A Blind Eye

[Oriena]

Ori was ancillary to the intention writ in that sly grin, like her words only chimed to a melody already hitting crescendo. If she was disappointed to find herself robbed of the manipulative victory, she at least keened in on the little soul it bared beneath that ridiculous red suit. Compunction itched Jaxen’s fingers. Challenge made an inferno of his gaze. His strings were pulled, but it was an inward battle; pure revelry of nature, and the sort of determination she might have admired were it not ruined by the incubation of too much money and empty time. So far as she could see the gratification was hollow. Superficial. Among these gilded aristocratic halls, he was as comfortable as the rest of them.

When he walked away, her expression deadened. Caught in the storm of his own ambition, he never paused to wonder how carelessly she offered the challenge like a playground taunt. Or why. She spoke of their Ascendancy, though of course her words had been wisely selected; he had placed meaning to the artfulness of his fingers, not her. She’d aim a bullet sure enough, but did not intend for it to ricochet back. Nor did she show much interest in its path once unleashed. She’d watched Jaxen work, clued in to the joke because he’d allowed it, and as such she had no doubts that he was capable. Confidence washed his mind clean of caution, not – whatever else she thought of him – fruitless arrogance. But she didn’t care to dote his ego by observing how he did it.

It was Brandon she watched, not Jaxen’s retreating back. The man looked no different from the face she had seen a thousand times in the media, a face that had burned itself onto her retina. Smaller, perhaps, but force of presence shadowed such physical trivialities belied by a TV screen; she barely noticed. No grey silvered his temples, and even at this distance she could see the intense lines of his features were uncreased by age. Much was made, from time to time, of Nikolai Brandon’s apparent youth, but she hadn’t expected him to be so untouched. Her childhood villain stepped fresh from shadowed memory, the man who had provided sustenance for so much of her furious youth. A devout Russian, her mother had adored the man who condemned her. But Ori had needed someone to blame. And he had been easy to hate.

Her expression was unsmiling, an anomaly amongst the other painted faces – particularly on a woman, but any hostility locked itself deep under the surface. A secret carefully tended, a fury expertly wielded. When her eyes slid away, it was with disinterest. She did not care to watch once the bubble around the Ascendancy burst, perhaps because she was not sure she could cleanse the disgust from her expression. Boredom was no longer a benign tolerance, she was unaccountably agitated. No, perhaps not unaccountably; it had hardly been the remnants of a rosy day that had driven her to Kallisti in the first place. Bitterness coated her tongue in acid, and she kept her lips sealed. Her heart pounded rivers of fire through her veins, and she reined control over the beckoning of release.

In such a mood, any sport was bound to be bloody. She ignored the ghosts of familiar faces as she passed, and those who recognised her in return dutifully turned their eyes away. She was not interested in their torment; there was no satisfaction here worth taking, and such favours should be used for darker tasks not idle entertainment. At least, not when she knew it would not sate her frustrations. Malcontent was a poison in her blood. A rot in her heart. In this environment it bloomed insatiable, spawning irrationalities that for brief moments flowered like good ideas. Power crackled against her skin like prickles of electric heat, but she ignored it. Abandoned by Jaxen and unwilling to engage with anyone else, she retreated to the bar.

She was surprised anyone thought to approach her, though her disbelief was short-lived, despite the nature of the brief conversation. A chill cooled her bones. It wiped what little true emotion was left on her face. Her lips quirked into a dry smile, the façade of flattery poorly constructed. Intentionally so. Irritation burrowed through taut lines of control. Did she look like a whore, apt to jerk to the beck and call of another – and via a fucking messenger? She was not Spectra Lin. The Ascendancy did not offer a golden ticket she would cherish tight with both hands. His interest only offered a burden.

She did not deny that there was also temptation – though she doubted her motives were quite in the spirit of the invitation. Plenty of her less savoury acquaintances would curse to know she had passed on such an opportunity, and it would have made delightful ammunition against Spectra Lin, but Ori refused to give serious consideration to a question posed from a pedestal. The trappings of wealth, the frivolity of power, left a dull impression. Even the cruel desire to sink unkind claws into the heart of the CCD was blunted by the method of delivery: if he wished anything of her, dutiful little citizen that she was, he could ask him-fucking-self. She’d probably regret that surfeit of pride later.

Her gaze fell from the agent’s face, but did not seek out the Ascendancy. It was probably not the expected reaction, but for once she did not revel in being contrary. Her flash of anger retreated to an abject resignation. Even the alcohol felt to have thinned out of her system, denying her the craved distraction of one single night’s fucking senselessness. “He must have me mistaken with someone else.”
No gratified humility softened her words. No coyness lowered her eyes. He could probably have everything from her CIN to her criminal record in the blink of an eye, and her casually dismissive confidence said she didn’t doubt it. A smirk lightened her expression, but made little dent in the smoky darkness of her demeanour. “Another time perhaps.”