“Good evening, my lady.”
Jenkins turned to find Hathaway, the very person who was supposed to greet him.
“Good evening, sir. You’re looking quite sharp today.”
She teased Jenkins with a light laugh. And why not? The suit had been designed by a professional for his recent investiture as the Saint Son. It was, without a doubt, the finest outfit he owned.
The red-haired young woman seed famished herself. After only a brief exchange, she took a white plate and began selecting food from the long buffet table.
It was a buffet-style dinner. They both ate sparingly, mindful that in such a public setting, it would be unseemly to engage in anything too crude—like piling one's plate too high.
“I’m so sorry,” Hathaway began. “Briny had originally planned to play matchmaker for you. We have quite a few wonderful young ladies among our friends, you know.”
She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a white napkin, a gesture of impeccable elegance—the sort of refined grace only a noble upbringing could bestow.
“I’m not sure how it all happened, but word got out that you’re tipped to beco a bishop of the Church of Knowledge and Books in thirty-so years. Suddenly, everyone wanted an invitation. The socialites started showing up, which in turn drew in the even more connected crowd, and it just spiraled from there. Briny wanted to turn them away, but then Duke Douglas Gerrod heard that many young noble heirs would be here, and he decided to attend as well. So, Marquis Mikhail thankfully took over hosting duties, and... well, you’ve been rather upstaged.”
“Upstaged? That suits just fine.”
Jenkins couldn’t have been happier about it. He thought for a mont. The duke she ntioned had to be the queen's current steward—the very man who had presided over his investiture as an honorary baron.
“What’s he planning?”
“How would I know?”
Hathaway waved her hand dismissively. “Other than speaking with a few of Nolan's influential nobles, he hasn't done much of anything. Why? Are you that interested?”
“I am. It's the first ti I've ever seen a duke, after all. Soone from my background doesn't often get the chance to et such a high-ranking nobleman.”
Hathaway reached out and plucked a wineglass from the tray of a passing waiter. “On that note, a word of warning. At least two of the duke's guards are confird Enchanters, so be careful.”
“Understood.”
He nodded. He, too, was holding a glass filled with a purplish-red liquid, but his was rely grape juice. Jenkins rarely drank. Before his transmigration, it was a matter of poverty; now, he worried it would cloud his judgnt.
“Hm? Why is the color of your wine different from mine?”
Hathaway had noticed the difference as well.
“Mm, it must be a different vintage.”
There was no way he was going to admit it was just juice.
Though Hathaway Hersha was an earl's daughter with no claim to the title, she still had social obligations she couldn't avoid. After chatting with Jenkins for a little longer, she had to excuse herself.
Before she left, she told Jenkins that Briny Mikhail was upstairs—the area had been converted into a private lounge—with her father and the Earl, and would be down to find him shortly. Hathaway knew Jenkins didn't know a soul there, so she promised to return as well once she had made her rounds.
“It’s not easy for anyone.”
Jenkins watched the long-gowned young woman depart, sighing to himself. His eyes drifted to a platter of fish on the buffet, which reminded him of his cat, Chocolate. For a feline, it was surprisingly indifferent to fish, showing a marked preference for sweets.
He hadn't forgotten his purpose here—the demon summoner. He positioned himself at the edge of the grand hall, periodically activating his Eye of Reality to scan for any anomalies.
Among the bodyguards and guards, he did spot several Enchanters, including two powerful, fifth-level ones upstairs. As for the younger guests, however, he hadn't detected anything out of the ordinary so far.
After asking a waiter for directions to the restroom, Jenkins took his cane and left the main hall. He turned down a corridor and ca face-to-face with Abbott, the young man who had been telling stories earlier.
“Mr. Williams, it’s been a while.”
His smile was strained.
“Indeed.”
Jenkins returned the greeting. He didn't particularly mind his story being plagiarized—if you could even call it that. He gave the young nobleman a quick once-over: not an Enchanter, and carrying no extraordinary items. Jenkins stepped to the side, motioning for him to go first.
“Oh, Mr. Williams, about before... I truly am sorry.”
It seed this conversation was destined to continue.
“Let’s put it behind us, Mr. Abbott. I’m not one to hold a grudge.”
His private thought, however, was that he wasn't one to hold a grudge—so long as his stories weren't being used for profit.
“That’s a relief. You’re very generous. Um... actually, there’s sothing else I was hoping to ask you.”
He spoke in fits and starts, glancing around nervously before pulling Jenkins into a more secluded hallway.
“Mr. Williams—Baron Williams, that is—I heard you have strong connections with the Church?”
he asked in a hushed tone, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“I do.”
Jenkins hesitated for a mont, studying the young man before nodding.
“You see, I’ve discovered soone...”
He trailed off, his eyes widening in terror as he stared at sothing behind Jenkins.
Jenkins turned. Standing there was a pale young man, his handso features frad by a shock of brilliant blond hair. His attire was perhaps less expensive than that of most guests in the ballroom, yet his personal bearing lent him a unique and compelling charm.
There was sothing distinctly unsettling about him.
“Baron, we’ll have to talk later.”
Abbott explained in a flustered rush, then turned and strode briskly down the other end of the corridor without a backward glance—even though that wing wasn't open to the party guests.
“Jenkins Williams.”
He paid no mind to the fleeing Abbott, instead focusing his attention on the newcor. He was a fourth-level Enchanter. There was a thin, short extraordinary object tucked at his waist, and the pendant on his chest emanated a red aura. The man's entire back seed to glow, though the light was faint. A tattoo, perhaps?
“Dimon Beryl.”
He announced his na, his eyes raking over Jenkins with casual insolence. “You’re that famous author?”
Beryl seed unwell, almost agitated. He reached out and jabbed a finger into Jenkins’s chest, a flagrantly rude gesture. “Stay out of things that don’t concern you. Understand?”
“Understood.”
He answered in a low voice, deliberately avoiding Beryl's gaze.
In that brief mont of contact, the point of light representing his Twin Demons ability flared violently within him.
Beryl nodded, fastidiously wiping his finger with a white handkerchief from his breast pocket before turning to leave. As he did, a red speck of light—an ability activation—flashed before him. For an instant, Jenkins felt a subtle, icy sensation spread across his chest where Beryl had touched him, but it vanished as swiftly as it ca, neutralized by the faint flicker of his own protective candle.
“That brazen, are we?”
Jenkins smoothed the fabric over his chest, his eyes narrowing.
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