Slayer in Lace: The Beginning

by D. D. Miers

  Convinced it was at least worth a conversation, Emma decided to take a chance and visit Callom. She slipped out of the house unnoticed one evening while her father busied himself with a rousing game of poker. He’d been so concerned about the strength of his terrible hand, he hadn’t even heard the door clicking shut behind her.

  Emma darted across town on foot, her breath ragged by the time she’d reached the dragonborne’s front door. Flush of face and gasping for breath wasn’t the impression she wished to give, so she milled about until she calmed down.

  Her knuckles rapped in quick succession upon Callom’s front door. Only a moment, later the door opened. A proper footman dipped his head in greeting. “Evening, miss, may I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Smythe, if he’s in.”

  “And your name?”

  “Emma Clearwater.”

  “Very well.” He pushed the door open, gaining her entrance to a marvelous foyer. The staircase, which rounded upward toward the second floor, was awash with deep walnut railings and carved with intricate designs that must have taken hours of dutiful, detailed work. “Please, wait here a moment.” The man scurried off, farther into the vast halls.

  There wasn’t much to see from where she stood, but Emma inched forward enough to peek through an ajar door. Inside was a sitting room, much as any Victorian home had, but something about the velvet furniture and thickly draped curtains made it feel warm and inviting.

  “Right this way, miss.” The footman reappeared and led her beyond several closed doors and into a large great room where much of the furniture had been pushed against the wall. A large table and several chairs sat clustered together, making room for the game of folly that had taken root in the space’s center.

  Callom and another man, similar in age, danced with rapiers at the ready. Emma was rendered speechless since both men were entirely shirtless. She’d never seen a man in such a state of undress. Especially one as fit and firm as Callom Smythe. His advances looked effortless with his arm outstretched to perfection. Every inch of his tan skin glistened with beads of sweat, making him appear like a bronze statue.

  Emma knew she should look away or remove herself from the room, but there was something captivating about the hypnotic swings of their rapiers as if they’d practiced the same dance a thousand times before.

  When finally the pair finished, and their weapons were tossed with a loud clang against the far table, Emma snapped back into a rigid posture. She had difficulty keeping her eyes from roaming along Callom’s half-naked figure as he sauntered closer with a towel in hand.

  It was even more difficult when he used it to wipe the sweat from his face rather than cover his bare, thickly muscled chest.

  He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He beamed with confidence and self-pride.

  “I came to . . .”

  He flung the towel over his shoulder, the disturbed air cascading a few droplets of sweat down the concave of his chest.

  “Aren’t you going to put on something a bit more decent?” Emma asked.

  “Why?” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Does it bother you?”

  “Yes,” she said, though in what way, she wasn’t sure. She found it unnerving to look him in the eye when there was so much more to see below his jawline. She wondered if Fredrick’s chest would look similar.

  What a silly thing to ponder.

  Frederick was a sensible business man, not a warrior or a fighter—and she didn’t desire him any other way. In fact, she didn’t desire him in any way. That wasn’t the nature of their relationship. Sure, she’d have . . . wifely duties to attend to, but those would be infrequent. Instead, her focus would remain on her role as a slayer and keeping her people—and New York—safe.

  Callom had the gall to laugh. “It would be foolish to put a shirt on over all of this sweat. Terrible waste of clothing, don’t you think?”

  His rationale infuriated her as much as it made sense. She edged past him to give herself some space as she wandered the now empty room. “I came to discuss your offer.”

  “And which one would that be?”

  She faced him. “The alliance.”

  Taken aback, he asked, “You wish to agree to one?”

  “I do.” While it pained her to think of working alongside the dragonborne, it also seemed to be her best option if she wished to take down this new enemy of theirs.

  “And your father?” he asked.

  “I can only speak for myself. My father, I am afraid, may never be convinced, and many others never will be, either. But you have my word. We’ll work together until this is over, then we will go our separate ways.”

  “Ahh.” His lips curled. “And here I thought we could be friends.”

  “It will be an alliance only, and a temporary one at that.”

  Callom stepped forward with his hand outstretched in offering. Figuring it would be rude to deny him, Emma returned the hearty handshake with the hope she’d find no reason to regret her decision to trust a dastardly dragonborne.

  Chapter 5

  The most difficult hurdle for a betrothed young woman meeting with an eligible bachelor is such a meeting shouldn’t happen at all. Such pressures were compounded when one was a Clearwater meeting with a dragonborne, the handsome Smythe heir.

  Emma had always been accustomed to little white lies to protect her propriety, given her line of work, but this reached an entirely new level. She’d never needed to hide things from her father before, and the secrecy drained her.

  The morning was bright and crisp, and her father sat at the table enjoying his coffee. Emma swooped by and grabbed an apple on her way to the door.

  “Emma, where are you going?”

  “I thought I’d go make some visits rather than stay cooped up inside all day.” She only half lied. She was making a visit.

  “It’s terribly cold out.” His head shook as if that would be the worst thing she’d ever faced. She did sometimes wonder about his thoughts.

  “Why don’t you take the open carriage and an extra blanket?”

  “I’ll be fine, Father.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I swear it. It’s just a bit of wind.”

  His head bobbed, but he seemed unconvinced and drowned in thought. “Ah! Are you going by Victoria’s? I’ve a package for Mr. Hudson if you would be so kind as to—”

  “Absolutely.” Emma beamed. She wasn’t going anywhere near Victoria’s, but if that’s what it took to get her father to stop worrying and let her out the door, she’d do it. It’d add plenty of time to her journey, but luckily she hadn’t given Callom an exact time for her arrival.

  Package in hand, and a thicker shawl wrapped around her shoulders at her father’s behest, Emma was out the door and on her way. The morning light filtered through the cracks between the towering buildings around her, offering more of an annoyance to her eyes than any warmth at all. The brisk breeze whipped down the street and tangled her skirts around her legs, chilling through the many layers of clothing.

  Perhaps later she would thank her father for insisting on the shawl.

  With the package delivered to Mr. Hudson’s footman, Emma had just turned to go on her way when a particularly feminine voice stopped her.

  “Emma!” Victoria hurried up beside her, wrapped in a bundle of furs. “Have you come by to visit?”

  For a moment, Emma hesitated, but luckily Victoria wasn’t one to slow down on chatter.

  “I never was able to tell you just how stunning your engagement party was. I should only hope to one day have one quite as lovely.”

  “With your betrothed present?” Emma joked, half-heartedly.

  “Oh, yes of course! I’m sorry, you poor thing, it must be so difficult having Frederick away for such lengthy periods.”

  “Oh, quite,” Emma said sarcastically, but her friend didn’t catch her tone.

  “Oh, Emma!” Victoria grasped her arm and pulled her toward the doo
r. “I’ve heard the most scandalous thing. Ms. Knolles says she saw you conversing in private with Mr. Smith! Tell me it isn’t true!”

  Smythe.

  Emma’s heart thundered in her chest but she kept her countenance. “What? What a ridiculous thing to suggest.” She brushed a stray curl away from her eyes. “When did supposed incident happen?”

  “At your engagement party, of course!”

  Emma held back a lengthy sigh of relief. For a moment she’d worried someone had seen her at his private residence. “It was merely coincidence, nothing to worry over. I went outside for some fresh air and he happened to be there, but he was just leaving.”

  Victoria’s eyes widened in understanding before a hurried nod and smile proved to Emma the issue was said and done. “Would you care to come inside? We’ve just taken some pastries from the oven.”

  “Oh, thank you but I must be on my way.”

  “Oh? Where are you headed?”

  “I . . .” Desperately needed a cover story before heading out, she thought. “I’m making a few stops to pick things up for my father, and I know he’s worried with me out in this cold.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s quite unexpected. I had hoped the heat would last longer.”

  Emma smiled. “One never can tell in New York.”

  “Well then, off with you, and visit soon!”

  “Take care, Victoria.”

  Her social disaster averted, Emma let her shoulders relax as she turned away from her nosy, albeit well-meaning, friend.

  With her minor detour complete, Emma returned in the direction of her actual destination, Savoy, a private dining club for the elite, owned by Callom Smythe.

  She’d only been by Savoy once before, just to be certain she knew of its location. It appeared less likely a place for her to be seen in scandal than waltzing in through the front door of his home. She thought the place would be stuffy, but was shrouded in warmth the moment she stepped beyond the club’s threshold.

  The club, intimate and inviting, had hanging ivy draped as barriers between many of the tables. They gleaned with the darkest wood stain under individual, miniature crystal chandeliers. Rather than obnoxious, the room bordered on lush and comforting.

  In a slight hurry, Emma was led to a table in the back corner of the room where Callom already waited. The moment he saw her, his slouched posture fell away as he stood up, as was proper with a lady joining the table.

  “Encounter any troubles getting here?” he asked, drawing her eyes up the line of his chest. Her skin flushed at the realization she knew precisely what he looked like beneath the row of buttons on his shirt, and found herself grateful that even that was covered with a vest and coat.

  You aren’t here to flirt, Emma.

  “No trouble at all.” She gave him a pleasant smile and buried her inappropriate thoughts.

  She took the plush chair across from him and sank into the lavish fabric, more comfortable and relaxed than she should have liked. The sweet scent of a fine tobacco tinged the air. She’d never entertained the idea before, but if someone had come by offering her a pipe, she probably would have said yes.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for owning such a place,” Emma said with another glance around. From where she sat, she barely saw another table, leaving her to wonder whether the choice for it had been strategic or if they all offered such privacy.

  Perhaps he always met others in private.

  Callom’s lips lifted but he said nothing as someone came by and set a fresh cup of tea before Emma and tumbler of gin before him. It was only after the man left and they were once more alone that he spoke.

  “Your opinion of me must be grave, indeed.”

  “You were present for all of my interactions with you, Mr. Smythe.”

  “That I was,” he said, as those same lips seemed to take on a more devilish form.

  Emma adjusted uneasily in her seat. “I received your message. So, what is it you wished to share with me?”

  “We’ve made some new discoveries,” Callom said as his playful behavior faded away. “Have you heard of a man by the name of Chester Graves?” He searched her face for some sort of recognition, but the name meant nothing to her. “He’s fairly well known to be involved in underground gambling, but the coppers have never been able to nail him.”

  “Okay, and what does this business have to do with—”

  “He’s been playing with dark magic,” Callom said matter-of-factly.

  “Are we speaking of a warlock? That can’t be right. It’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Those types of magic died out centuries ago. No human could possess them.”

  “Why are you assuming he’s human?”

  Emma grew silent. Could such conjuration have survived the test of time even while the rest of the world believed it extinct? And was it possible there were other races that had somehow slipped by unnoticed? Her eyes flickered in continued thought.

  “You know,” Callom said, “for someone who knows that the impossible happens every day, you’re quite cynical.”

  “I’m well aware the impossible happens every day, such as me joining you for a morning chat. I’m also aware many more impossible things will never occur, such as me joining you in anything more than a necessary alliance.”

  It was intended as a dig, but Callom smirked and lifted a hand to his chest. “You dig a deep wound, Miss Clearwater.”

  “And you speak insanity.”

  “But there’s a piece of you that believes me,” he said, leaving her to momentarily mull on her own words.

  Finally, she sighed. “Yes.”

  “It makes sense, really.” He leaned back into his chair. “If one wanted to create an inhuman army to spark a war, then they’d need someone skilled in dark magic. A warlock should be our first suspect.”

  Emma hated how right Callom was. She sipped her tea and watched his nonchalance as he regarded her. His vibrant honey-colored eyes followed the curve of her face and down toward the neck of her gown. She almost felt the heat of his large hands caressing her flesh as his eyes studied her.

  “Where will we find this Mr. Graves?” she asked.

  There was something in Callom’s mischievous smirk that left her uneasy as he slid a small, pocket-sized book across the table. Curiously, Emma reached for it, only to nearly shoot tea out of her nose the moment she read the cover.

  “The Gentleman’s Directory?” she quietly shrieked, for fear of anyone hearing her speaking about such a horrific item. Though written in a way to offer information on what locations to particularly avoid, everyone who was anyone, was aware the guide led unscrupulous men into the snake’s den of prostitution.

  As if the item was fire, Emma tossed it back at Callom, leaving him to snatch it up before it tumbled to the floor. With an amused laugh, he tucked the offending object deep into his pocket.

  “He owns a brothel farther south,” he said, as if that explained everything and made it okay.

  “You can’t possibly expect me to go there.” Emma was horrified at the idea.

  There were many things she could look past, and a great deal of rules she was willing to bend, but this was not one of them. “I’ve a reputation to uphold!”

  “Ah, right.” Callom reached for his drink and tossed it back. “Your upcoming wedding.”

  His sour tone prompted her to ask, “Do you hold issue with my future nuptials?”

  “What? No, of course not. You’re free to do as you please, though I do think it ridiculous that any man would dream of trying to tame a woman like you.”

  Emma wasn’t certain whether to be enraged or flattered. “There is no ‘taming’ as you say, to be done.” She leaned forward, pressing her arms onto the table. “I follow all the norms of respectable society. Only when necessary, do I break them, and I do so in the most discreet of manners.”

  She didn’t mention the small display she’d put on only days ago in public and he didn’t reference it. “Yo
u would prefer to be an armpiece meant to only look good and never be heard?”

  Emma sipped her tea before answering him. “I may abide by the rules of society, Mr. Smythe. It doesn’t mean I like them.”

  “A peacock may walk and talk like a duck, Ms. Clearwater, but that doesn’t make it so.”

  “Your meaning?”

  He matched her position and sat forward. If she reached an arm out, she could touch him. “There’s a fire in you, Emma.”

  He said her name with familiarity, and the sound delighted her in ways it never should.

  He continued. “And a man like Mr. Milton will never be able to kindle those embers. He is a duck and you . . .” He looked her over once more, his gaze stopping to linger on her lips. “You are a peacock.”

  She should’ve smacked him for behaving in such a vulgar manner, but the shock of his words had silenced—and frozen—her. No doubt, a wild rosy blush crept up her face. Emma cleared her throat and pushed away her unfinished tea.

  “Where else can we find this Chester Graves, other than in a location that will risk even base propriety?”

  Callom slumped comfortably back into his chair. “He will be attending the masquerade this Saturday evening.”

  Emma gasped. “The one being held at the Astor Ballroom?” It was an event that trumped any other and allowed people to mingle behind the guise of a thin mask with the pressures of society lessened for a single night.

  “Yes, that’s the one. I’ll come by in my carriage to escort you.”

  It was almost an offer to accept, given her and her father still waited for a replacement carriage to arrive.

  Callom’s finger circled the top of his empty glass and Emma couldn’t repress the shiver that rose over her spine.

  “No,” she finally said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Suit yourself.” He smiled smugly. “We’ll see how well you can find me in a faceless crowd.”

  Emma quickly gathered her things and rose to leave. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she had no doubts, that even if she’d lost her sight, she would be able to sense him in a crowd of hundreds.

  Callom Smythe, the dragonborne prince, had somehow worked his way into her mind and she doubted he’d vacate anytime soon.