RISING (#2, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 3

There was no fraternizing between classes, not that it never happened, it just didn't end well for my class. It wasn't unheard of for female or even male servants to suddenly be transferred to a new House, or mysteriously disappear.

"Come on, time to meet the Wychthorns." She spun around, and I fell in behind her, shaking off the smarting feeling she'd left me with, a feeling of unworthiness. We stepped outside and sunlight greeted us. Breaking apart, each of us headed to our prospective worlds. Her to her family, and me to the servants—families of no ranking.

We servants stood in several long rows. I rubbed my goose-prickled bare arms. Though the afternoon was warm, there was a brisk nip in the autumnal air. I took my spot with the other Between Maids, and leaned forward, my gaze darting between the servants. I couldn't see my aunt, which wasn't unexpected—she'd be minding the younger children.

The Head Housekeeper's eyes shot to mine.

Hells.

I'd forgotten about my wooden spoon. I slyly shifted it behind my back.

His irritated gaze narrowed on my everyday uniform—not the formal attire I should be in. I shifted my weight nervously and wished I could disappear in a puff of smoke.

Quickly turning my attention straight ahead, I still felt his gaze, sticky and slick like grease, sliding all over me. I curled both my hands into balls at my sides, tempted to bunch the material of my skirt between my anxious fingers.

The amber sun lurked low on the horizon. Birds took flight from the weeping willows lining the driveway, and darted across the skyline as a cascade of cars approached.

The driveway that cut through the estate spilled into a circular end edged with neatly clipped privet and a stone water fountain set in the center of the slate-colored cobblestones.

A glossy black limousine slowly glided to a halt, its tires rolling across the stones. Boxing it in were two sleek saloons full of bodyguards. They smoothly got out of their cars, eyes efficiently taking in the surroundings. The car doors slammed shut behind them as they moved to stand beside the limousine with stark, impassive expressions, their bodies encased in black suits no doubt overloaded with weapons—guns and blades.

The driver of the limousine got out, rounded the car, and opened up the back door, two of the bodyguards hovering close by. Byron Wychthorn, in a navy-blue suit, stepped out from the car's shadowy interior, straightening to his full height.

At twenty-eight he was tall and broad in a streamlined way. Attractive. Dirty-blonde hair, short sides, longer on top and swept back. Square jaw and sharp blue eyes. He moved with leisure, casting his gaze over those gathered on the drive with an expression that was unreadable—he could have been pondering the weather, or deciding someone's fate.

He turned, the heels of his expensive brown leather shoes grinding against the cobbles, and stretched out his hand, palm upward. A woman slid her delicate hand into his, her fingernails in a neat French manicure, the tips coated white, and he assisted her out of the limousine.

Laurena Wychthorn.

The youngest Wychthorn Princess.

Stylish. Beautiful. Aloof.

She was a year older than me, and one of three younger sisters to Byron.

I swallowed; my mouth went bone-dry just looking at that beautiful blond hair, the low-lying sun burnishing the locks to a golden glow. She walked alongside her brother, her hips swaying from side to side, her metal chain belt jangling low on her hips. It was like watching a model promoting hair shampoo as she smiled, flashing perfectly straight white teeth, snapping her head to the side, the magnificent mane of blond hair rippling through the air as she tossed it over a shoulder.

The Wychthorn siblings strode up the stone steps and reached the Deniaud family who stood in a line on the stone terrace of their immense home, a chateau-esque mansion with steeply-pitched roofs, towers, and spires topped with iron crestings to keep the birds from perching.

Behind the Deniauds were their guests—the younger generation of Upper and Lower Houses in fine custom-cut suits and designer dresses—hunters, melders of magic and science, enforcers, contraband runners, and lords of our empire.

As tradition dictated, we all bowed to the Great House.

We bowed to them. All of us. Including the Deniauds and all their high-ranking guests.

The Wychthorns did not bow.

They bowed to no one.

Not even the Horned Gods.

Our dark world had hidden in the shadows of society for over millennia. The Horned Gods—the otherworldly creatures we served—were the tip of a pyramid. Our collection of Houses were their overlords that ruled corruption, as well as their warlords—an army that stood between the Horned Gods and the mortals if ever they should learn of our existence and rise up against us. We stole souls and ended lives at their will or whim.

Everything we produced and supplied with our empire was infused with magic to addict the mortals to our drugs, our gambling halls, and bordellos. Encouraging them to chase one more high, play one more hand and go all in, have one more mind-blowing orgasm, and entice them to empty their wallets into our coffers that flowed through us to the Horned Gods.

And like my own family line and those who I stood amongst—we were the servants to those that served the Horned Gods. The only way out of this life for any of us, even the high-ranking families, was death.

While Byron spoke with Marissa's parents, Laurena trailed a hand downward, her fingers pinching the inner fold of the lapels of her gold-plaid Coco Chanel jacket that picked up the gold strands in her honey-blond hair. She straightened her padded shoulders and gave a bored sigh through her nose, her rosy-pink mouth pouting downward as she glanced sideways, eyeing the staff.

My heart began to pulse rapidly in my chest, thumping against my ribs. Guilt gnawed at my nerves. I felt as if everyone was staring at me, knowing what I was going to become over the weekend. The thought hit me hard, like slamming into a brick wall face first—a thief.

I didn't start out my career as the best thief either; the first time I tried to steal I got caught. My life should have ended the moment that cold, taloned hand gripped the back of my neck and the hoarse whisper came, "Caught you, little thief." Oddly I'd survived the encounter and made a strange new friend—a friend I visited once a week in the free time I had to myself.

Laurena's fingers ran down the length of her silky hair in an absent-minded manner as she chatted to Marissa and followed her inside the mansion. A strike of sunlight reflected off a gold ring on her middle finger as she gestured, waving her hand about as she talked. The irregularly shaped gem seemed as if had been hewn from the earth, polished, and mounted in its raw state. It was off-white with a touch of soft blue and violet, a cold, remote color, like stars in a pitch-black sky.

My gaze slid from the ring to the golden tiara, sparkling with diamonds and sapphires perched on top of all that glorious hair.

Sweat beaded around the white collar of my starched uniform and slid from the nape of my neck, following the ripple of my spine. I was going to steal the Crown of a Princess from Laurena tomorrow tonight.

And I hoped to hells I'd get away with it.