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“Have a seat, boy,” said an older gentleman on the right.

Geoffrey approached them, and the reapers all edged away from him. To his eyes, each reaper looked very human, except a bit blurry and flickering like an old video recording. “Why did you invite me here?” he asked.

“Because I liked your uncle,” the same man said. “Now be quiet. You haven’t earned the right to speak at our table.”

Geoffrey’s smile tightened. “I do not like being told what to do.”

The man held up an open hand and clenched it into a fist. “I said be quiet.”

The air escaped from Geoffrey’s lungs. His eyes bulged as he struggled for breath and found none available. He glared at the man and ran forward, but an invisible pressure held him back, sturdy as if a wall had been there.

Geoffrey lashed out with red, snaking around the room and across the table at the man’s reaper.

The man stood and speared the shadow through the center with only an index finger. The shadow crackled and died. “I didn’t know you were a monster when I invited you here,” said the man, “but it changes nothing. You will learn respect, boy.”

Geoffrey fell to his knees, able to breathe again. He scowled at all of them, but they paid him little mind.

“What were we talking about?” said someone with a low, scraping voice. This one was an even older gentleman, oily smudges all over his face and faded overalls. “Vincent?”

The man from before acknowledged his own name. “This business with the Queen,” he said. “Each of our enterprises will likely suffer if blame for the attack is shifted to a criminal body.”