Margot Ruby Gillman Novels & Stories

Margaret saw her again. Marjorie. She lived in a villa on the south side of the city, a place isolated from the world. Apart from the few people who took care of her and Gavin, no one ever came by. But Margaret had been here before. She had studied the villa completely. She knew where people could be concealed. Marjorie looked surprisingly well, wearing a long white dress and draped in Gavin's coat. Margaret felt like a thief. She had rushed out in such a hurry earlier, running so fast that she lost one of her shoes. Now, barefoot, she stood in the muddy earth, feeling the cold sting of dirt and the tiny crawl of ants against the soles of her feet.

Does this human even know who I am? RYAN BURN THAT FUCKING CALENDAR. Dakota howls in my head. Suddenly, I notice Ethan checking out someone behind me. I swiftly turn my head so fast that my neck makes a cracking sound, I see Rita holding a coffee mug. She talks with Ethan. I find her blushing in-between while Ethan stares down at her clothes, lips and gives her handsome smirks. I could feel someone squeezing my heart. Break this bitch's neck. How dare she be flirting with our mate in front of us! Kill her slowly Ryan, I want to hear her screams.

"Ramona can organize the survivors. But we need someone inside the castle. Someone with access to the guards, the schedules, the routines." "Margot," Killian said immediately. "She's served this castle for forty years. She hates the Ancient One as much as anyone." "Will she help us?" "If I ask her directly. If I tell her the truth." He paused. "She deserves to know anyway. What we're attempting. What we're risking." "Then we divide the tasks. Ramona handles the survivors. Margot handles the interior logistics. Damon coordinates the distraction." I looked at Killian. "And we handle the tunnels."

The connected call only carried the sounds of Jaime Walter and Derek Surrey’s pleasure. She did not seem to hear what I said. After an impatient click of her tongue, she hung up. I lowered my arms and stared at my mother’s decomposed body. My strength felt completely drained. Derek then sent me a series of messages. When I opened them, I saw videos of the two of them having sex that night. Their intimate sounds filled the room. Derek smiled in the video and asked Jaime, “You really are not giving him the miracle drug?”

She had heard about the professor — a master of the occult, a keeper of dark and mysterious secrets — but she had never expected to find herself here, in this eerie, oppressive classroom together with him. The professor looked her up and down, his expression unreadable, "Since you're only the transferee in this class, Ms. Fridays, let me introduce myself to you first. I am Mr. Cresswell Morrigan, your professor in this class where you shall learn the secrets that lurk in the shadows, the knowledge of death, and the hidden macabre truths of this world," The professor said, and with that Ruby nodded in unwanted acknowledgement slowly, trying to take in the advice and her surrounding simultaneo

It was one of the things about herself she had always trusted. She had been in Geneva for nine days. Margot's apartment was in the old city, large and high-ceilinged and full of the kind of art that had been collected with money and attention over time rather than purchased as statement. Margot was five years older than Elena and had spent the bulk of her adult life doing international financial compliance work, which meant she had very good instincts for when someone near her was managing a crisis and very little patience for being managed in return. "You're not sleeping," Margot had said, on day three.

"Don't just stand there, Mrs. Vane. The floor isn't going to move for you, and the city isn't going to stop spinning because you’ve arrived." Margot, the woman Silas had described as his 'lifestyle coordinator'—which was a polite Vane term for a warden—stood in the center of the living room. She looked like she had been carved out of a block of granite. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful, and her black suit was pressed with a military precision that made me feel even more like an intruder in my navy wrap dress. She looked at my cardboard boxes—the only three I had been allowed to bring from the life I was leaving behind—with a look of pure, unadulterated disg

"I clearly recorded my conversation with Margot. Why has it turned into this? Why ..." "W-who swapped my USB drive? Who?!" Blake's accusation prompted a sneer from Margot, who had just entered from outside. "Blake, you can meddle with things, but your words should not be spoken carelessly. What do you mean the USB drive should contain the conversation between you and me?" Margot entered the room, draped in a meticulously tailored gown. Her gaze was refined, and her steps elegant. The earlier anger had dissipated, and a smile adorned her lips, radiating confidence and composure. The subtle lift of her chin added an air of pride.

A space that has already held something important once and is willing to hold something again. I arrive at six-thirty. Rosamund is already there. She is at a round table near the back, which she chose deliberately, and she is talking to a woman I don't recognize who must be Margot from Dublin. Margot is in her forties. Red-haired, freckled, with the alert quality that I've started to recognize as the Lunare signature. The way certain people are slightly more present in rooms than the room requires. She sees me walking toward the table and something happens in her expression. Not surprise. Something closer to the expression of someone seeing a landmark they've been told about and are finally

--- ### Margot The woman at the kitchen island was not staff. She was somewhere in her mid-thirties, with a cap of dark hair cut close to her jaw and the kind of bone structure that fashion photographers pursue across continents. She was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves pushed up and reading something on a tablet propped against the coffee machine with the focused, economical attention of someone who read fast and retained everything. She looked up when I appeared in the doorway. "You must be Evelyn," she said. She had a slight accent I couldn't immediately place — something European, refined by years of international erosion. "I've been waiting for you to surface. I was starting to th