Slayer in Lace: The Beginning

by D. D. Miers

  Her father sighed and pinched his fingers to his temple. “Do you recall the old hospital to the East? The one that shut down amidst great scandal? The one that people fear to touch or demolish?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was no coincidence it was made to shy people away. Within the basement beneath those doors, you can find the historical records of the slayers, some dating back to the beginning.”

  Emma jumped up and toppled her chair over backward. Rattled and confused, her father said nothing as she ran around to kiss his cheek before she grabbed a coat and rushed out the door.

  Emma raced down the sidewalk on swift feet, intent on finding precisely what she needed within the hour. She didn’t have much time.

  Turning a corner, she slammed headfirst into something hard, only to look up into the eyes of a rather angry-looking gentleman.

  “Sorry!”

  Bewildered, the man watched as she ran off. Not even children splashing in puddles bothered Emma as the hem of her gown caught a rain of dreary mud.

  Reaching the abandoned hospital, she dashed up to the door and jerked on the handles only to find they were firmly locked shut. With a deep frown, she made her way around the building’s side, checking every door along the way and not finding a path inside.

  High above where she stood, she saw her entrance in an open window. A handful of gouges in the bricks made up the outer wall, and she again cursed her damn skirts.

  Gathering them up, she shoved them back before she heaved herself up and grasped at the rough, crumbling surface. The first handhold let go, sending her feet slamming back into the ground. Angrily, she stared until a sight over the old fence left her mind spinning.

  Leaning up against a nearby rickety building rested a ladder, left over from the days when proprietors attempted to refurbish the building. Emma need to get it into place to see if it was tall enough.

  Sneaking up beside the building, she peeked into every window she could find in a hasty effort to be certain no one was home. She grasped the ladder with as much strength as she could and took a step back. Immediately, the top-heavy weight sent her plummeting backward as the ladder crashed across a shoddy construction fence.

  Wood splintered loudly, alerting several nearby dogs into a frenzy of yelps. Groaning, Emma shimmied out from beneath the ladder.

  With one end of the ladder in hand, she dragged it into the street before making her way toward the hospital. The wood ground obnoxiously against the street like a siren and would have sparked had it been made of metal. Emma finally had the ladder to where she wanted it. She heaved it up, hoping it wouldn’t tumble back down atop her.

  She fell onto the ground at the ladder’s base, heaving in lengthy breaths. Her skirts were covered in dirt and grime from her fight with the ladder, and already she could feel the heavy soak of sweat beneath the clench of her corset.

  Gaining strength, she hopped up on the ladder and scaled it one slow step at a time. Beneath the weight of her foot, one of the rungs snapped, giving her a minor scare as she scrambled up to the next. Luckily, no more broke as she hurried her way up and clambered into the old, dark building.

  At first, Emma wondered whether her father had been mistaken. Old furniture was upended inside many of the rooms while others were bare and empty except for a thick layer of old dust. Her footprints left a solid trail behind her as she crept farther in, finding nothing of interest. Down another floor she looked and another, until she descended far enough and found herself in a dingy basement devoid of light.

  “This seriously can’t be it,” she said, as the single ray of light filtering down from a crack in the ceiling lit a small table where an old candle and a few matches lay. Snatching it up she hurriedly lit it and inhaled a mouthful of dust at the sight around her.

  Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling while large open-topped drums were stuffed with tightly wound scrolls. Everything smelled musty and old, along with a tinge of cracked leather and melted wax.

  Intrigued, Emma drifted along the old shelves, touching each book that caught her attention. She wished to read so many of them, but time was of the essence and she didn’t know where to start.

  Setting the candle down on a small table at the center of the room, she hunted first for the oldest looking books and made a stack to work through. Hesitantly, she settled herself into the only rickety chair.

  With the first book open, she scanned for anything related to the amulet around her neck. It no longer glowed, not since the evening at the masquerade ball.

  She drifted through various books, finding old books on various fighting styles and ways of survival. Many seemed unrelated, and when she was finished with each, she returned them before grabbing more.

  She carefully spread out several across the table in her hunt, only for most of them to branch out in great family trees bearing names she didn’t recognize. Somewhere she imagined there would be a scroll with the Clearwater name, and while her curiosity burned at her to find it, she couldn’t. Not now.

  When her eyes drooped and fatigue weighed on her shoulders, she still hadn’t found any information or drawings of amulets or jewelry pieces for slayers.

  With a bundle of scrolls clutched in her arms, she walked back over to one of the bins. She started dropping them in when something in the bottom captured her attention. It was a book, smaller than the others, with deep engravings across the leather front. Haphazardly she let all of the scrolls in her grasp fall to the floor as she dived in for it.

  Triumphantly she ran back to the table in favor of the dim light she still had. In a hurry, she flipped through, her brow pinched in a sharp line the moment she recognized the old language inscribed within. It wasn’t anything she could read, not when it was written in the dragon’s tongue. Long ago her father had shown her several old pieces of artwork displaying the sharply contoured words of the dragonborne so she could recognize it if the time came.

  Now she did, and along with it was an image of the amulet around her neck and the missing stone she’d never had. She slammed the book shut and jumped to her feet. There was still no time to waste, not if she only had two days before war would strike.

  She needed to know what the book said, and she needed to know now.

  Once more, Emma raced across New York, this time with a book tucked carefully under her arm and her eyes turned forward to avoid any delays.

  On aching legs and with burning lungs, Emma finally reached Callom’s home. She seized the front railing and gasped for breath, willing herself to settle it before knocking. Unfortunately, someone heard her.

  “Miss?” Her eyes drifted upward to where the footman stood in the doorway.

  Still gasping, Emma put on the facade of a proper woman. “Is Mr. Smythe in? I’m in need of speaking with him.”

  “He is. It’s Miss Clearwater, correct?”

  “Yes.” Her smile grew. Either he’d recalled her from a prior visit, or Callom had told him to be expecting her at some point.

  “Right this way.”

  Emma followed the man back through the cozy corridor and into a formal sitting room. It was just as inviting as the rest of the house and reminded her of Callom’s private dining club with great plumes of greenery growing out of vast pots. They were scattered about the room atop lush rugs, and the warmth only grew with the fire crackling in the nearby fireplace.

  Directly across from her, Callom smiled and rose to his feet. The same longing that had overcome her the evening before swelled back to the surface. Was it actually possible that he’d grown even more handsome since their last meeting? It seemed so.

  When she stepped forward, she realized another joined him. A woman with a stunningly curvaceous figure and beautiful black curls that dropped in gorgeous contrast to the perfection of her skin stood from a singular chair near the couch.

  Emma immediately disliked her.

  Who was she? And why did she appear so comfortable in Callom’s home? Emma chided herself for such thoughts
, knowing she was being ridiculous. What had happened between her and Callom was a huge mistake. She was engaged, and she was a slayer, he a dragonborne. Destiny had made the nature of their future clear.

  They didn’t have one—not together.

  Forcing the thoughts off, Emma traipsed closer and nodded in greeting to each.

  “Please,” Callom motioned toward the couch as he and the woman resumed their seats, “join us.”

  Emma’s gaze flashed to the confident woman whose lips remained sealed shut as she took to the seat beside Callom.

  “Have you come just for company?” Callom asked as the turn of his warm gaze. It was the first time she’d been near to him since his lips were on hers.

  Stop thinking such things, Emma.

  “I’ve something important to discuss with you,” Emma said with another glance to the woman, “in private.”

  Callom and the woman looked at one another in silence until he shrugged. “Go on, Logan will entertain you in my stead.”

  The woman laughed, and before she waltzed off, her eyes pinched in intrigue at Emma. Stolen by the look, and confused as to the context, Emma watched as she left and waited for the door to be solidly shut before turning back to the dragonborne prince.

  “The night of the masquerade,” she began, as a smile brought a dimple to his cheek. “I’m uncertain if you saw it because I hid it, but my necklace . . . it glowed.”

  “Your necklace glowed,” Callom repeated rather monotone, as if he disbelieved what she said.

  “Yes.” She tugged the necklace out from beneath her neckline. “This was my mother’s and after we . . . ”

  “Kissed . . .”

  “Yes. That. After that, it lit up.”

  “And you hid that from me, why?”

  Emma’s shook her head, “I don’t know I just . . .” She drew the book out from where she still clutched it beneath her arm and shoved it into his grasp. “I went to the archives and I—”

  Callom jumped as if he’d been touched by lightning. “Where did you get this?”

  “Why? What is it?”

  He angled the cover so she could easily see it and his finger jutted down over the engravings. “Because this marking right here? The one encased in this circle?”

  “Yes.” Emma’s heart hammered in anticipation.

  “This marking here is the original marking of my people, of the dragonborne.”

  “But that can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense. I found this in the archives of the slayers.”

  Callom flipped through a handful of pages and went back to the cover. The pad of his thumb drifted over the deep carving.

  “Emma.” The golden hue of his eyes shone bright as he caught her in their hold, “this engraving marks the first year of our birth—and its secrets have been missing for over two hundred years.”

  Chapter 8

  The small book within Callom’s grasp felt like both hope and wildfire. As a young boy he’d pestered his father with incessant questions of the dragonbornes’ histories, only to find many of their records had already been lost through war and time. He hadn’t understood then how so much of what they did was left without proper reasoning and why none could truly answer his curiosities.

  Now, as he stared, the etched symbol of their beginnings left him with the distinct worry they’d gotten so much wrong. How could they have known what had been out of their reach?

  “Follow me,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” Though Emma followed, there was hesitation in her voice.

  Callom smirked as he thought of where he was taking her. “This way,” he said, “we’ve work to do.”

  Excitement drove him forward to the downward spiraling staircase, until a piqued, feminine voice halted his movements. “Taking her downstairs already, are you?” His raven-haired guest asked with a coy smile on her lips.

  Just behind him, Emma stirred uncomfortably. “What’s downstairs?”

  “Pay no mind to her.” Grabbing the railing he sailed down the steps two at a time. “We’ve no time to waste.”

  Though he never stopped racing downward, he heard the hesitation in Emma’s slowed steps before she followed.

  They plunged into darker depths. Callom preferred the flickering hue of oil lanterns and candlelight rather than the recent electricity inventions. At the stair’s base, he grabbed an extinguished lantern, and with a gentle flick of his magic, set its light ablaze.

  Emma said nothing, but he felt her burning curiosity. He smiled again as he led the way behind the nearest heavy oak door.

  The space that greeted them was just as warm in decor as the rest of his home, albeit more cluttered. On the far side stood a grand bed from which four hefty posts were draped in dark shades of crimson and gold. It almost made the space look royal, were it not for the clutter in another corner of stacked books, scrolls, and quills. They all sat atop a small, round table surrounded by towering shelves which housed more of the same. The vast room still had enough space left for a small sitting area grouped around a great, stone fireplace.

  The air was chilled and the fire cold until Callom walked over, and with a cocky glance to be sure Emma was watching, set the freshly added logs alight with a flick of his wrist.

  Emma stood in the open doorway, cradling one of her arms as she scanned the space under the flickering light of the fireplace.

  “What are we doing in here?” she asked, her voice higher than she intended, her discomfort obvious. Specifically when she glanced toward the bed—his bed.

  Callom stifled the urge to laugh as he brought both the book and lantern to the crowded table flanked by two chairs.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked with the lowest grumble that left her arms crossing firmly.

  “No,” she said staunchly. “It’s quite all right.”

  Callom laughed. “I’ve no intention of disgracing your honor . . .” he grinned devilishly, “. . . today.”

  The bright lilt of her laugh eased her tension as she walked into the room. He had to admit, seeing Emma Clearwater, slayer and by all definitions his mortal enemy, in his most private of places, brought a heat to his belly. He’d never taken a woman who hadn’t asked him, too, and though Emma’s body desired him, her mind held her back.

  “What are we actually doing in here?” she asked again with more sass.

  “I’ve a translation somewhere.” Callom turned to the shelves packed with thick tomes and crumpled scrolls. “If you ever manage to meet my father,” Callom mindlessly said as his fingers drifted over their spines, “avoid speaking of how disorganized this is.”

  “Wouldn’t be impressed, would he?”

  “Not in the least.”

  He felt the heat of Emma’s presence at his side as she looked over the shelf's contents. Books on geography, science and Latin sat on the rack before her. “Why do you need a translation? Isn’t it written in the dragon’s tongue?”

  “It is, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything of the sort. A great many of us aren’t able to read it without considerable aid.”

  Puzzled, Emma said nothing else as she plucked a single book free and flipped through its dusty pages. The book’s scent and wafting smoke from the snapping fire weren’t enough to drown out Callom’s distraction with Emma. She smelled of fresh peonies, like the ones from her engagement party, and each time she reached out to exchange the book in her hand for another, her skirts brushed Callom’s leg. He remembered the soft slip of her skin and sweet taste of her lips.

  The moment he found the book he’d needed, his throat cleared with a loud cough, jolting her.

  “Did you find it?” she asked.

  He waved the book overhead for the prize it was before clearing a space on one side of the table. With both chairs dragged into place, he sat down at Emma’s side and flipped the book open.

  “Not everything translates directly, so this may take some time,” he said as he passed her the unreadable book in question. He wanted to le
arn what was written inside, but new patience would be key if they didn’t wish to get it all wrong.

  He’d just begun looking for the translation to the first elegantly looped letters when Emma let it flip momentarily shut. She rummaged through the stacks of used paper before finding one with ample blank space, and with a pencil in hand, looked ready to go.

  Callom smiled at her eagerness. “Can you . . . keep the book open?”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment tinged Emma’s cheeks as she grabbed a paperweight from the far side of the table. Opening the book to the page depicting her pendant, she propped the book open with the weight near to the bottom with great care. “There. You translate and I’ll write it down.”

  There was something refreshing about her willingness to take charge, and Callom obliged without complaint. Translating the text was a slow process, sometimes taking several minutes to be certain a single sound was right. Where they could read a single letter in the English language, the language of the dragons would often depict an entire sound with more than a single syllable.

  More than once, Callom had taken a good guess at a word before he’d finished with the final symbols, only to realize the smallest change altered the meaning entirely.

  Callom sighed. “Scratch off the last two letters.”

  Though Emma obliged, she looked confused.

  “There’s no direct translation,” he said as he pointed from one book to the other. “With most languages, you can translate entire words and some specific letters, but it doesn’t work that way with this. Groups of letters have different meanings, and the subtraction or addition of specific ones can change the meaning drastically. It could mean the difference between saying say, war, or . . .” he flashed her a cocky grin, “corset.”

  “Neither of which should have any bearing on my pendant.” Emma said.

  Callom shrugged and found himself unable to shake his persistent slight smirk. He buried himself into the translation as Emma took careful note of every piece he completed. Even with large swathes of the notes being crossed out and redone, the completion looked marvelous with her perfected handwriting.