From the moment her fate and reputation had been bound to Malachi via his ever-tightening rope of demands, Zoya fashioned herself as the Jabberwocks’ black cat by night, broken mirror by day — irresistible and portentous all at once. That was to say: what the Emperor bid of her, she obliged and not just because those were the cards that she’d been dealt. Deeper than that existed the fact that there was something undeniably tantalizing about being something of a gateway drug to so many others, or an avenging angel leading a lost soul further astray.
Such was the general objective of her night, though the person who’d issued it had neglected to give further details beside revealing a time, place, and the vague expectation that he expected a smile. From whom, Zoya didn’t yet know — but, a wolf smiling was rarely ever a thing of comfort and so, she prepared all the necessities to make herself comfortable: three lines of coke, neat and straight, a drink in hand, and music turned up impossibly loud, drowning out even the sound of the door opening and the Prime Minister himself walking in the room.
The brunette leaned over the table to snort a line through a rolled-up fifty-pound note, letting out a deep sigh like she always did once the first wave of the high hit her, eyes fluttering open only to realize she was no longer alone. “Fuck,” Zoya giggled with faux-abashment, recognizing the man’s face even under the dim, red-hued glow of light. “Now I’ve got two famous faces to play around with.” At that, she presented him with the banknote placed between her fingers as though she was offering a cigarette — this time, one meant for a drug far stronger than nicotine, courtesy of Rune. “I won’t tell Her Majesty the Queen if you won’t.”
Before entering, August had taken a moment to steady himself. An unbuttoned shirt collar and a deep breath later, he made sure no prying eyes were around and entered the room he’d been directed to. His eyes adjusted to the change of light, pupils blown and the capillaries in his eyes already straining. In no time they’d be as red as the brothel-esque lighting in the room.
“Fuuck…” He didn’t need to be invited in, the door quietly falling shut as August ventured further, towards what was so enticingly being offered to him. The music was loud in his ears, like a jackhammer in his head. He’d never been much for dancing, but it was a beat like this, at this intensity, which could drag even his stiff limbs into a smoother motion. The drugs would need to kick in first, before he’d bust a move, though.
August accepted the note graciously, and with practised ease knelt next to the table. First one, then the other line fell victim to his hunger. He closed his eyes, head tilted upwards, and breathed for a moment. The familiar grip of the high tightened around him, and August immediately felt himself relax.
“Tell me, darling, did Mal include you in the deal?” The question is posed with ridiculous ease, as August straightened his legs under the table and leant against the bottom of the ugly leather-clad sofa which hugged the walls of the room. His tongue lapped at his dried lips, as he looked at the young woman. The room was spinning, as was his head, but through the haze he found it incredibly easy to fixate on her. Like a lighthouse is refuge for a ship lost at sea.