Chapter 232 - 233 Mistress.

I left her there, more than glad to put some distance between us. Lacey’s corporate offer was actually a solid one, though; I’d have to seriously mull that over later.

For now, I could feel the invisible, atmospheric energy in the room shifting. The collective anticipation was building with every passing minute.

The clock was steadily counting down toward the headline auction itself, and everyone in the ballroom knew that was when the real show was going to start.

The cocktail hour hors d’oeuvres were nice, but the social theater was reaching a fever pitch.

The guests were buzzing. I spotted a couple of twenty-something social media influencers excitedly pointing their phones at the giant, sun-shaped orb hanging overhead, no doubt recording live-streams and expecting the main entrance explosion to come from right up there.

Speaking of the schedule, I checked my wristwatch. Alright. Time to initiate the sequence.

I caught the eye of the Steve operating the audio-visual board disguised as a scholarly academic, giving him a sharp nod. He offered a quick wink and casually made his way up the steps onto the elevated stage.

Right on cue, the live jazz band began to fade out, their instruments trailing into a soft hum.

Conversations across the floor abruptly died down. Heads turned uniformly toward the podium as Steve adjusted his glasses and leaned into the microphone.

"Ahem. Hem," Steve cleared his throat, peering over the rim of his prop spectacles. "Welcome, honored patrons, to this truly magnificent evening. I see we’ve been graced with a staggering number of esteemed collectors, and it is an absolute privilege to have you all here for this exhilarating charity auction.

"Without further ado, it is our distinct delight to present you with our premier, highly sought-after centerpiece."

Steve reached down and clicked a hidden pneumatic switch beneath the podium. With a soft, mechanical hiss, the top of the display case unfurled, sliding away to reveal Rhea’s runic cube resting under the spotlight.

A collective wave of gasps rippled through the crowd, followed immediately by polite, rolling applause at the sheer aesthetic audacity of the prop.

"The Horadrix Cube originates from the private vault of an anonymous, exceptionally wealthy donor, who has generously surrendered it to be auctioned off with all proceeds directly benefiting the Human Fund," Steve continued, reading off his prompt card. "Its exact historical origins remain shrouded in mystery, but antiquarians claim it was utilized in arcane rituals as far back as the Bronze Age, perhaps even during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar.

"It has also been frequently rumored to trace back to the profane desk of the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred. Lost to history for centuries, it was supposedly unearthed during a nineteenth-century excavation, only to vanish again until tonight.

"It will undoubtedly tempt any contemplative collector eager to possess a genuine, tangible slice of the occult. Shall we open the bidding at two hundred thousand dollars?"

"Two hundred and twenty!" someone shouted from the middle of the room.

"Two-fifty!" another bidder countered.

I settled back against a marble pillar, crossing my arms as I watched the wealthy suckers throw digital money at a piece of laser-carved resin.

I noticed that the genuine magic-types scattered through the crowd weren’t even raising their paddles. No surprise there.

They probably pegged the cube as a cheap stage prop the second they laid eyes on it, and were now perfectly content to sit back with their champagne and watch the amateur hour play out.

Well, that suited me just fine. The absolute last thing I needed tonight was some overzealous wizard accidentally summoning a tentacled horror over a block of high-density plastic.

"Four million!" a wealthy oil tycoon bellowed from the front row.

Steve pointed his gavel toward the bidder. "Going once, going twice, and so—"

BOOM.

The massive sun disk hanging over the stage suddenly ruptured in a shower of theatrical sparks, raining thousands of counterfeit, printed-in-the-basement dollar bills down over the startled crowd.

The flash-bang shockwave rattled the crystal chandeliers, and more than a few socialites shrieked, jumping out of their skin as the overhead gallery lights violently dimmed and began to flicker.

Showtime.

A smooth, mocking laugh echoed through the sudden silence. Psyren stepped gracefully out from the wings of the stage, her high heels clicking sharply against the wood floor. A rich, undulating aura of pink, psychedelic light washed over her form, casting neon shadows across the room.

"Four million? Please," she giggled, flashing a devastating, dangerous smile across the room. "An artifact of this caliber is a priceless gift that mere money can never buy. But breathtaking beauty? Now that is a currency that always clears. Isn’t that right, cutie?"

Psyren fluttered her eyelashes at the auctioneer Steve, firing a glowing, neon-pink heart right out of her eye. It zipped through the air and smacked squarely against his forehead.

Instantly, the poor clone’s posture completely sagged. A dopey, lovestruck grin plastered itself across his face, and vibrant pink hearts began spinning lazily in his pupils.

"Oh, y-yes. Of course, mistress," Steve droned in a monotone rasp, entirely under her psychic sway.

"Aw, you are just the sweetest," Psyren purred, casually lifting the runic cube from its velvet cushion.

The moment her bare fingers closed around the plastic channels flared to life.

A brilliant, arterial red light surged through the carved runes, and Rhea’s internal heating element kicked in, casting Psyren in a genuinely terrifying, hellish glow.

"Such a wonderfully wicked offering for our glorious master... The Iron Polaris."

I watched the visible shiver that rippled through the entire ballroom. It wasn’t a drop in actual temperature, but an instinctive, primal jolt of adrenaline sweeping through the crowd.

Goddamn, she was good at this. A born performer. I felt my chest swell with genuine, unadulterated managerial pride.

"Hold it right there, villain!"

Cue the cue.

Every head in the room whipped around toward the back of the hall. Vanessa stood entirely isolated from the mingling crowd, having carved out a neat, empty circle of personal space around herself.

"Hit the spotlight, Rhea," I muttered into my collar intercom.

"On it, boss!" Rhea chirped back in my ear.

An instant later, a harsh, brilliant white spotlight cut through the dim gallery, locking dead-center onto Vanessa.

No sooner was the light hitting her than her civilian powder-blue evening gown literally seemed to melt away, snapping into her signature magical-girl combat attire—a sleek, high-collared white cloak and a form-fitting tactical leotard.

With a flick of her wrist, a glowing white staff materialized out of thin air, spinning expertly into her waiting palm.

As far as magical transformation sequences went, the pacing could use a bit of tightening, but it still looked undeniably cool on a crowded stage.

"Well, well, well," Psyren purred from the podium, leaning one hand seductively on a cocked hip. "If it isn’t Hex. Mistress of arcane arts, defender of the boring, and champion of showing up entirely in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You cannot have that artifact!" Vanessa cried out, her voice ringing clear and strong across the ballroom as she raised her staff, pointing it accusingly at the stage. "That is a conduit of unholy, destructive magic! It must not fall into the wrong hands!"

"Ohhh, is that a fact?" Psyren giggled, her eyes pulsing with brilliant pink energy as she tossed the glowing red cube casually from hand to hand. "Because I happen to bet my loyal associates think these hands are exceptionally right. Don’t you, boys?"

She blew another exaggerated, flirty kiss out toward the middle of the room.

A fresh wave of glowing pink hearts surged through the air like heat-seeking missiles.

Half a dozen affluent-looking men scattered through the front rows—all of them low-numbered Steve clones—instantly staggered backward onto their heels.

Their eyes lit up with matching heart-shaped glows, their expressions wiping clean into blissful obedience.

"Y-yeessss, mistress," the chorus of Steves moaned in breathless, synchronized harmony.