I took a closer look at him and saw tiny droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “Are you crying?”
He sniffed and brushed a tear away with his thumb. “It’s just so beautiful, Byron. Look how happy they are.”
I sighed and watched the couple exit the room, resigning myself to an evening spent watching all the joy but feeling none of it. Perhaps I’d get lucky and the newlyweds will have sat me next to someone interesting at dinner. Otherwise, I’d probably die of boredom. That’d be a fun obituary.Byron Blake, 28, the world’s greatest assassin, finally taken down by something as lame as fucking boredom.
“I’m going to find a drink,” I muttered to Bishop. I didn’t wait for him to respond. I didn’t need to see the pity or listen to why I shouldn’t drown my sorrows. I just needed to get out of there before I did something reckless just to cheer myself up.
I crossed the courtyard of the Morozov mansion, looking up at the sky as I did. It was as ominous as my own mood. Grey and overcast and full of threat. I was surprised that they hadn’t waited to have a summer wedding. Christmas was a few days away, and I always thought that Benji seemed like the kind of guy who’d go for all the big bright flowers and all the sunshine, but I guess they just wanted to be together in all ways as soon as they could be.
The dark storm clouds hung low in the sky, ready to unleash a torrent of rain on the crowd gathered in the courtyard. The guests were mostly supernatural creatures, but there were a handful of humans, me included. I never usually felt out of place, but today I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was on the outside looking in. I just felt like I was missingsomething,and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I was probably just imagining things. I hadn’t been on a job for Damyr in a couple of weeks. Maybe I was just feeling…bored.
Which was never a good thing. I had a tendency to do reckless things when boredom kicked in. Not that it ever bothered me, but Bishop wouldn’t be happy with me, and thatdidbother me. There was also the issue that if I spoiled Damyr’s special day, they’d be finding pieces of me for weeks.
I didn’t even have my twin to stalk anymore. Bishop had been back by my side for a couple of months now, ever since Benji had been kidnapped. Silas Morely had taken Benji as part of some trumped-up revenge plot to get back at Damyr for getting his brother killed a few centuries ago—I mean, talk about holding a grudge. At the time, I’d been trying to convince my twin to stop running from me, and Damyr had asked me to come back and help. Bishop decided he was coming along with me, and he’d been back by my side ever since.
So why did I still feel so out of balance?
Maybe I should take a trip down to the basement to have a chat with Silas. That always made me feel better. The guy was a loon, but he was never dull, and he had some interesting stories and intriguing worldviews. Pretty sure I was the only thing keeping him sane, too. Well, as sane as someone in a 10ft glass box could be. I wasn’t sure why Damyr was keeping him alive, but I wasn’t going to ask. I liked my head where it was.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked as I sat on one of the plush velvet stools.
“Bourbon, neat.”
He nodded and pulled a bottle down from the top shelf. He must sense my wish to be left alone, because he dropped the drink in front of me without another word and scurried away. Bishop said that I gave off this ‘Deathwish vibe’ and normal people didn’t like being around me. Apparently, my smile was just too creepy and my eyes too empty to be considered approachable.
Don’t get me wrong, I could turn on the charm and fit in with the crowd if I needed to. I’d learnt to camouflage at a young age because my normal state had terrified my mother. It made Bishop sad when Mother was sad, so I’d learned to pretend. She still eyed me warily, and I heard the conversations my parents had when they thought I wasn’t listening. When she died, I just stopped caring about everything. Apart from Bishop. He was my twin, half of me, and no matter what we did or how far Bishop tried to run from me, we always ended up back together.
When we were fifteen, Bishop had been researching what was wrong with me. Not that he ever thought there was anything wrong with me, but I wasn’t a fool. I’d been googling psychopathy since I’d been old enough to spell the word. That and ‘co-dependency’. I was under no illusion as to what my faults were, but Bishop had found a therapist looking for undiagnosed psychopaths for a research project. He’d asked meto go. Told me it would help me understand myself better. At first, I’d refused, thinking it was a load of utter rubbish, but then Bishop had turned his secret weapon on me—a ridiculously convincing set of puppy eyes—and I’d caved.
I came away with an official diagnosis and the thanks of a man who was now a leading name in the world of psychopaths. Not sure when I’d ever use that connection again but knowing the right people always came in handy at some point.
From that moment on, I was officially labelled a psychopath with narcissistic tendencies and an antisocial personality disorder. In other words, I lacked empathy, thought of myself as above others, and had a flagrant disregard for the rules. All of that was true. I did not play well with others.
Somehow, though, I still didn’t think that quite ticked all my boxes. There was still the matter of my relationship and co-dependency with Bishop, and that didn’t fit in with the Doctor’s neat little diagnosis.
“You look miserable, killer,” Acheron sang as he slid into the spot next to me. “It’s a wedding. You need to tell your face to think happy thoughts.”
“I don’t do happy thoughts,” I replied, downing my drink and signalling the bartender for another one.
Acheron was a vision in a pale blue silk blouse with these big floaty sleeves and some high-waisted navy blue wide-leg trousers. “Well, maybe just fake it then. I’ve seen you do it. I know you can pretend to be happy.”
I could, but it took effort, and I wasn’t in the mood. I took my second drink and sipped the spicy amber liquid.
Acheron stared at me, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he searched the side of my face for some answers. He snapped his fingers and gasped. “Youaremiserable.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nope.” He smiled gleefully, as if he’d figured out some juicy secret.
Admittedly, I was never miserable. Ever. I flip-flopped between erratically manic and passively interested.
Miserable wasnew.
And I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It just made me more… miserable.
“Harry, darling, I’ll have a Cosmopolitan, please,” Acheron said to the bartender with a wink.
“You already know his name ?” I asked, a bit of admiration snaking through the misery.