by M. J. Scott
“Nice trick,” Guy said.
“It has its uses.” I wasn’t going to defend my magic to him. I reached for a rouge pot. I could glamour my face too, but that took effort. Simple makeup was easier.
“What else can you do?” he asked.
I froze for a moment, and then forced myself to keep moving. I sat back in front of the mirror and picked up a brush to dip in my rouge. He doesn’t know, I reminded myself. He had no way of knowing what I had done to Simon. “Bits and pieces. My magic always works better on me than anyone else.” Hopefully that would satisfy his curiosity. A girl couldn’t afford to give away all her secrets, after all. “This won’t take long.”
“That I’ll believe when I see it.”
Was that something close to a joke? I could see him in the mirror. He’d taken a seat on the end of the bed, his hands once more resting on his knees, throwing the new shapes of his tattoos into prominence. Apart from the slight awkwardness of his position, he looked far too at home on my bed.
Paint, not paladins. I bent to my cosmetics, dragging my eyes away from his reflection. I dipped the brush and started working the rouge into my cheeks—all the better to hide the flush riding my skin.
“Do you go to the Gilt often?” he asked.
“Often enough,” I admitted. “Mostly for work. I told you, it attracts all sorts of people. A good place to see who’s talking—or not talking—to who.”
I didn’t mention the fact that it was also a good source of income for my shop. The less he knew about my life, the better. He knew about Fen. He knew about Reggie. He knew about my mother, but he didn’t know the details and I wanted to keep it that way. I doubted I’d be able to keep Fen completely clear of it. He was at least fifty percent curiosity and most of the rest of him was meddle and mischief mixed with a strong portion of protectiveness when it came to women. He would definitely be poking around trying to see what we were up to.
Especially as now I’d turned up at the Swallow voluntarily with the man he’d seen in his vision.
He was probably already champing at the bit to try and pry the truth out of me, but he knew better than to come to my room when I had a man here.
I finished my cheeks and reached for eye paint and kohl. “Do you like theater?” I didn’t imagine he’d have much time for such things as a Templar, but he came from a prominent family. He must’ve been exposed to such things as a child. Not that I found it easy to imagine him as a child. He seemed so big and solid and strong. I couldn’t picture him small and vulnerable.
He shook his head. “Not opera.”
“Why not?” I caught his glance in the mirror.
“I don’t mind listening to the music,” he said, looking away. “But the costumes and the plots are fairly ridiculous. It’s distracting.”
I guessed that was understandable coming from someone used to the austerity of a Templar’s life. “What about other entertainments. . . . how do Templars entertain themselves?” I asked.
“We go out in the night and fight things,” he said.
My eyebrows shot up and he grinned. “No. Well, yes, we do but that’s work really. We don’t get a lot of free time, but we spend it as most would.”
“What, you sit around drinking and gaming? Isn’t that what most men do?”
Guy shook his head at me. “You need to meet some different men. Not that Templars are saints.” His smile widened as he ran his eyes over me again, and my stomach tightened.
“How disappointing,” I said, trying for a teasing tone. “I like my men saintly.” I turned back to the mirror, angling so I couldn’t see him behind me. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for a brush to finish my eyes. Ignoring him made my stomach ease a little, but I was still far too aware of him behind me.
But there’s only so long you can draw out applying eye makeup. Eventually I finished and had to face him again. “Now,” I said. “We just have to deal with what you’re going to wear.”
Chapter Twelve
HOLLY
Turned out that putting Guy into evening clothes was both a good and a bad thing. Good that he owned them and we didn’t have to cobble something together from clothes left behind at the Dove and good, yes, that he’d thought to bring them with him. But the sight of him in immaculate tailored black-and-white was not helping me with my “let’s not tumble immediately into bed” plan.
I wasn’t the only one admiring my escort. He attracted glances left, right, and center as we walked into the foyer of the Gilt, just as he had at Justine’s earlier. I had the feeling that if I hadn’t been actually hanging on to his arm, some enterprising young thing would’ve swept him away.
Guy seemed mostly oblivious to the attention, though I wasn’t sure if that was actually the case or he was pretending to be polite. Either way I was relieved. After all, it would be hard to sell “this man is completely besotted with me” if he was ogling every other female in the vicinity.
Fortunately we secured seats in one of the boxes in the first balcony. Expensive, but the point was to be seen and the boxes were prime territory for gossip-worthy activities. We even had it all to ourselves, which was unusual. And also somewhat problematic—private boxes were traditionally used by lovers for trysts during the show.
If Guy and I were alone, people would expect us to put on some sort of display of passion to add to the spectacle.
But while the lights were up, at least we could maintain some semblance of propriety. Still, I made sure to let my gloved hand fall onto Guy’s knee once we were both seated, sending him a smile. “We’re meant to be madly in lust, remember?” I said softly. “And we’re on show.”
He was quick on the uptake; I had to give him that. He smiled at me, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to my shoulder, left bare by the dress. “Is this the sort of thing they’re expecting?” he asked, trailing his lips across to my neck.
I tried not to let my eyes cross as pleased shivers ran over my skin. “It will do for now,” I managed.
“See anyone interesting?” he said, as he continued nibbling his way up my neck.
I let my head loll back for a moment to give him better access, then forced myself to laugh and push him away, tapping his leg with my fan in admonishment. I opened my purse to find my opera glasses, hoping no one—least of all Guy—would notice my hands were trembling a little and that I fumbled the ties.
The opera glasses were the excuse I needed to move a little farther away, shifting my skirts as I pretended to seek a better angle for viewing. “Why don’t you order some champagne, darling?” I said, pitching my voice to carry to those in the next box. “We need to celebrate your freedom.” There. Let them chew on that.
The other boxes were occupied, though the crowd was thinner than usual. Still, there were enough people that the hum of their voices rose loud enough to make quiet conversation difficult. Along with the sound, the mingled scents of several hundred different perfumes and gaslight smoke and greasepaint filled the air. The smell of possibility.
I leaned a little farther forward, gazing down into the stalls, wishing I knew more about what had been happening while I’d been in St. Giles. It would be easier to read the crowd if I knew who was currently siding with who. Still, I could make some useful guesses until I could talk to some of my contacts. I raised the glasses from the stalls to the semicircular double tier of boxes.
“See anyone interesting now?” Guy asked quietly, leaning close to me again.
“Not yet,” I said. I hadn’t spotted any Favreaus I recognized, though there were three people in Christophe’s usual box. No Ignatius Grey. And no Cormen, thank the Veil. I’d been half afraid he’d be here. If he saw me with Guy, he would no doubt require an explanation of why I wasn’t still in St. Giles. Though hopefully Guy’s presence would be enough to prevent him from pushing a confrontation.
Guy tapped the glasses. “Can I look?”
I shook my head at him, forcing a giggle as though he’d said something droll. “No, too ob
vious.”
“I know how to observe,” he said.
“I’m sure you do. From a vantage point on a battlefield or down in the streets. This is a different art.”
I lowered the glasses, to demonstrate my point. The box attendant came with our champagne and I fussed with my hair a little while he poured two glasses, situated the bottle in a bucket of ice, and retreated soundlessly.
Guy raised his glass to me with a wicked grin. “Why don’t you educate me, then?”
I pursed my lips, gave him a considering glance. “It takes subtlety. Templars aren’t big on subtlety.”
“Oh no?” He leaned closer, breathed a soft puff of air onto my throat, sending a shiver down my skin, despite myself. “I can be subtle.”
Subtle enough to melt me, apparently.
I snapped my fan open with my free hand and waved him back. “Most people here are watching the crowd more than the opera,” I said when I had my breath back. “And they know they’re being watched in return.”
“Which means?”
“You can’t be too obvious,” I said. “It’s a game. No one wants to be caught out studying anyone else too closely. So. Glances. Glimpses. It’s like a flirtation. Looks that are long enough, but not too long.”
His eyes seemed very blue in the flickering lights of the myriad chandeliers that lit the theater. “And what exactly are we looking for?”
“Conversations. Lack of conversations. Proximity. Invitations. Patronage.” It was hard to explain to someone who wasn’t used to riding the undercurrents of this world.
“Politics, in other words.”
“Yes. With subtlety.”
He drank champagne, glanced out over the crowd, then hit me with another smile. Another casual touch, this time his finger tapping my earring and managing to stroke the curve of my ear at the same time. “Politics requires context,” he said.
“Yes,” I managed.
“So. Give me context, then. Show me what you see.”
I wasn’t going to give him all my secrets. “That would take longer than the length of the show to explain.”
“You have to start somewhere. After all, isn’t this why you spent all afternoon lecturing me?”
He had me there. I’d agreed to do this. I needed him. I tilted my head slightly toward the front of the box. “All right. Don’t look immediately but the fourth box to the right of the stage, on the first tier. That’s Christophe Favreau’s. In a moment you can look. Then tell me what you see.” I opened my fan again, made long, lazy movements while I sipped more of the champagne. The very picture of “please seduce me” to anyone watching.
Guy reached for the bottle to refill his glass. “There are three people in that box. Two men. One woman in a green dress. The men—one is older, graying hair—are sitting one each side of her.
Champagne caught in my throat as I sucked in a breath, surprised. “You didn’t look.”
“I told you I know how to observe.” His smile was pleased.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So, what does it mean?”
“They could be guarding her,” he said.
I shrugged, fanned myself. “Perhaps. Or they could be rivals for her affections. Or arranging a liaison. Or father, daughter, and son. More importantly, who isn’t in the box?”
“Christophe Favreau?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s more important?”
“It could be. They’re sitting near the front of the box. Prime position. Normally the alpha would sit there. So for them to feel comfortable doing so, they’re either valued guests or maybe they have a hold over him.”
“Or Christophe could be running late and they’ll move when he arrives.”
“That’s less likely. Beasts would normally wait for their Alpha before entering his box.”
“Are they Beast Kind?”
“You’re the observer, you tell me.”
“Both the men are tall. Strong. Even the older man. I’d say they are.”
“I’d agree. I’m not so sure about her, though.” It was always harder to tell a female Beast in human form from a distance. They tended to be not quite so out-of-the-usual tall as the men, and without proximity to catch a scent or their warmer-than-normal body heat, it was easier for the women to blend in with a human crowd. Which made them more dangerous in some ways.
“So you think Christophe isn’t going to be here tonight?”
I smiled at him, pleased. “Very good. And that means there’s more to be found out in where he might actually be.”
Guy frowned a little. “Let me guess. More watching.”
“And a little discreet inquiry.” I toasted him with my glass.
“I’m guessing that leads to more questions.”
“It’s a tangled web.” He was quick, the Templar, and I hoped he was starting to see why he needed me. The Night World was indeed an intricately knotted and entwined complex of relationships—only the Veiled Court itself was more difficult to traverse—and a blundering outsider would get nowhere fast. If indeed he survived the experience.
Guy squared his shoulders. Nodded just once. “All right. Tell me more.”
I raised my glasses again, judging a suitable interval had elapsed since my last survey of the room. The crowd was thickening a little and, to my surprise, I spotted Henri Favreau, sitting almost directly across from us. On the opposite side of the theater to the Favreau box. He was amongst a group of men his own age. Several of them had the same Favreau coloring as him. The others . . . I skimmed my gaze past, then returned. A Rouselline, at a guess. Two more who could be from a number of packs. No Kruegers. And another face I recognized. Antoine Delacroix.
Now, that was interesting. Antoine was distinctly out of favor with his alpha. Almost as out of favor as one could be without actually being outcast from the pack. A disgruntled young guerrier with ambition. He and Henri would have much to discuss perhaps.
The group of them bore further study, but I’d seen enough for now. Who else had joined the throng whilst Guy and I talked? Still no sign of Ignatius, though he was no connoisseur of opera, and one had to think Henri and Ignatius would be avoiding public appearances in the same places, if they were up to something. I wasn’t sad to miss Ignatius. He made my skin crawl even from the careful distance I’d managed to maintain from him whenever I’d had cause to be anywhere near his haunts in the Blood Assemblies and Night World boroughs.
I settled back in my seat, pondering the possibilities of Henri Favreau and Antoine Delacroix. Guy offered me a fresh glass of champagne, mouth opening to ask me something, when there was a stir in one of the boxes three to the left of Henri’s. I raised the glasses again, then stiffened.
Damn. Adeline.
Now, that was someone I hadn’t been expecting to see.
Adeline Louis was another of the Blood Lords engaged in the current power struggle. One of the few females vying for top spot . . . and the reason I’d been on the roof in Seven Harbors the night I’d fallen.
Was it just a coincidence that she was here the same night as Henri?
“Something interesting?” Guy murmured as I kept a weather eye on Adeline whilst she and her retinue situated themselves in the box with a flurry of silk wraps and rearrangement of furniture. Guy was still playing relaxed, but a sudden sense of alertness ran beneath the outward ease.
“Perhaps,” I replied in the same low tone, lowering the glasses before my gaze became rude. But I was a fraction too late. Adeline had seen me. Her mouth—a painted red slash—against the icy white of her skin curved upward slightly. She lifted her fan, an extravagant thing of black feathers and jet that matched her frilled and beaded black dress and flipped it toward herself just ever so slightly. A small gesture, but the intent was unmistakable.
“Damn,” I said softly.
“What?”
“I’ve been summoned.” I drained the champagne and inclined my head a fraction toward Adeline to let her know I’d received her message.
The eyes of the Blood are unnerving. After the Turn, their skin and hair fades to white, losing all traces of human color, but some quirk of the magic or power or whatever it is that enables human to become vampire leaves their eyes untouched. The effect is uncanny. Not striking the way the odd colors of the Fae can be but chilling somehow to see that one remaining hint of their humanity in colorless faces.
They play up their oddness, dressing solely in black and white, though the more powerful sometimes add touches of bloodred. Lord Lucius had always sported something red, most usually in the form of the heavy ruby and iron rings he favored. Rings that I’d heard he’d used to strike flesh from bone on occasion.
Adeline was more circumspect, only rouging her lips, but even that hint of color was a display of her status. I didn’t trust her, but she paid very well.
Well enough that I was going to have to go and see what she wanted.
“This won’t take long,” I said to Guy as the houselights dimmed.
“Darlin’, I can’t bear to be parted from you for even an instant.” He smiled, but his tone was deadly serious. He rose from his seat and offered me his arm. “I insist on escorting you wherever you need to go.”
The overture was starting as we made our way along the corridor behind the boxes toward Adeline’s. Guy tucked my arm firmly through his, keeping me close. I hadn’t been able to convince him that I was perfectly able to handle this by myself.
The stretch of carpet outside Adeline’s box was crowded. Two Blood stood closest to the door of the box, a man and a woman, their pale skin stark in the lowered lighting. Guarding them was a group of three male Trusted, the humans who serve the Blood, providing food, protection, sex, and anything else that might be required. All in the hope that one day they might be chosen to be turned.
All three men were tall, dark-haired, and handsome. But it was a fool who mistook beauty for weakness among the Blood. Adeline’s protectors were more than capable of defending her.