He could feel Michael's gaze sizzle upon his skin. Indoctrination into the Atharim was one of the great secrets of his life, but after revealing himself to their Regus, he cared less and less about hiding the truth.
Many nights he'd considered walking into their building he had as a youth. The Historical Society was the face of their deception, but Nikolai once walked the heart of their catacombs, none could stop him should he decide to enter. But when he did, it would be to raze the organization from within, and as he said, the Atharim needed recalibration, not elimination.
He smoothed his sleeve and not so much as a wrinkle marred the cloth. It gave him time to fix his eyes upon something else while Michael described the assassin. His mind turned the pages he began to memorize in Bologna.
"Dreyken? They like the dark?" He'd asked of Garret.
"Not so much they like the dark, as they don't like the light."
"An Ijiraq, it could be."
He lifted his gaze, and himself. "Not even the Atharim know how to kill one. They don't know if they can be killed."
Legend said they were used as spies and assassins, but the means to control an ijiraq was lost. "But trust me, nothing exists that cannot be killed."
The king of the dead would know, and Nikolai heralded death as fierce he dealed in cold mercy.
He slipped the jacket on and arranged the way it sat on his shoulders in front of a mirror. The white shirt and vest were soft as fresh snow against the harsh outline of black tails. The double-crescent pin gleamed on his lapel. When he turned, his gaze fell to a box.
It was time to reveal the ornament within. He crossed to open it.
"If they cannot be reasoned with, they will be replaced.
" Nikolai decreed without hesitation. Five hundred million dollars per year of his own money funded the Atharim's cause. The funds could be put toward his own machinery, but delegation was worth something as well. He could not oversee every project on the planet, nor did he want to.
"We will speak about further details soon, but not as mere gods,"
he lifted the lid. Cold blue eyes settled on the contents briefly before returning to Michael. "As Ascendants."
The correction was without rebuke.
That was what they were.
They were the greats.
Marcus watched himself in the mirror as he manipulated his tie using a flow of air. It took his concentration, but he needed the practice, needed to become more dexterous with the Force. Tonight was going to be one of the most important nights of his life. He felt the anticipation burn in his stomach. Ascendancy would speak at the Christmas dinner party and even mention him as the latest Sigma. The last few weeks had highlighted how prestigious an honor that was, as people looked at him with curious eyes. He was a foreigner, an American, and black. Three reasons some of those in power might be skeptical of him. But to be accepted as a Sigma was the beginning of a powerful career, one that Ascendancy himself sanctioned. Malik smiled. It was hard not to think of this as an anointing, of sorts, though he knew that he had to keep that thought in a dark secret place. He had observed the running of the palace, the casual and professional rivalries and jockeying, and marveled at how efficient it kept people, how it channeled ambition. These were deep waters and he needed to keep his wits about him at all times. Somehow, though, eventually, he would get Ascendancy’s attention. Every day here cemented his desire to learn from the man. But until that day came, he would continue to apply himself to learning everything he could- the ins and outs of power, the dynamics, the methodologies and propaganda.
Currently, he was working in the Communication Consulate. He was impressed to see all the tools that the CCD had at its disposal for controlling the flow of information; the ocean that broke into branches and then rivers and rivulets, streams, finally to trickling capillaries that fed not just every part of the mighty empire but also the world. The flow itself was a powerful tool, allowing the government to flood a region with news and entertainment to mask an event or trend; to choke off an area for the purposes of building up resentment, purposelessness or dissent. He realized that over the years, that had been a primary method of getting other nations to join the CCD of their own free will- they thought, never realizing how they had been manipulated into it.
He now understood why there were two Consulates devoted to communication, propaganda and psy-ops. And Alexendrova and Bykov’s relationship made more sense. It was really one operation with two arms, each complementing the other, doing far more together than if they had been apart, or worse, at each other’s throats. Ascendancy must have been very careful in his selection of those two, given the influence those departments had. Malik smiled, remembering their conversation. Alexandrova had been testing him about his ideas of center nations. That was what their Consulate did, creating both the sense of superiority and idealization of the CCD itself as a center nation, as well as fed the edge nation mentality to those countries that were not, breeding insecurity and dissatisfaction. He was thoroughly impressed at how well it worked in the US. He had sensed the edge nation’s feelings in his home country- had himself felt them- and yet never suspected how much of it was being enhanced by the Consulate. More than ever, he was glad to be out of that place and here where things mattered, where things were being done that he understood and whole-heartedly believed in.
He gave his tie one last tug with the tread of air. He always used a double-windsor so his tie would be a perfect triangle. He hated the single, with its lopsided knot. It looked so sloppy. Then, for good measure, dimpled the center of the tie into 2 wrinkles just below the knot. Perfect. Tonight had to be perfect. Not just because of Ascendancy, though. No. Things had changed in the last few days as word from the troubles down in DV came back. Not the fighting itself. That was just another example of the chaos that grew out of a poorly run government, especially when irrational sensibilities governed the mentality. If ever a region needed more informational control that was it. You’d not get the older generation of course. They were too far gone. But the younger…There was an interesting thought there, one that he’d need to think about further. Maybe even talk to others in the Consulate.
No, what concerned him were the tales of magic during the battles. He’d listened quietly, piecing together facts. There were precious few, many of them seeming fantastical. One man facing down an entire army and laying waste to it? Or was it a building? The stories changed. But behind it all, Malik knew the truth. Other Force users were out there and had discovered their power. Were perhaps more powerful than him. He’d have to take of that part himself. He didn’t know if there was a limit to his strength, but he’d already noticed that his weaves had gotten brighter and thicker in just the last few weeks. It was logical. He’d been using the Force almost exclusively for every day simple things, things he normally did by hand. Just as he had been repeatedly working out with weights and training a few days a week. He’d noted improvement there as well. Floating the jacket to him on a thread of air- he had to let the other thread go first, a limitation that was increasingly irritating to him- he put it on. He could only do one thing at a time. That could prove very dangerous, especially with other Force users around. From the stories he’d heard, he could only assume they were using many weaves at once. Of course, it could just be exaggeration, but he thought not. It didn’t make sense that you couldn’t use more than one weave at a time. The Force elements were always there in infinite supply. So it had to do with the mind, then.
The idea of stronger Force users bothered Malik greatly. Now, more than ever, it was imperative that he keep himself hidden. And that he identify other threats, aside from Pyotr. He’d started with the man, but it was slow going. His need to be embarrassed was a hugely irritating obstacle to overcome. In frustrated desperation after Pytor failed yet again to find the Force, Malik had told him to take his clothes off all the way to his underwear and then stand on the balcony. That had done it. Finally. He was then able to show Pyotr the 5 elements of the Force and how they could each be used by themselves. He wasn’t going to show him more complex weaves yet. And even then, only a small number of them. It was slow going, but Pyotr finally got a small puff of air from a single thread. Marcus could see the thread clearly, just as he could back when he was teaching Andre. That was the danger. Threads and weaves were visible. When Pyotr held the Force, there was a definite sense of menace in the room. Since Marcus knew where it was from, he automatically fixated on Pyotr. But if he went into another room, the sense faded. So it had a range. But if he was in sight, Malik could see Pyotr’s weaves clearly, even when not holding the source. At least at this distance, he could. A snakey conduit of air was not going to cut it. He had to hide the things he did.
Until he learned to do that, though, he’d be very circumspect. He practiced his Ether flash-bang again and again, seizing the Force, throwing out the weave, and letting the Force go. Again and again, he practiced, getting faster and faster, until finally, he could do it in a single second. He hoped it would be enough. He was going to need to use it tonight. The Hall where they had the dinner would be filled with powerful people from all over the empire. If ever there was a place for other Force users to be, that would be it. He would have to be very careful, though. This was a dangerous risk he was going to be taking.
Malik took a deep breath and calmed himself. He was a Sith Lord. He’d be careful. But the way of the Sith was always going to be dangerous one. Especially here at the center of power.
An Ijiraq. Placing a name on the creature did little, and the Atharim's lack of knowledge less. He didn't doubt the thing could be killed, he just wanted to know how.
No matter.
The box Nikolai doted on drew his immediate attention. As expected, the man spoke in vague terms, but something told Michael it was not simply habit. Nikolai had thought long and hard about the subject, and Michael was patient enough to wait.
The title of Ascendant piqued his curiosity, but it was clear Nikolai had more pressing matters on his mind. Michael couldn't care less at the distinction. God, Ascendant or abomination, as long as he achieved his goal they could call him what they wished.
"As Ascendants then. It shall be as you say."
In the wake of Michael's departure, Nikolai crossed to a golden framed mirror. The fix of his eyes were blue ice. His black hair was arranged specifically. The tailed coat was immaculately tailored to his shape. Every crease and seam was sheer perfection. The tuxedo was one of the great designers of Moscow; Nikolai would allow for nothing less.
The clothing sufficed, but his gaze was settled specific. The image of himself was closer to being right than ever before.
As he departed the Royal Apartments, he gently closed the lid on the box. His fingers grazed the logo of the Imperial Treasury on the outside, but there was little time to consider the significance of the event a moment longer. He had thought about it for twenty-five years.
***
He greeted his Chief of Staff, Viktor Stepanovich. The Deputy-Consul was a graying man in his late fifties, but sharp of mind and foresight. He was commanding in his own tuxedo and attendants, but the moment he saw Nikolai, he jerked to a sudden stop, eyes drawn upward.
Nikolai held his gaze like a hawk, satisfied with the Consul's reaction. "Are we ready?"
Viktor blinked.
He swallowed his surprise and thrust a hand toward one of the staffers whom Nik recognized as Lapin. "Saint Andrew hall is ready. Two-hundred guests. The Kremlin press corps have their usual representation and the foreign press corps are arrived, excluding Nicholas Trano, of course. Intelligence has him on route to the States."
They took the Grand Staircase together. Nikolai was followed by a pair of CSS Barrier preaetor agents. Two more waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Nikolai nodded. "Good."
Viktor continued the briefing. The situation in DV was quickly wrapping up, and the Consulates were controlling the market's reaction. The Brazilian exchange, BM&F Bovespa dipped in the wake of the disturbance, but the Office of the Privilege of DV was already working new contracts that would increase Brazilian confidence.
"Any change with Shenzhen?"
The Chinese stock exchange had been strangely inert.
"No, Ascendancy. The lack of reaction is unnerving. Colonel Arsenyev will have an update within the hour."
Nik nodded. ZARS were working on the situation with Shenzhen around the clock. Nikolai did not doubt success in their task.
They took the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and the glorious breadth of Alexander hall opened to them. What was normally an opulent ballroom of green and gold was presently dressed for Christmas. Every inch of it represented the empire, represented Nikolai.
"Good."
"And the corrections to my speeches I forwarded?"
Their words were already turning in his mind. He was a skilled orator, but even talent required tuning.
"Consul Bykov edited them himself,"
Viktor reassured. With nothing else from Nikolai, the Deputy-Consul stopped himself before turning aside, "And Ascendancy, the Sigma is here as well."
The speech making paused in his mind, and Nikolai thought on the young man for a moment. With the repercussions of DV occupying his attention, Marcus DuBois had not entered his focus for some time. He nodded his thanks and Viktor excused himself.
At the end of a long stretch of red carpet stood a pair of twenty-foot tall bronze doors that sealed the entrance to the second, and grander, ballroom. On the other side, Andrew Hall would blaze like the sun in all its power. Viktor disappeared through an alternate route to see to the Ascendancy's formal announcement while Nikolai followed the scroll of red carpeting to the doors alone.
He held himself before them, patient as one of the Kremlin's many statues. A Barrier agent stood on either side, although they remained out of immediate view of those inside when the doors were pulled open.
This moment was carefully designed to elicit a specific emotional reaction from those within. The Grand Palace at Christmas. The Kremlin in all its strength and glory. The Ascendancy, an emissary of hope in a world of chaos. In the wake of the Operation in Jeddah, his mere presence would galvanize their loyalty.
Such was why Nikolai commissioned the artisans of the Imperial Treasury.
Within, the announcement was made. The room fell to silence, and the doors parted.
Apprised of the evening's proceedings two of the Ascendancy's attendants ushered him through the halls of the palace towards a side room they called the Chevalier's Guard.
Michael suffered their ministrations as he was dressed to Nikolai's specifications. He was decked out in formal military regalia. The orange, grey and black of the Custody was arraigned to be as dignified and Imperial as possible. It was perhaps the most expensive outfit he had worn. The military decoration pinned or sowed onto the finely embroidered jacket was likely worth more than the entire Undercity itself.
Thoughts of the Undercity led to the Atharim and their prey, souring his mood. "Are we ready?"
The first attendant -an older man with a critical eye and a faint frown of distaste - straightened his tie and brushed down god knows what he saw on the jacket. "Perfect, Mr. Vellas. Please proceed into the St. Andrew hall."
He gestured to the gilded door to the south. "Feel free to acquaint yourself with the guests before the Ascendancy arrives."
"Let's get this over with then."
St. Andrew's Hall was as ostentatious as he had expected, so too the people who stared at him with a hundred different emotions that were summarily dismissed with a sweeping gaze.
A waiter offered him a glass of sparkling champagne which he took but did not drink. For whatever reason, while he elicited excited murmurs none of the guests approached.
He waited with tempered patience along the western wall for Nikolai to being his show. As the room quieted and the luxurious doors swung open, Michael stood straighter and watched with keen interest. Tonight would be a night to be remembered and he did not want to miss one second of it.
Malik stood near one of the many ornate tables against the wall, watching the other guests as the made their way to the large doors that opened into St. Andrew’s Hall. The men and women that walked through those doors did so in a stately manner, aware of both their position and influence. Some were dressed in full military dress regalia, the grey-orange-black arrangement standing out amid a sea of colorful suits, tuxedos, and dresses. This was a dinner of the most powerful people in the empire, though, along with a contingent of foreign press officers. As such, no one dressed in an overly gaudy or ostentatious manner. This was not the grand opening of a club or a movie premiere.
Marcus himself sported a charcoal-grey tuxedo over a purple striped cuffed shirt, dark purple kerchief in his breast pocket, and black tie. On his lapel was the pin he had been given as part of his internship, the Greek letter Sigma in dark purple. It was the reason he’d chosen those colors tonight.
He kept his hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile on his face. Inside, though, he was excited. Tonight was going to be a great deal of fun even as it was important. Every once in a while, one or two acquaintances from the Communication Consulate would see him and stop to chat. He was amiable. At one point he saw Dr. Alexandrova in the distance. She was quite lovely in an emerald green gown that surely set off her eyes, red hair coiffed in an elegant pattern. The man on her arm, though as tall as her 5’11”, seemed dismissable by comparison, as handsome and elegant as he was.
Other than those few, the rest were strangers. He found himself wondering which of them could use the Force? Though he did need to remember that just because a person did not command that kind of power, that didn’t mean they didn’t have any power. Ascendancy was a good example. Malik was smart enough to recognize his superiors. One didn’t become powerful and influential overnight. Some of the people in this room could no doubt teach him many things. And he was willing to humble himself in order to learn. There was no shame in that. As long as it was just an act, just a means to an end.
He’d have to guard against any unnecessary attachments. It was a good thing he was so far from Andre. Andre was the only person for whom Marcus still had any feelings for. But the path he’d chosen for himself- the one he’d seize one day- would be a lonely one. There would be other things that would make that sacrifice worth it. Deep down, though, a feeling of sorrow at the road ahead of him reared its head: solitude his lot in life. But instead of giving in to that, he pictured the chaos of his childhood, the fear and uncertainty. And the pain. He made himself feel it, and then the desperate attempts of Andre to protect him and his sorrow at failing Marcus. He let that motivate him. The world needed order. Chaos could not be allowed to continue. Ascendancy had made an excellent beginning of it over the last few decades. His work bringing structure to the masses of humanity was nothing sort of brilliant. Slowly, little by little, order was spreading. Malik wanted to add his power to the task, share in the work, and take on part of the responsibilities. And if not before, then when Ascendancy himself died, Malik would be willing to shoulder the responsibility himself.
And tonight would be a step in that direction. Malik decided to take his place inside St. Andrew’s Hall.
Pyotr arrived at St. Andrew's hall several hours before the event. He wanted everything to be perfect. Last night, the waiters had assembled to play poker, the winner of the tournament getting the honor to serve Ascendancy himself at the annual Christmas dinner. Luck had been with Pyotr (not THE Luck), and Pyotr had won it all. It was a great honor to serve Ascendancy and his honored guests.
The talk around the poker table was about the recent events in Jeddah. Rumors of magic happening there was the basis for most of the conversation. Pyotr wondered about the truth of the matter and was sure Marcus would know. He would ask him at their next session.
A great change had come over Pyotr in the last couple of weeks. He had met Marcus and Pyotr had to say that it was nice to have a friend. Their training sessions were difficult, and Pyotr was having issues overcoming his block. He still couldn't use his Luck unless he was embarrassed. They finally had success when Marcus had him strip to his boxers and work on the balcony.
Mostly, Pyotr was feeling more confident in himself. It had showed in his work. After a week of bussing tables, his manager moved him back to the wait staff and Pyotr had no more accidents in the past couple of weeks. The manager even complemented Pyotr on his good job and for the first time in forever, Pyotr hadn't wanted to hit the man in the face with a large metal spoon after speaking with him. He had Marcus to thank for all of it.
Pyotr adjusted the glasses on the table so that they all lined up perfectly. He spent hours making sure everything was right. He was serving Ascendancy and he wanted to make a good impression. At least he would have a relatively easy work load. When he wasn't serving, he had to stand off to the side and wait to see Ascendancy or his guests needed anything. His focus would only be on that one table.
He finished setting up the table, with everything to his liking, an hour before the doors would open. He went to the locker room to iron and change into his apparel for the night. Everything would have to be perfect.
Seconds before the doors parted, Nikolai twisted the ring on his thumb and a kaleidoscope of images grazed his field of vision. A few blinks calibrated the images to the intensity of light. The pupil constricted, and in true neurological form, the opposite eye did as well, seeming to unnaturally flare the blue surrounding the black. The touch of his index finger over the ring increased the opacity until they all but faded into the background until he had need of the technology.
In the next breath he reached for the power. Energy poured through him, and although perhaps half as powerful as he thought he could wield, it willed him to be ripped apart. The countenance that resulted from the internal struggle settled a great weight across his expression.
The doors parted and the ballroom of St. Andrew opened before him. Smiles, bows of the head, and flared eyes greeted him from those closest. More than one gasp flittered in the distance, and one by one, eyes of the CCD influential were drawn to the Arcus Band. The collective reaction of those immediately near enough to notice pleased him to no end.
He wore the Arcus like an open-faced laurel, symbolic of rule in the absence of violent conquest. The shape itself was reminiscent of the Double Crescent: dual sickles wrapped about one another that came to sickeningly sharp points near the temple. The color was deeper than the black of Nikolai's hair, which explained the momentary delay for those nearest him to realize its presence. Additional seconds to comprehend the significance.
The Band was originally cast from Russian gold that metallurgists transformed into plasmonic black metal with an incredibly intense beam of laser light that unleashes as much power as the entire electric grid of North America onto a spot the size of a needle point. The blast forces the surface of the metal to form nanostructures that render it capable of absorbing virtually all wavelengths of light - making it geochemically and literally pitch black.
A thin strip of silver lined the top edge of the Arcus: also confiscated from the jewels of the Imperial Treasury. In the back, a knot of metallic orange, burnt as the scorched sun, seemed to hold the two arcs together.
The sharp edges, the lack of color, and the natural mathematical symmetry to the Double Crescent lent the Arcus Band a distinctly futuristic aesthetic. It was his symbol as sure as the flags unfurled around St. Andrew Hall. He wore it proudly.
The faces of the Sphere were the first he greeted. The power nearly overwhelmed his senses, but Nikolai was well practiced at working such a room. He made use of enhanced hearing and vision for twenty-five years. As he did now.
The red carpet guided his path. The dark-haired woman Severina Schneider with her stiff bun and white gown clasped his hand. He spoke a few words into her ear that made her smile, bow her head and step away. He caught the tilt of her eyes float to the Arcus as she did. "Beautiful,"
her lips formed the silent word. Plasmonic metals were state of the art in her field. She would appreciate the rare craftsmanship and intensity of work necessary to create the piece.
The dignified Valentin Sulteev, who should have supplanted Severina as having the right to first's welcome as Privilege of the Central Dominance, stretched his expression into a dry smile when Nik approached. Far nearer Nikolai's age than hers, his patience exuded confidence. He had no need to vie for the Ascendancy's favor. He already held it.
Though in his seventies, Valentin's handshake was firm. Nikolai was genuinely pleased to see him. He was in government work before the fall of the Soviet Union, and they shared a great senses of camaraderie. It was Valentin that was instrumental in Nikolai's rise to the presidency to begin with. Of all those in the Ascendancy's presence, his aged gray eyes best recognized the symbolism of the Arcus Band. As a member of the Custody, he was aware the Ascendancy created his own standard for the empire. As a Russian whose grandfather served the last Tsar, his pride grasped the usage of authoritarian symbols as inspirations of awe. There was something ancient about the Arcus Band, as with the Ascendancy himself, and yet in form and presence, both demanded reverence. "It's fitting, Ascendancy,"
Valentin said. He said no more on the subject but a hint of a smile touched his normally austere expression.
Finally, Nikolai greeted the Privilege of DV. They spoke perhaps almost as frequently these past few days as Nikolai had to anyone. "Your family is well?"
He asked of Al-Rajhi. Unlike the others, the man's gaze was almost too tired to do more than acknowledge the question. "They are safe, Ascendancy."
He pat the man on the arm. "For that, I am glad they escaped the disturbance. Your home is recovering?"
The Privilege nodded, "It was not so bad as I feared. Yet I am in Moscow, and at your service, of course, while my family mends our property."
A small group of hot-headed, fearless insurgents had stormed and damaged the Privilege's home in Dubai. While the family within was adequately protected, the home itself sustained some damage.
Nikolai was not heartless despite the rage of power washing away his empathy. Walls and gardens could be repaired, but perhaps the accompanying fear in his children's and grandchildren's minds were less easy to cleanse. He responded firmly. "Go to them, Daan, when we are done here. Your family needs their leader."
The Privilege blinked something of relief that Nikolai might have missed had he been without the sharpened sense of the power. But there were many more to greet before he reached the podium, and Nikolai bid him luck.
As Daan bowed his head, Nikolai lifted his gaze to scan the crowd beyond. Those eyes brave enough to meet his swiftly melted floorward.
Nikolai's entrance was fitting of the Tsar's whose Palace he resided in. All eyes were immediately drawn to the crown of black sickles he wore. The Custody elite marvelled at the beauty of such craftsmanship but it filled Michael with a sense of foreboding and a lingering vision of death.
Nikolai was met first by the members of his Sphere while onlookers edged forward to catch a closer glimpse at the Ascendancy's regal bearing. Michael stayed where he had positioned himself.
"Good evening, Sir. Forgive me, but I must say you look quite dashing."
The musical tone and a subtle tug on his jacket drew his attention from Nikolai's presence. His eyes met a young woman with raven curls framing a pretty face. Her eyes were pools of liquid and her lips lush pink without the garish overtone of thick red. She wore a dress of light blue that he supposed was meant to match her make-up and accessories.
Before he could speak, the attendants instructions came back to him and he grit his teeth.
"You look lovely yourself, Miss...?"
The woman's laugh was like the tinkling of bells.
"How nice of you to say so. My name is Olivina, Mr. Vellas, and I am glad we have had the chance to meet."
Michael was tempted to seize the power but he remained cool. Of course his name would be known after the accursed mission in Mecca. He doubted the Atharim would be foolish enough to infiltrate the Kremlin on such a night, although the thought had ideas running through his mind like clockwork.
Perhaps...If their leader was bold enough...
"I would very much like to know of your ordeal. My father says the rebels held you hostage for days but you did not give a scrap of information despite the terrible pain the savages must have inflicted upon you,"
the woman continued, her eyes glowing with excitement.
Michael's gaze was steady and cool but it turned to ice as he caught a glimpse of Nikolai smiling amongst a crowd of admirers.
Get on with it, you bastard.
Edited by
Michael Vellas, Jun 27 2014, 09:06 AM.
The event was starting and the guests had arrived. Pyotr breathed a deep breath and exhaled as he adjusted his bow tie. The attire for the event was a standard tuxedo, but in honor of the CCD, Pyotr and the other waiters had silver-gray bow ties with orange pocket squares.
The event would start with a mingling hour. The guests would mingle around and drink cocktails and champagne. There would be small hors d'ouvres. Pyotr would be walking around with the rest, carrying glasses of champagne and picking up those that were empty. Then the real event would begin and Pyotr would be serving Ascendancy.
Pyotr went to the kitchen and got a tray of champagne glasses before entering the hall. There were people everywhere, and although they were mingling, all eyes were on Ascendancy and the band on his head. Pyotr stopped and stared at the band. It was one of the most beautiful pieces he had seen.
Pyotr shook his head and focused on the task at hand. Everything tonight had to be perfect. He moved and walked through the crowd. The confidence Marcus was giving him guided his steps through the people. He avoided even brushing their shoulders as guests removed glasses from his tray. He would soon need to go back and get more glasses.
Pyotr smiled as he moved through the crowd. It would be a good night. He was feeling more and more excited as he walked and thought about how well this night was going to going. He knew that it would be perfect.