Dara, Page, and the Secrets of the Multiverse

▷ 11.1

The car door fanned out, and Page stepped out and into the gravel waiting for him. The heels of his boots dug against the uneven road, leading all the way to the house he never thought he would have to go back to again. So soon, as well.

As the sleek, black family car sped off towards the back where the rest of its sisters awaited it, Page smoothed the lapels of his suit and dusted the legs of his slacks. The tips of his black leather shoes glinted against the afternoon sunlight when he stepped forward, aiming for the expansive stairs curving around a single entry point.

He craned his neck up, training his eyes at the Victorian mansion towering over him. The mere presence of the building sent his hackles up, tension curling around his shoulders and neck. From the pocket of his suit, he fished a pair of black gloves. Best be prepared. Anything could happen as long as the family was involved.

He bit the inside of his cheek, tugging both gloves on. The lobby bled out before him when he cleared the front steps, bringing straight into the heart of the mansion—a big, red altar with his grandfather's face on a frame. Red, because of the clouds of rose bouquets slotted in clay braziers scattered on the floor, on makeshift shelves, and those carpeting the tabletop where several candles burned on top.

Page gulped a bitter taste down his throat. Never had he wanted anything to do with this family and everything they stood for. As elite members of the underground market for decades, they have built quite a reputation, and he went to university in another country using another name just to escape the looming shadow the family cast. When he received the summons encased in a glinting black envelope gilded with gold, he expected the worst.

And the worst, he got.

Not only did Page's grandfather, the ultimate patriarch of the family and the business, keel over, he had to do it with a knife sticking out the back. Someone murdered him, and it wouldn't take Page's older brother to sniff out who. Any of the rival families, those who aimed to take the lead off the leaderboard, could have been responsible, and Page knew how helpful he was being: not.

It wasn't like he hated being a member of the family. He learned to deal with it and everything that came with—be it prestige, wealth, and the occasional skeleton in the closet—but if he could trade it for a can of peaches, he would. He wanted out, and his grandfather dying told him enough about the fate of the family. Some mad scrambling as his aunts and uncles vie for the throne, and whoever got it would have to rule over until they keel over as well. That was Page's generation's turn to kill each other for a shot of glory.

Page would rather sit that one out. He had a nice dorm on campus, one that overlooked foggy mountains in the mornings, and a nice boyfriend who treated him well. What more could he want? Even if one of his uncles cut him off, he had enough money saved up to finish his degree and go back to a working citizen. At least, he wouldn't be in any danger. There would be no knives to look out for, wiretaps to be wary of. He could just be Page, and no one would bat an eye whenever he walked into a room.