John Martin, the third member of the assembly and the smallest in stature, was known to invest wildly, and he speculated even more. His clothes were impeccably cut, the high-collared jacket tailored to fit his bullish form perfectly. His nose stood crooked on his face, and his accent still held traces of the backstreets of Golborne where he used to run barefoot as a child.

  Martin was a social climber—any blueblood could smell the new money wafting off him—a mere tradesman with an excellent head for business. Factories were dotted all over the country bearing his name, but Hargreaves knew that Martin would not be satisfied until he entered into the last echelon of society that had been barred to him: the ranks of the aristocracy.

  Knowing his immeasurable wealth, Hargreaves had allowed Martin to buy his way into the Wake.

  Martin had purchased Weavingshaw shortly after Percy’s death nearly a decade ago, but everyone still referred to Weavingshaw as Avon land. It had been that way for nearly nine hundred years. It felt almost obscene to rename it now. Yet by not leaving any viable heirs, Lord Avon had left Weavingshaw defenseless, to be purchased by anyone with money.

  “Let’s not distract ourselves from our purpose today, gentlemen.” Martin cleared his throat. “We’ve all read the news: The Algaraan Malik has fallen.”

  Hargreaves knew that if he had not been present, Kilworth and Martin would’ve exchanged a few choice words about the barbarity of the Algaraans.

  As it was, they both turned a pointed gaze on him.

  Before answering, Hargreaves poured himself a drink from the decanter. “Undoubtedly, war is coming.” He put the decanter down. “How can it not? It is inevitable that the Morish commoners will look to their neighbors in the west and wonder if their own aristos can burn the same way.”

  “Can you be so sure?”

  “You should be glad, Martin.” It was Kilworth who answered the tradesman with soft mockery. “There’s money to be made in times of war. Plenty of opportunity for a businessman like yourself.”

  An ugly pink trailed up Martin’s thick neck. Hargreaves didn’t intervene; there were more pressing matters on his mind than Martin’s hurt pride.

  “Algaraans—not to be insulting, eh, Hargreaves?—are a passionate sort,” Kilworth continued. “Mors—from the chimney sweeps all the way up to the factory owners—are a practical people. Loyalty to our King, and to the nobility who serve the King so righteously, is in our blood. Rebellion won’t happen here.”

  A headache swirled behind Hargreaves’s eyelids. He never suffered fools.

  “Our King is infirm,” Martin argued. “Everyone knows that His Majesty has taken to his bed, and the young prince is still on leading strings.” He ignored Kilworth’s sneering protests. “His Highness is no longer the strong leader that is needed to guide this country through these times of uncertainty. In fact, he makes the aristos look weak. I’ve heard a few other tradesmen remark that it no longer makes sense to have a country ruled by those with noble blood when it’s the factory owners who possess the most significant amount of wealth.”

  “Do you also share these treasonous thoughts?” Kilworth asked Martin with disgust, anger making his freckles brighter. He never hid his distrust of Martin, revolted by his lowborn dreams and the way the tradesman vacillated between penny-pinching and displays of crass, vulgar wealth.

  Martin negotiated like a boxer in stock meetings, ruthless in his acquisitions and cruel with his workers. Despite that, he still possessed an inherited awe of the gentry, and an obsession with the differences in breeding. “Of course I do not,” Martin seethed. “My daughter will soon marry the son of a Baron, then she will bear him heirs. I am safeguarding the birthright of my future grandchildren.”

  Hargreaves allowed himself only a small smile. It was he who had arranged the nuptials, by threatening the Baron that if he did not agree to the alliance, then Hargreaves would expect the payment of all the money the Baron owed him in one fell swoop.

  Through this marriage, the power Hargreaves gained over Martin was considerable.

  “The Malik’s greatest mistake was that he underestimated the working class. He could not control them even with the skilled Morish soldiers our King sent to aid him.” Hargreaves brought his wine back to his lips, but it now tasted bitter. “Our way of life—the life of the ruling class—is quickly vanishing. We must not let this happen. Anarchy will be the result.”

  Apprehensive silence met this statement.

  Martin broke it. “Who will follow the Malik once they execute him?”

  “Commander Yosif will attempt to form a government, but he is inexperienced, and vultures are plentiful,” Hargreaves said. “The entire country will soon be destabilized, and a civil war will likely ensue.” The pause that followed was loaded. “That is why we must crush any and all rebellious sentiment among the Mors before it festers and infects this beloved country.”

  “If it comes down to bloodshed, to us versus the commoners…could we win?” Kilworth brushed a handkerchief across the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead.

  “Has the Malik kept his head?” Martin murmured.

  Kilworth flushed but doggedly continued. “Will our own Morish army fight for us or for the crudes?”

  “Most soldiers come from working-class backgrounds,” Martin responded. “Lest we forget, the army turned on the Malik near the end. That is how they lost the war.”

  That was the crux of Hargreaves’s problem—one that had caused him many sleepless nights. Without loyal soldiers, the ruling class would crumble, and Hargreaves would find his own head placed on a spike outside the palace.

  A breathless whisper from Kilworth. “Then what must be done to stop this rebellion?”

  “As they say, George: Silence before the wolves approach is better than the silence afterward.” Hargreaves had always understood that to control a man, he must first learn his motivations and act accordingly. Power was an almost physical object to the men sitting beside him, hoarded like gold, stored within their marrow, passed down from father to son.

  Hargreaves was different. He didn’t crave power, nor fame, nor excess. He wanted stability. Perhaps it was misguided patriotism for a country that shamed his mixed heritage, but he’d seen what war had wrought upon Algaraa. He also knew that these reasons wouldn’t sway the rest of the members of the Wake, so he tugged at their fears of the powerful becoming powerless.

  And yet, Hargreaves, for all his insight, had still been blind at the most essential moment—blind to Percy’s faults, blind to his own wife’s misery, blind to the secrets of the Limitless Vessel.

  A knock on the door.

  The butler entered, a shiver in his voice as he announced: “Lord Calligan, House of Fray.”

  Sudden tension filled the room. Both men swiveled around to look at Hargreaves. His face didn’t twitch beneath the weight of Martin’s accusing look nor Kilworth’s palpable disgust.

  Lord Calligan Fray was ushered in, and there was a clatter of chairs pushed backward as everyone in attendance rose.

  Lord Calligan brought with him a presence of dread; their kind always did. His face carried no color beneath the flickering of the candlelight, his waxy skin taut across his cheekbones like animal hide unnaturally stretched. His fingers were disproportionately long enough to choke a man using only one hand. Distantly, Hargreaves heard Kilworth smother a gasp when he beheld His Lordship’s eyes, the dark entirely overtaking the white sclera.

  He had fed recently.

  Hargreaves heard Kilworth mutter a prayer to the Saints beneath his breath: Lead us away from the influence of demons.

  Demons.

  Hargreaves ignored Kilworth and inclined his head in welcome. “Lord Calligan. What a pleasure to see you aboveground. I trust your journey has gone well?”

  The man who had entered the room—if he could even be called that—dismissed the rest of the party disinterestedly and took a seat at the last remaining chair.

  Hargreaves’s face remained mild, but he felt a shadow of foreboding at seeing Percy’s seat occupied. Lord Calligan sat next to Martin, who attempted to inch discreetly away from the newcomer. If Calligan was offended, he didn’t show it. Instead his lips twitched as if he could taste something in the air, then his pallid face split into a wide smile.

  “Sit, my friends,” Lord Calligan suggested. He spoke in a clear, well-bred accent. Still, there was something odd about his voice, something elementally wrong—something that should never have been heard within the light of the day. “Lord Hargreaves has told me that you are having trouble with your peasants?” He laughed—a gurgle from deep within his throat, as if the very idea was amusing.

  Hargreaves would never have invited this decaying visitor—this demon—if he hadn’t been confident in his ability to control him. Lord Calligan’s one ambition was to inherit his father’s dukedom as soon as possible and use its wealth to pay his mounting debts, but the old Duke refused either to die or to lend his son any more money. This left Calligan alone to fight off the debt collectors.

  Hargreaves would know. Lord Calligan owed him an enormous sum of money as well.

  And yet, Hargreaves refused to accept the gold that Calligan continuously offered in an attempt to free himself. Gold was plentiful in Bastmore, the underworld, and worth very little to the demons, unlike the humans.

  Indeed, it was far more profitable to entrap Lord Calligan in his debt as long as he could, only accepting the paper money that demons used as currency, knowing that it would be a lengthy time before Calligan could collect such a sum.

  Hargreaves hid the gleam of triumph from his eyes. How many human men could say that they had a demon lord indebted to them?

  “I’m sure you are aware that rebellion is already stirring, and we must dampen that fire before it begins to burn,” Hargreaves explained to Calligan.

  “Aye, I’ve heard. And you require my service?” Lord Calligan murmured, eager. Hargreaves knew that Calligan was searching for any other means to pay off his debt early.

  Hargreaves’s nod was grave. “Your service would be most necessary.”

  Calligan waved at Martin to pour him a glass of wine. Begrudgingly, the tradesman did as he was told. “I assume that you’d like to borrow a few of my mercenaries to suppress your people?” Calligan brought the goblet to his pale lips. “I’ve foot soldiers to spare, enough for an entire army—that’s not the problem—but what troubles me is how we’d bring them aboveground. A question which has previously confounded us, eh, my lord?” Lord Calligan raised a thin brow. “I hate to beat a dead horse, but it remains impossible for one of my kind to travel without a vessel.”

  “A vessel?” Kilworth interrupted with a flicker of annoyance at being left ignorant of such crucial information. He’d only been made aware of the presence of demons a few months ago, despite more than two years of devoted loyalty to the Wake. Since then, Hargreaves and Kilworth had argued over their differing opinions on the matter. Kilworth viewed the demons as lesser beings, to be hunted and eradicated before they began to hunt humans, while Hargreaves saw a much higher purpose for them.

  “A vessel is a talisman,” Hargreaves replied to Kilworth. “A trinket that allows Lord Calligan and his…kin to leave their world and enter our own freely.” Hargreaves possessed two himself, stolen by the men the Wake employed to handle such brutal matters. “There are only a few known to exist, and almost all belong to the demon nobility.”

  Hargreaves could see Martin’s mind calculating, his gaze turned inward. “I am sure I must be ignorant of these matters, but I must ask—can the vessel you used to enter this world, my lord”—he turned to Lord Calligan—“also be used to bring a demon army to us?” He paused. “For a price, of course.”

  Hargreaves commended Martin’s turn of mind. He thought like a businessman, relinquishing his distrust of the demons for the greater good of profit.

  “Unfortunately, unlike humans—who have no limitations in crossing into the demon world through specified portals—the demons are far more restricted.” It was Hargreaves who answered rather than Calligan. “A vessel allows only one demon into our world at a time, and cannot be used in rapid succession or it would drain the vessel of all its powers. Therefore, gentlemen, we are entirely at the mercy of these vessels. Even accessed sparingly, a vessel can easily malfunction and deplete.”

  “My family possesses a few vessels.” Lord Calligan’s mouth was pursed. “All belonging to my father, of course. He would not allow them to be used carelessly, and certainly not to benefit humans.”

  “I do not require those vessels.” Hargreaves leaned forward, a knife-etch of a smile sharpening his mouth, finally reaching the heart of the matter. “Instead, I have heard tell of a vessel that never tires, that never depletes, and can open portals for hundreds of demons at a time, thus allowing us to control the trade between both worlds indefinitely.”

  “Ah, Lord Hargreaves, I wondered when you would finally learn about the existence of the Limitless Vessel.” Lord Calligan let out a low chuckle. “Unfortunately for all of us, it is lost.”

  Hargreaves kept his expression mild.

  You fool, he thought. I have known of its existence for fourteen years. Only within the last few months had he finally had a hint about its location, but he could not retrieve it himself without external assistance. He would not have revealed his hand today if he had not required the other men.

  Martin and Lord Kilworth said nothing, but Kilworth’s face had noticeably paled at the description of the Limitless Vessel and he took a shaky gulp of his drink. He met Hargreaves’s eyes with fear at the thought of demons having unlimited access to their world.

  Hargreaves shook his head slightly, his own eyes flashing a warning to Kilworth to hold his tongue.

  The astonishment on Martin’s face was slowly replaced with an appreciative gleam. “That would mean a fleet of demon soldiers at our command.”

  Calligan flicked a hand in the air. “Even if we did find it, the fleet would not be under your command, precisely.”

  Martin’s forehead turned a blotchy red, and Kilworth’s hand formed a fist over the table.

  “Easy now, gentlemen.” Hargreaves let out a small breath. “Lord Calligan, it is incumbent upon me to explain that, should we successfully find the Limitless Vessel, we would pay your demon army through trade, which your island desperately needs, ensuring a constant flow of natural resources. This sort of trade is exactly what your father has been trying to arrange for years,” Hargreaves continued smoothly, undercutting the subtle threat beneath his words. “But in return, you will understand that the demon army is entirely under our control. We would, of course, ensure this through the ancient binding rituals, taking noble demon children under human wardship until the demon army completes all our commands and is sealed back into your world.”

  Such a trade had not been enacted in nine hundred years—not since the Saints had banned any contact with the demons, punishing those who aided the underworld severely. It had become clear very quickly that such punishments had crippled the demon world. Their decaying island could not produce the natural resources needed to survive. Fresh water, wheat, fruit, and vegetables—all needed to be transported from the human world to sustain the livelihoods of the demons.

  And, of course, for the noble families, a steady supply of humans to feast upon.

  All managed by the Wake.

  Many times, the old Duke of Fray—along with other heads of noble families—had met with Hargreaves in an attempt to craft a treaty to increase the flow of trade, but Hargreaves had known that creating such an understanding would strip him of the power he held over them. Instead, Hargreaves had allowed only the Black Market to flourish, where human bounty hunters crossed over to sell their merchandise at extortionate prices, all paying a tax to the Wake.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses, man?” Calligan’s face lost all amusement. “Demon children? Do you know how rare they are? My father would never consent to this.”

  Hargreaves knew.

  The one time he had broached the topic with the Duke of Fray, it had been rebuffed most forcefully. Lord Calligan, however, his son and heir, was a different kettle of fish.

  “I understand your fears entirely, Lord Calligan. Especially when one observes how demons do not treat humans with…humanity, for lack of a better word. But have no fear. We would handle the demon children with nothing but respect and kindness—in the understanding that the demons keep their end of the bargain.”

  Martin interrupted eagerly. “We are speaking now as if there is a possibility that we are able to locate this Limitless Vessel. Is this true?”

  Hargreaves leaned back in his chair slowly. “Not yet. But this is why I have called you all here. For the first time, I have an inkling as to where it may be, but we must find a way to confirm its whereabouts and grasp it before anyone else.” Hargreaves looked at each one of them carefully. “We need the Saint of Silence.”

  Before anyone could interject, he continued. “The merchant of secrets has an endless supply of resources to either solidify or refute my knowledge.”

  Without the Saint of Silence, all of Hargreaves’s plans would be for naught. All would be lost.

  Kilworth interjected slowly, “The Saint has never worked well with the Wake. Should we forget the several dead men at our door in the last few months?”

  Lord Calligan appeared bored with the entire conversation, his attention wavering. “We do not need the Saint. I know for a fact that he does not have any useful information about the Limitless Vessel.”

  Hargreaves’s sharp glance fell on Calligan. “You have asked him?”

  “Why should I bother with such a thing? That sort of tedious business best suits my father.”

  “Then I can assure you that the Saint has lied to His Grace,” Hargreaves responded evenly.