WHO: open.â WHERE: Club Ravenâs Opening Night, Carkitt Market. WHEN: 1 May 2003.
They were onto him already.
The glittering views of the VIP section had lost their shine within half an hour of the first flutters of paranoia kicking in â the velvet ropes had begun to whisper of keeping him in rather than keeping the masses out and the servers in their bespoke penguin suits were hardly Dementors but they certainly felt like they were trying to keep him tucked safely away and compliant with their nervous smiles, trapped up here in Caviâs homage to an ivory tower. What was the point of a party where everything went exactly to plan? Cavi had a thing or two to learn about spontaneity.
Bash had pulled off far greater escapes in his lifetime than this and while most of them had been done with a significantly lower alcohol to hallucinogenic to blood ratio in his system, he didnât mind a challenge if it promised to be fun. It only took a tripped server, an enraged socialite emerging dripping from one of the decorative, swan-filled ponds and a quick exit to make his getaway to the lower floors and the shimmering buffet of opportunity that they presented. People. Multitudes of them. And multitudes of possibilities that awaited each and every one of them.
Except, of course, for them. Caviâs staff had been forewarned, it seemed, of likely disruptions and Rabastan had always been something of a disruption. âExcuse me,â he caught the hand of the nearest partygoer with little care for who he was grabbing, âHave you seen the man of the hour?â













