Daphne Novacoda waltzed through the thronging crowd, taking note of every admiring eye that followed the swish of her cashmere shawl and the lilt of her thighs beneath her sangria qipao.
Along the way, she caught sight of an impeccably dressed young man—no older than Daphne herself had been when she’d first drifted into Morrowtide some two decades past—who now stared at her with mouth slightly agape. His perfectly tailored and pressed changshan spoke to the care and attention his handlers had poured into tonight’s event, yet his slack-jawed and doe-eyed demeanour, as well as the complexion of his cheeks—already dyed crimson after half a glass of lychee wine—betrayed his inexperience in this arena of foxes and wolves.
With her maternal instincts pleasantly tickled, Daphne shifted her trajectory ever so slightly, just enough to bring herself within striking distance of the young man. She then ‘tripped’ on her high-heels, stumbling and straying from her original path just so, to land in the young man’s trembling arms.
A wine glass fell to the marble floor and shattered. One end of Daphne’s ¥60,000 shawl became soaked in fragrant lychee juice. My, what a gentleman, Daphne thought, letting go of his wine so he could catch my fall.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mme Novacoda,” the young man stammered, the colour on his cheeks all but gone in his mortification. “Let me get something to wipe—erm, that is, I—”
“Oh, it’s quite alright, my dear.” Daphne breathed into the boy’s neck, in no hurry to push herself back onto her feet. “I should be thanking you and your strong arms for catching me.”
The color just as quickly returned to the boy’s cheeks, though Daphne suspected this had nothing to do with alcohol. She let herself linger in his terrified embrace just a while longer, enough to let the scent of her plum perfume paint every other sip of wine the boy would take for the rest of the night. And as she finally allowed herself to be propped back up, she slipped a card into the pocket of his changshan.
“You’re Tai Kaneda’ son, are you not?” Daphne tilted an eyebrow as she dusted herself off, still within breathing distance of the boy. His eyes widened some more, this time in surprise rather than terror.
“Yes ma’am… of Kaneda Solutions," he elaborated needlessly. To his credit, the young man had comported himself quickly enough, now having lost his stammer. “Tyson is my name. It’s an honour to meet you, ma’am.”
‘Tyson’ for Tai’s son, how quaint, Daphne smiled to herself, it’s almost enough to fool a girl into thinking she’s surrounded by humble folk.
“Well, Tyson, I think I speak for everyone at Equinox Group when I say we look forward to a lengthy and prosperous relationship with our newest business partner,” she said as she placed a hand on one of Tyson’s strong arms. To any observer, it would’ve looked an amiable if somewhat patronizing gesture. But underneath the cover of her shawl, Daphne gave Tyson a firm squeeze, not enough to hurt, but enough to leave one arm feeling a bit more naked than the other for the rest of his night.
Tyson froze for a second, stricken, but again to his credit, he quickly replied, “Thank you, Mme Novacoda. I and everyone at Kaneda are ready and willing to pour our heart and soul into this project. We won’t disappoint you, ma’am.”
How ‘disarmingly’ sweet, Daphne mused, I’m sure his father thought long and hard about the exact mixture of youthful earnestness and aw-shucks innocence that would hit just the right note. But to Tyson, she simply said, “I’m sure you won’t, dear.”
Daphne sauntered her way into the crowd once more, satisfied with the unexpectedly fruitful start to her night. Her tête-à-tête with Tyson had given her ample motivation to face the slog of the rest of the evening, now knowing she had a prize to collect at the end.
The gala dinner had been months in the making (all preparations overseen by hers truly, of course), but its public-facing occasion was a sham concocted to mask its true purpose: that of re-integrating Winston Trousseau into the ‘wolfpack’. As such, she hadn’t taken to the task with nearly as much gusto as she would organizing most other parties.
Yet there were reasons that compelled her to grin and bear it. For her boss, Graceman Blackbird, had gotten on in both years and frailty, and it wasn’t so often anymore that he’d make direct requests of her. When he did, she knew better than to refuse.
She found Winston quickly enough, what with he being a good head taller than most other guests. The Vice-Chairman was already deep in conversation with a captive audience gathered at a table reserved for the Equinox brass. So good of him to start without her, setting the stage for her fashionably late arrival.
With her fellow board member’s attention trained on someone at the far back of the table, Daphne took the liberty of first drinking in the view. Winston Trousseau was dressed in a drab burgundy changshan that skirted tonight’s dress code. That was trademark Winston, showing casual contempt for an event that had effectively been held in his honour. Daphne was willing to forgive him this indiscretion, knowing this was one of a dwindling number of ways the man could delude himself into believing he still held sway over her.
Let the old man hold onto his house of cards, if it kept him busy and occupied. Besides, who could stay mad at a veritable silver fox like him? The five years in prison had not diminished Winston’s careless charm—in fact, they might have enhanced it, adding dense strands of argent hair that lent further credence to his drill sergeant act. While he’d avoided the stereotype of ‘getting buff’ from doing time, he’d nevertheless stayed in shape, and his broad shoulders and brawny chest effectively distracted from his apathetic fashion sense.
If circumstances had been different all those years ago, Daphne might well have had a grand old time with a strapping fellow like Winston Trousseau. She’d love to have had the chance to work her full magic on him… to have chewed him up and spat him back out.
“Winston, my dear,” she called out when she was ready for the attention to be turned to her, “I thought I told you, no business talk before the hors d'oeuvre. You’ll have plenty of time later to bore our guests to tears.”
Winston paused in the middle of his speech, and his eyes danced uncertainly around the table. Eventually, he said (through gritted teeth, Daphne liked to imagine), “Mme Novacoda. So good of you to join us. Please, have a seat.”
With a wordless flick of the eyes from Winston, several members of his audience stood to make way for Daphne. As she stepped forward to take her place opposite him, however, she finally saw the figure Winston had been addressing earlier… and her stomach dropped.
For smiling up at her from the far end of the table was none other than Graceman Blackbird himself.
Someone had clearly helped to doll him up for the occasion, for the aging CEO looked a good deal more sanguine than when she’d last seen him just this morning. He leaned on his walking stick even while seated, but his shock of white hair had been combed back, his beard had been trimmed, and his midnight-blue changshan fit snugly against his still athletic frame.
“Good evening, Daphne,” Graceman spoke good-naturedly, with not a hint of the chest cold that had been bugging him for weeks, “you look lovely as always.”
“Gra—Mr Blackbird,” Daphne corrected herself in time, “I didn’t know you’d be here so early, or I would’ve had the kitchen staff start sooner.”
The truth was she hadn’t known he’d be here at all, but the rest of the board didn’t need to know that. And why hadn’t Graceman himself told her that he was coming?
“Oh, no need to shift the schedule on my account,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Just here to show my support for Winston, that’s all.”
“Oh, but you can’t leave so soon, Mr Blackbird. We’ve invited Chef Rao for the exclusive reveal of his new dish. And surely, you’ll stay for the live performance by BGS—”
“Winston here was just giving us the inside scoop on the competition for this year’s final Grand Prix,” Graceman said, still smiling. “Have you heard much about it? Seems we’re in for an exciting finish to the season.”
Daphne was aghast, not only for the fact that Graceman had just openly ignored her in front of the whole board, but also that he’d asked her about Chakrams, knowing full well her general apathy for the subject. She quickly comported herself, however, taking a page out of—of all people—Tyson Kaneda’s book.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Oh?” She lifted an eyebrow while leaning just an inch closer to Graceman, to put him within range of her scent. “Do educate me, Mr Blackbird. You see, I didn’t realize there was any point to learning about anyone on the grid not named Lynx Giallo.”
A smattering of polite laughter went up around the table. But from the corner of her eye, Daphne could see that Winston’s expression hadn’t changed at all. Such a serious boy; I wonder if he’s even smiled once in his life?
“Well, there are still a couple of races left on the calendar,” Graceman obliged, “so there’s at least one spot that’s still up for grabs. According to Winston, it’ll come down to two pilots: both rookies, and both exciting in their own right.
“There’s a boy from Everspring called Manny Dover. Tutored by the great Forest Gaucher, so you know he’s good. But the one I’m most curious about is this Lotus Shen. From… er, Seaforth? Fort Auspice? No one could give me a straight answer. In any case, I’ve been watching replays of her races, and I can honestly say I haven’t been this excited about a pilot in years. Maybe not since—”
Graceman trailed off, and Daphne was gratified to know that he’d still remembered his training well enough to know that certain names were off-limits in her presence.
She was also curious to hear the name Lotus Shen. Where had she heard it before? And what was this about no one knowing where she was from? That almost sounded as if—
Presently, the elderly CEO cleared his throat and made to stand. “Well, I best be off. You kids have fun.”
“Are you quite sure you won’t stay, Mr Blackbird?” Daphne stood with him, taking the opportunity to step closer and place a supportive hand on the small of his back—to remind him of her touch.
“Oh, I’m sure,” he said with a wink. “I’m a little too old for the kind of music you kids listen to. Besides, I need to get back to my girls. They’re getting on in years, you know. They get antsy when I’m not around.”
Daphne froze, and for just a second, her lips were drawn in a line and her eyes were as cold as ice. The ‘girls’ of course referred to a pair of slobbering mastiffs Graceman kept in his penthouse. So, not only had he shown his face without her foreknowledge, he was also about to leave her company on the account of his dogs.
“Of course,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “give them my love.”
There came a clatter of chairs as the whole table now stood to send Graceman off. Daphne kept her back turned to the table, so the rest of the board couldn’t see the rage that bubbled behind her gaze as she watched Graceman, flanked by two burly attendants, click-clack and hobble away from the scene.
Despite his unsteady gait, there was an unmistakable energy about Graceman that hadn’t been there this morning—hadn’t been there before his chat with Winston. Indeed, ever since Winston Trousseau had come back from prison, Daphne was confronted by a noticeably different Graceman Blackbird than the one she’d known for the previous five years. This was a situation that needed correcting, and soon.
But first, she must do something about this seething rage of hers.
As the rest of the board and their guests retook their seats, Daphne alone remained standing. After a beat, Winston called to her, “Mme Novacoda? Is there something on your mind?”
The smile with which she turned back to him was the perfect picture of grace and elegance. “I’m afraid I also need to take my leave. I’ve just remembered urgent business to attend to. I trust you gentlemen to have yourselves a most lovely evening.”
Daphne quickly walked away from the table and from her own dinner party, no longer mindful of the manner with which her thighs moved beneath her sangria qipao. As she did, she fired off a text to her assistant:
Find Tyson Kaneda. Tell him change of plans. He'll know what it's about. Then escort him to the Pavilion.
***
Just minutes after Daphne had settled into the office that overlooked the main floor of the Pavilion, there came a timid knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Tyson Kaneda emerged through the frame, still dressed in his immaculate changshan but looking several shades paler than she’d remembered him. Whether that was because he’d sobered up or because he was frightened out of his mind, she couldn’t say and didn’t much care.
Daphne had turned down the lights inside the office, and it must’ve taken Tyson several moments to readjust his vision. Once he did, and once his dilated pupils fell upon the sight of Daphne—stripped down to her negligee and sprawled lazily atop a sofa that sat next to the office’s glass walls—he instantly showed that he still had several more shades of pallor left in his reserves.
“Handsome boy like you, and with a powerful dad like yours, you must have your pick of the girls on campus," Daphne teased, "but I'll bet you haven't seen anything like this. Well, don’t just stand there. Close the door and join me.”
Slowly but surely, Tyson obeyed. As he approached, he seemed determined to direct his gaze anywhere but at Daphne and her 'minimalist' attire.
Seeing him like this only intensified her appetite, but she reminded herself to be patient. For as delicious as he no doubt would be, Tyson was merely dessert, and the main dish hadn’t yet arrived.
Daphne patted the seat beside her, and Tyson obliged her wordlessly.
“Good boy,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “now make yourself comfortable. While we wait for the show to start, let’s have ourselves a little chat.”
Despite his sheer panic, Tyson had reserved the presence of mind to take in his surroundings. His eyes, coloured by fear but also with a tinge of curiosity, now stared out of the glass walls and onto the floor below, where a number of large bronze containers sat in orderly rows. Several technicians in white laboratory robes roamed the floor, tapping screens and occasionally bending over to turn a knob or two.
“What is this place?” Tyson asked hoarsely. “What… what are those?”
“What do they look like to you, dear?”
“I don’t—well, I suppose they kind of look like industrial brew kettles… but this place doesn’t smell anything like a brewery. If anything, it smells... almost like a racing circuit.”
“Such a clever boy,” Daphne breathed. “So observant, and knowledgeable to boot. Your family must be so proud. And you’re right, this isn’t a brewery. Though I suppose you could say… we do our own kind of brewing here…”
Tyson gulped. “What—”
“Tell me about your father, Tyson,” Daphne changed the subject, preferring to keep her companion guessing for now. “Specifically, what has he said about me? Does he have anything to say about me?”
“My father… and everyone else at Kaneda Solutions have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for—”
“I didn’t ask you what the company line is. What has your father said about Daphne Novacoda in the privacy of his own home, meant only for the ears of his cherished son and future successor? Come on, you can share. I don’t kiss and tell.”
Tyson’s face managed a remarkable trick: that of simultaneously turning beet red while paling another shade. But he also held his nerve, keeping mum and continuing to stare out at the mysterious bronze kettles.
“Let me help you out.” Daphne leaned closer, relishing the heat that emanated from the young man beside her—which meant he could feel the same from her. “He’s said that I’m a charlatan that came from nothing. That I’m a whore who wormed her way to the top of the food chain by clinging onto the balls of its apex predator. That Morrowtide if not the whole of Stormvast would breathe a collective sigh of relief the day I’m dragged down from my ill-begotten throne. Isn’t that right, dear? Isn’t that what you and your daddy talk about over breakfast?”
Tyson kept his silence a while longer, but Daphne sensed a sudden shift in his mood. For the eyes with which he stared out the glass walls had turned to steel, and he now turned the same eyes toward her, holding her gaze, negligee and all.
He said, “Well, isn’t all of it true?”
Daphne laughed: a high-pitched cackle that filled the darkened room with its sudden violence and carried onto the laboratory beyond the glass walls. And when her glee had settled and congealed into triumph, she returned Tyson’s steady gaze and exulted, “And yet, here we are.”
Tyson averted his youthful eyes then, though the shadow of sullen defiance still lingered.
Just then, as if in answer to Daphne’s mirthful outburst, the air around them erupted with an entirely new sound. For the bronze kettles below them had whirred to life now, and from within them rose a bloodcurdling cacophony of wails and howls.
They were screams of abject pain and blind terror. They were the desperate pleas of young men and women begging for mercy. They were the sounds of Daphne’s children—those downtrodden orphans of a heartless world—being born anew, forged from crucibles of metal, flame, and the endless Void.
“What—” Tyson sat up, his beautifully manicured face stricken with terror and confusion.
“Shut up.” Daphne grabbed her companion by the hair and pushed him down, into the fire that raged within her.
For the show had begun. This was the moment she’d been waiting for all night.
The exultation of hearing her children bloom before her eyes, coupled with the humiliation of those who styled themselves the elites of society, together produced the most intense pleasure she could conceive of. Once she’d discovered this potent cocktail, there was no turning back.
So, as her children writhed and screamed below, she allowed herself to forget about Winston, about Graceman, and about her own bottomless rage. She lost herself in the pleasure of cruelty, domination, and birth.
As she neared her climax, however, another thought floated into her roiling mind. For she’d suddenly remembered where she’d heard the name Lotus Shen, and why the question of her origins had felt so pertinent—so imperative.
And as Daphne Novacoda’s scream joined those of her children’s, she knew with perfect clarity the name of the newest addition to her growing family…