to her? Even if she was the one who ended it, their feelings ran deep, not so easily dismissed. Not weeks ago she was center of her world, just as she was the center of his.

He stayed to the edges, moving behind larger guests, turning out of sight whenever Colette's gaze seemed to wander in his direction. The mask helped, but his presence was still a risk. If she saw him, if she realized he was in Moscow before he was ready, it could ruin everything. He had to bide his time, wait for the perfect moment to approach her.

The time passed slowly, each one marked by the growing tension in his gut. He watched as Colette laughed at something Adrian said, her eyes sparkling in a way that made Carter's heart ache. He knew he was being irrational, that his jealousy was consuming him, but he couldn’t help it. Envy whispered dark words in his ear, reminding him of what he had lost, taunting him with visions of what could have been.

Eventually, Carter needed a moment to collect himself, to silence the raging thoughts in his mind. He made his way to the bar, slipping onto an empty stool. The bartender, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, approached him immediately.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

“Scotch. Neat,” Carter replied, his voice steady despite the frustration built inside.

As he waited for his drink, he glanced around the bar area. It was slightly less crowded than the main ballroom, offering a momentary respite from the constant pressure of the evening. His eyes fell on the woman sitting next to him, and for a moment, he forgot about Colette entirely.

She was stunning, with a sophistication that was almost palpable. Her dress, a slender black number that plunged into revealing cleavage, clung to her body in a way that was both elegant and provocative. Her hair was styled in loose waves, framing a face that was as alluring as it was confident. She turned slightly, meeting his gaze with a pair of piercing eyes framed by an elegant mask.

“We should throw masquerades more often. They make the night interesting, to say the least.” He spoke by way of ice-breaker. “And they make the women desperately beautiful,” he added casually, insinuating her, obviously. “Would you like another?” He gestured at her drink, invitation apparent.

Guillaume stepped away from the loading dock, enjoying the slight buzz of his earlier indulgence and the adrift ease of released pleasure. The night air was crisp, sharpening his smirk as he moved towards the party’s heart, the name he’d been given during the dalliance echoing in his mind. P—he’d heard stories about it since he’d arrived in the city. It was supposed to be the pinnacle of experiences, and now, finally, he had a lead. Not bad for only arriving days ago.

He entered the men’s lounge with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, the kind that came naturally to someone who was used to being the center of attention. The room was filled with a few men milling about, the space a mix of sophistication and decadence that suited Guillaume perfectly; the monkey earned an appreciative nod for the exotic choice. He adjusted his mask—a sleek, gold half-mask that accentuated the sharp features of his jaw and mouth—and surveyed those within, his gaze landing on two men drenched in the blue light of the tank.

Each exuded a kind of presence that marked them as important. The first, with his dark, brooding intensity, and the second, whom he presumed was Grigori, the name of whose social searches revealed a face, with a more aloof, casual air. Guillaume’s instincts told him he was in the right place.

With a smirk that could charm the devil himself, Guillaume approached, his movements fluid and unhurried. A serpent slithering through the grass, he seemed to glide across the floor. He had a magnetic presence that drew eyes and attention, both from men and women; attention he did not dissuade.

“Hello fellow masked ballers,” Guillaume said, his voice a smooth, melodic drawl of a native French speaker. He might have stripped the mask from his face during the introduction but that it looked so good on him, there was no point.

“Guillaume Volthström,” he introduced himself to both, but it was to the smooth-headed Grigori that he turned. “I hear you like to party, and as testament to the host family, I come bearing favors, if anyone is interested?” He glanced at them both as he retrieved a bag from his inner jacket pocket.

He wasn’t absent from the party for very long, but long enough, he noted upon his return. The mask was returned to his face, but that did not stop those around him from flocking to his identity. He paused to chat with several attendees, congratulating them on various achievements or inquiring about loved ones as though he recalled personal details of their lives. Eventually, he found and spoke privately with Valentin, after which he returned to Konstantin, and speaking with him privately. Whatever was shared was confirmed, after which word spread that within the hour, the Ascendancy was going to make an announcement.

Jensen still didn’t understand his presence at such a party, and nobody particularly engaged with him after Kristian, Noémi, and Raffe. so it was with a measure of loneliness that he went on a search for a library. The ballroom, bar, and grand staircase were most populated with guests, and after making his way through them, he found only room after room of extravagant displays. Artwork, tapestries, furnishings, sculptures, gilding and marble — they were beautiful, but he could discern no observable function. One room was decorated entirely in pink while another was green florals, yet both were indistinguishable. Finally, he found a room with a grand piano in a corner, but it was the only sign that the space may serve as a conservatory.

Finally, with hands in his pockets, he determined that there was no discernible library in the estate, which was probably for the best as he assumed few books in such a collection would be in English. At least the search gave him a purpose, he surmised, and switched to studying the intricate details of a mural.

Sprawled across the ceiling, it was certainly as palatial as all the other murals, but it was this particular scene that captured his attention.

Celestial warriors clad in armor and wielding swords of gleaming gold suggesting the heavenly hosts of Archangels, clashed against dark counterparts, whose twisted faces contorted in defiance. Fallen angels, their still-beautiful faces marred by corruption, their silver armor dented and damaged, fought with savage desperation. Their tattered wings contrasted sharply with the pure, white feathers of their heavenly adversaries. 

For some reason, the mural broke his heart yet he could not look away.

Colette was having the time of her life. She met many people, happily introducing herself and falling into easy conversation everywhere she went. At first she yielded to Adrian’s direction, letting him speak first and supporting him as the priority attention; however, as time passed, and more champagne was consumed, she decided that her handsome date cared more about mingling with everyone else than her. So she decided she wasn’t going to be held back any longer and before he knew it, she was the dominant conversationalist. At some point, he finally remembered the purpose of this function and asked her for a dance; however, before she could finally partake, she lit up by a distraction.

“Sofia, you are stunning,” she gasped. The red dress stood out, as few others chose the bold color tonight, and true to her power, people even stepped aside to allow her to pass like a queen among the people. Colette squeezed Adrian’s arm in anticipation, but also because she wanted to enjoy the experiencing of his bicep.

“Adrian, do you know Sofia Vasileva?” She asked, eyes sparkling with excitement. She acknowledged the man accompanying Sofia as well, though she did not know his name. He exuded an air of importance, but Colette had not merely been mingling all this time. Amidst the small-talk she learned things, and one of them was that his presence was completely mysterious. Few knew who he was, and those that did said very little.

After carrying it in the crook of his elbow for the best part of half an hour, Grisha finally discarded the potted plant with one of the wait staff, before continuing his meandering journey amongst the guests. He was easy company and graciously welcomed, clapping hands on the shoulders of his father’s friends, and promising dances to women who pinched his cheeks while they lamented the small boy he’d once been and admired the man he had become. It was the same every year. Grisha was never in one place for too long, and it was to the men’s lounge he retired when he decided he’d shown enough of his face. The pomp and splendour of the formal occasion was not entirely his thing, but family was family.

He wasn’t surprised when Tarik found him, and welcomed the man easily into his company. His older brother’s friend, technically – in fact Dima’s friendship with Tarik long predated Maksim’s courting of Alina, a furious blow-up at the time, but such bridges were long since mended. For Grisha’s part, he’d never had issues with any of the eclectic Marveet clan, whatever the fierce hot-and-cold interplay of his siblings. The turbulence nearly always passed him by, else he was the sole calming influence in the storm. At least until Pavel got involved and pissed on everyone’s bonfire.

The vodka was shared amiably between them, and the following transaction went with the smooth discretion of long association. Grisha didn’t intrude on another man’s high. By now he’d claimed a seat, legs propped, suit jacket discarded and shirt sleeves folded back over tattooed arms. His throat was unbuttoned. There’d never even been a bowtie.

He appraised the stranger’s approach with half a smile, appreciative and not unfriendly. There were no Volthströms on the guestlist, but Grisha was not about to point it out; nor did he particularly mind how the man found his way here. His information was a little off, but Grisha didn’t mind that either. “Welcome, welcome.” He grinned and waved a casual hand in invitation to join. Meanwhile he spared a half a glance for Tarik, but P was a journey that could not always be interrupted. The man might be seeing anything, a thousand miles away, or he might be more aware of the company. Every time was different. Grisha wouldn’t call attention to it.

“What do you have?” The curiosity was genuine. Grisha didn’t partake, or not much; there was no money in it for a dealer to become addicted to what he pedalled. Possibly Guillaume mistook him with Dima’s reputation; easy done, given the amount of time Grisha also spent at the club. But since tonight of all night’s his brother needed to behave, Grisha was not displeased to have forewarning of what might be doing the rounds.

Her concerns for Rafael only grew in his silence. He did not attempt to smile again, just looked back at her in tired contemplation. Noémi slipped her arm through his; in support, not to keep him rooted against his will. Though if he departed, she did not know what she would do; she knew no one else here, and despite the elegance with which she carried herself, she knew she would not fit in amongst these people. They might not know she did not belong, but she would. Yet the concern for her own troubles was only superficial. Nikolai knew she had come as he asked, and it was not like any true moments could be spared for them here. This whole evening was an exercise in deep longing. Despite the beautiful dress and exquisite mask, and despite the way his gaze across the distance made her feel, she knew this was not a fairytale in which she ended in the prince’s arms.

She talked quietly to Rafael as they walked the floor – filling the silence so he did not have to. He seemed to settle back into himself, but she could tell Kristian’s words had unnerved him somehow. It was also clear he didn’t wish to talk. But she began to believe the other man had been right. This was not so simple as a broken heart.

Eventually he requested air; a moment to revive himself, and return. The gaze she turned up to him was full of emotion, but of course she did not stop him from seeking the fortification of solitude. Her hand pressed warmth to his cheek. Rafael protested a weak smile, a sheen to his eyes behind the wood-carved mask, and left. Noémi’s arm returned slowly to her side, feeling exposed, but unwilling to allow her own frailties to lean on his when he was so wounded. She watched him slip safely beneath the arch of a gilt door before she gathered herself.

A champagne from the bar kept her hands busy, though she was too nervous to actually drink it. Not because of her isolation in an estate full of people – in her own company, she was quite content – but for who she did not wish to see. That dark omen hovered like mist on water, and in truth she never really thought she could avoid the confrontation forever. It was a risk she had accepted the moment she read the invitation, and knew she would attend, despite the family who hosted the celebration.

She remained for a while, listening to the conversations around her. Until the barest overheard whisper tied a surprising knot in her chest. Discretion was an art she was intimately familiar with, and there was nothing overt in what she heard. But she knew what it meant. And when she looked for Nikolai, it was as though someone had flayed open her heart. For he was indeed nowhere to be seen.

Noémi moved without thinking, uncertain of herself for the first time. Had she seen Jensen or Kristian, she might have sought solace in at least somewhat familiar company, but the floor was awash with faces unfamiliar – or worse, faces she would rather avoid. She breathed deeply, armoured herself in resilience anew. For all her night with Nikolai had impressed a fatal love upon her own soul, they had made no promises, and only she had offered devotion. She had no reason to think she would be his only one. Which did not alleviate the pain. But it allowed her to wrap herself in practised demurity, and accept the consequences of her own making. And she could accept. What choice was there, for a woman like her? But she did not wish to witness it.

“Noémi?”

Surprise flared her eyes, and she took a polite step back. But Dima had never been one for distance, and he closed it in a heartbeat. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark as sin; he filled her entire vision. Her pulse spiked like the fear of prey, though he had never hurt her physically. His hand was already stroking her cheek like she was some rare jewel, as though he might just lift the delicate mask right from her face in his wonder and possession. “God it's you. You look exquisite.”

He was looking at her like he could fathom no other reason for her presence than as a gift to him. Which he might well believe, given their history. She tried to encourage his hand away, a smile of placation on her lips. Sofia was here somewhere, a blood red queen of vengeance, and Dmitri was turbulent at the best of times. A scene now would be excruciating, not least if Sofia was compelled to reveal the sizeable payment that had extricated her from her brother’s life. It was half the reason Noémi had finally been able to leave the work.

His hands were everywhere, prising the drink from her hand, slipping the burnished curls of her hair through his fingers in awe. He stared down boldly. She had never known a man so intense, until Nikolai, but unlike Nikolai, Dima was like the electricity of storms. Unpredictable. Inescapable. And he didn’t understand no. So when he pulled her forward, she was uncertain how to free herself beyond weathering his attention. His arm circled her waist, and for a moment she was terrified he would try to kiss her, but he only grinned and guided them onto the dancefloor.

He readily allowed Sofia to flaunt her magnificent date, knowing it was far easier to be ushered into society that way. Zixin played the charming, smiling persona to perfection; the Kao family was practically royalty in Singapore, after all. His commentary, snide remarks, and crudeness seemed to entertain her, so he continued, sharing little nuggets of distaste, judgment, and sarcasm every few minutes like secrets between lovers.

His demeanor shifted when the speeches began. He morphed into an observer, outwardly watching the glamorous kings of the Custody but subtly watching everyone else watching them. He may have a good grasp on the Syndicate’s relationship with other criminal organizations, but this palace in the clouds was new territory for him. Sofia was providing first-hand experience, after all. He would be grateful if she allowed him the chance.

“To coming out on top,” he replied, clinking glasses with her and sipping the (not terrible) champagne. Her meaning was a mystery, though he inferred she had her own agenda for Moscow and her place in this city of gods.

They were finally rid of the lawyer and (what was her name?) date. Though Zixin already made mental plans to contact Daniil as every good criminal needed a sleazy lawyer once in a while. Where she caressed his arm, he gave the muscle beneath a subtle flex for reward, and his imagination spun quite naturally to her naked body pulsing beneath him. Unfortunately, the moment passed all too soon, and he was introduced to someone Sofia claimed as a friend.

“Zixin Kao,” he offered when the moment came. His English was perfect, which was perhaps unexpected given his obvious heritage.

Adrian did not exactly forget Colette’s presence. How could he, with her chattering on about everything she saw? He found himself enjoying her company less and less. It was that incessant bubbliness; he had hoped alcohol would tone her down, but the flutes of champagne only seemed to fill her with more air.

He finally noticed that she felt overlooked, but her subtle domination of conversations did not go unnoticed. He felt only a little bad about it and figured he should attempt to make some sort of effort, so he asked her to dance.

Adrian was not a dancer. He preferred to be rooted to the ground, firm and in place. The swaying and bending and sliding was not his style, but he would bet a thousand dollars that Colette liked to dance, so that was what he offered. Luckily enough, she was distracted by the approach of an associate.

Of course he knew Sofia Vasilieva. She was a Moscow icon; mixture of celebrity, influencer, and socialite, Sofia could exist unnoticed any more than Colette could shut the fuck up. As Colette previously explained at length, this connection was her entrance to the Moscow social circle. How the hell did they even meet?

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he answered Colette’s question without addressing the fact that of course he knew her, and offered to shake Sofia’s hand if she would take it. His gaze was sharp, neither leering nor overawed. He truly hadn’t had an opportunity to meet her face to face. He looked at her as if examining her, weighing her for value. It had nothing to do with something as superficial as gender, but rather her potential in helping him achieve his own ambitions.

Next, he considered the man at her side, who readily introduced himself. Adrian accepted the handshake with as much grip as Zixin provided. Not surprisingly, both attempted to out-squeeze the other, but Adrian only let go when he noticed the barest hint of pressure creasing Zixin’s eyes.

“Adrian Kane,” he said in turn, before addressing Sofia once more. “Congratulations to your parents, Miss Vasilieva.” It was the expected sort of pleasantry to offer, and Adrian barely pulled off actually meaning it.

This was going to be a fruitful conversation.