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The dog didn’t relax. But it didn’t growl again as she edged away from it toward the west wing, where she’d been told dinner would be served.
“No one warned me about you. I’ll have to talk to Severne about that oversight.”
The dog disengaged from the shadows of the adjacent hallway, but as he stepped into the light, he brought clinging darkness with him rather than leaving it behind. He was black, but there was a gray, sooty quality to every hair on him as it shifted over his muscles, remnants of a dark fog roiling around him as he walked.
“I’m on my way to dinner. Perhaps there’ll be a bone for you there,” she suggested.
Preferably a bone not attached to me.
The animal was as tall as her waist, and its snout was long and broad. Its muzzle indicated a powerful jaw, a deadly bite. It couldn’t come to that. She had to keep it from coming to that. She couldn’t afford an injury now when Vic depended on her to stay strong. The dog was no longer growling. She’d willed her breathing to slow. She forced herself to walk slowly, as well. Now that she’d stepped away from the mural, toward the dining room, the dog padded with her, silent and slightly calmed.
It was an odd escort to have down hallways that must have seen much fancier processions. Kat was reminded of Little Red Riding Hood in a black forest with a giant trickster wolf at her heels. The dog was more German shepherd than wolf, but his size was twice that of any wolf, and there was no woodcutter in sight. She saved herself, step by step, refusing to show her fear to the tense animal looming beside her. They came to the entrance of the dining room. She paused to smooth her skirt.
It was good that she’d had to calm herself before entering the room. Truth was, the beast at her heels was no more frightening than the man she prepared to face.
The table glittered with crystal, china and silver, but it also welcomed with more intimate warmth than she’d expected. Half a dozen candles glowed in the jeweled centerpiece at the table’s heart, throwing off colored shadows of ruby, emerald and sapphire. The boy was already seated, drinking from a large glass of milk held in both hands. He greeted her with big dark eyes and a white moustache.
“Ms. D’Arcy has found us, Eric,” Severne said.
Their host reclined at the head of the table in a large, straight-backed chair with red velvet upholstery and a scrolled wooden frame, very throne-like and fitting to his authoritative demeanor. And yet, the tilt of his finely shaped mouth drew her eyes. She thought about soft silken petals he’d given her. She’d imagined them a substitution for a kiss. Had she been correct? Had he wanted to kiss her because her music had moved him? She’d been certain before, but facing him now she was no longer sure she could read him at all. She noticed the swell of his lower lip was fuller and more sensual than she’d first imagined, a hint of softness in an otherwise hard line.
Now that she’d tasted it, she couldn’t forget it was there.
The dog showed itself behind her and Severne’s smile disappeared, interrupting her thoughts. He went from indolent royal to intimidating man in seconds. He stood as the semblance of a lazy royalty fell away.
“Grim,” he said. There was no doubt it was a warning.
Katherine hadn’t relaxed with the monstrous dog, but she had convinced herself it was safe. Now, with her intimidating host reacting to the dog’s presence, she wasn’t so sure.
She moved to position herself between the boy—who had obviously felt comfortable enough with Severne to share his name—and the dog. Severne stepped forward, but not before his glance took in her brave move with a slight shift of eyes that gleamed in the candlelight from the table. All the green she’d seen before was lost. His eyes were black in this light and, if possible, his jaw firmed before looking back at the dog.
He stared the dog down, and its eyes widened and flared. Her body tensed. Every muscle quivered as she prepared to react to the result of the unspoken communication between the dog and his master. It was so ferociously tense that it might lead to blood.
But if it was a challenge, John Severne came away the victor. How had she doubted for a second he would? The dog’s head dipped, and he stepped back several paces before turning to disappear the way he’d come.
“Good boy,” Kat said. Her voice was an adrenaline-soaked quiver. That sign of fear was embarrassing, but she stood tall. Her body might have been a poor shield, but she’d offered it to Eric one more time.
The child at the table lowered the glass he’d held frozen to his lips during the confrontation. Severne stepped back to the table and held out her chair. Still not as relaxed as he’d seemed when she came in the room, but pretending to be. He met her gaze as she moved to take the proffered seat. Met and held, his stare giving away nothing of why the dog was banished from the room, but not the opera house. His eyes were still dark in the candlelight, without a hint of green. She had the sudden urge to edge even closer to him to rediscover the softer moss hue around his pupils that she’d seen before.
“Grim? Isn’t that the name of a mythological hound that’s a portent of death?” she asked, though it was Severne’s nearness she truly questioned. Why he lingered near her, why she cared, why an invisible force tingled across her skin when the mere cuff of his suit brushed against her with his movements to help her sit. Better to turn the subject to the large dog, even though it and the death it represented didn’t seem nearly as urgent as the scent of smoky candle from Severne’s skin. “They’re supposed to frequent places of execution in England.”
“And crossroads. They traverse ancient pathways. They’re seen as guardians in many cultures,” Severne said. “Grim is actually a hellhound, and he takes his job too seriously at times. He’s the protector of this place and of me since I was a child.”
She hadn’t felt protected by Grim. More like he was protecting someone or something from her. But what threat did she pose to the master of l’Opéra Severne? What secrets did Severne’s Grim guard?
Severne moved back to his seat and sank down. But this time he didn’t recline. He appeared hard against the velvet, as if its decadent softness couldn’t entice him to relax ever again. Eric watched one of them and then the other silently.
“I wonder, was Grim guarding me from something in the corridor outside my room, or...?”
“Protecting something from you?” Severne finished. His eyes shifted to take in Eric’s stare, and he seemed to stop himself from saying more. Out of consideration for the boy’s feelings and his recent loss? The loss that she’d played such a horrible part in?
Her own chair swallowed her. She didn’t feel like royalty at all. Now she felt like Little Red Riding Hood staying for dinner in the wolf’s lair. No mention was made of putting the dog outside or what she should do if she encountered him again.
Several servants brought in the courses in silver tureens and on shining platters as the evening progressed. They were dressed in immaculate uniforms of black and white, their pristine shirts starched, their trousers pressed.
During the meal, she saw the boy put several scraps in his pocket. She wondered if they were bribes for Grim. Safe passage through the elaborately carved corridors of l’Opéra Severne didn’t seem possible. Could he buy it from the giant dog with honeyed buns and cake?
They consumed exquisitely seasoned pheasant and savory gravy. The meal was presented as if John Severne was a restaurant critic, yet he ate with no relish or apparent discernment. Rather, he watched her eat as if every bite was performance art. When she nibbled the edge of a puff pastry with pleasure, his eyes widened, then narrowed in concentration, as if he wasn’t chewing the same treat but only tasting through her reaction to the dessert, which failed to impress his palate.
Her cheeks warmed beneath his scrutiny. How could such perfect food fail to catch his attention?
Eric ate with more enthusiasm than both adults. He gobbled. She noted his place setting was simpler with a more colorful napkin. Who had gone to such consideration for him?
“I’m sorry about your mother, Eric. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her,” Kat said.
The boy didn’t look up at her. He stared at his plate. But then he spoke. “Her name is Lavinia. She’s glad you saved me.”
Eric was obviously still processing the loss of his mother. He’d referred to her in present tense as if she wasn’t gone.
The conversation was stilted after that, with “More, please” being the predominant phrase until an older woman came to the door.
Her tea-length skirt was perfectly pressed and flared but fifty years out of fashion, its tiny polkadot print and lace trim a style reminiscent of black-and-white television.
Severne rose, and Kat followed suit. She was jumpy. In spite of the fine meal and beautiful table, she wasn’t at ease. Because of her guilt over Eric’s mother, her uncertainty with Severne and the confrontation with the hellhound, she waited on a razor’s edge for disaster to happen. For all she knew, the woman in polka dots might have a machine gun under her skirts.
“Matron,” Eric greeted her.
“Bath and bed, young sir. I believe you’ve had your fill,” the woman said to the young daemon boy after a curt nod to Severne. She seemed to see nothing different about the child. She didn’t act nervous about babysitting a daemon. When Eric smiled at the woman, Kat finally relaxed about his being at the opera house. He was welcome. Cared for. Her chest tightened with emotion, thinking about Reynard’s blade cutting into his mother’s throat.
The older woman glanced at her, but instead of looking away again to her new charge, her gaze held. It became a penetrating stare.
“You are like her. Very like. The same eyes. Same hair,” she said.
Kat’s heart leaped to her throat, but the woman wasn’t referring to her sister. She and Victoria were as unalike as could be. Vic was taller, her hair auburn and her eyes the palest blue. She’d taken after their father, a man they’d barely known.
It was her mother the woman referred to. It had to be, though twenty years had passed since her mother had performed here.
“She was lovely. And talented. Drew them like a flame. Her voice was an angel’s voice. But...” Her eyes narrowed as she looked closer at Katherine. “She wasn’t as strong, I think. You are the strong one,” she concluded. She toyed with an iron ring of keys that dangled from her belt as she spoke.
Kat clenched her napkin in her hand. Strong? Was love strong? It was the only weapon she had in the fight to find her sister.
“Yes. Definitely stronger,” the woman noted.
“Sybil has been costume matron at l’Opéra Severne for many years,” Severne said.
She hadn’t come into the room or approached them as she spoke. She held herself apart. The soft candlelight didn’t fully illuminate her face. She must have been older than Kat had first assumed if she remembered her mother that well. The keys hung beside a small sewing pouch with a pincushion full of needles incorporated into its design. A bit of measuring tape peeked from the top of the pouch. Altogether, she seemed a woman used to taking care of business, one who didn’t need a machine gun to do so. Was she the one who had set a special place for Eric at the fancy table?
Eric had paused near her chair, and now he flung himself at Kat’s legs in a tight hug reminiscent of last night, when they’d fled from his mother’s killer. His move distracted her from Sybil. Her chest tightened as she felt his ferocious hold again.
“He won’t find you here. You’re safe with Severne,” she said.
Their host heard the exchange. He stood straighter as if she’d surprised him. His whole hard body stiffened. Eric let her go after a fierce squeeze that made her eyes burn. He went happily with “Matron,” his pockets bulging with pilfered food.
And then they were alone.
Severne didn’t reclaim his seat, so she remained standing, as well. She forgot her pastry—in fact, she forgot everything—as he suddenly moved. He came toward her in a slow, steady approach very like a stalk, as if quicker movements might scare her away. Did he consider her strong? How soft she must seem to him. How mortal and easily broken.
She tried to convince herself she was stronger.
Her heart beat faster in her chest, an urgent pulse she could feel in her whole body. The heat in her cheeks flushed hotter and spread until she was sure the low neck of her silk blouse revealed her consternation.
She was frightened. But she didn’t run.
He was a daemon.
Dangerous.
And so inhumanly hard. He was dressed in a modern, fitted button-down shirt that hugged his chest. Its white fabric was only slightly paler than his skin, but the candlelight caressed his skin to a golden glow, whereas his shirt was left stark in shadow. Or maybe Brimstone caused the color, a more subtle tan than sunlight? He also wore straight-legged black pants that were tight against muscular thighs. Suddenly the idea of feeling his form like perfectly sculpted marble beneath her hand invaded her thoughts.
Could he be made to blush? Or sigh? Could his heartbeat be quickened? Would his breath catch as hers did when he stopped millimeters from where she stood?
With Grim, she’d mastered a calm that Severne shattered.
“You can see I’ve helped Eric. Just as I intend to help you find your sister,” he said.
His voice was a vibration on her skin. His face tilted toward her. There was the green she’d wanted to seek, but it glittered. Dangerous, not soft. Getting close enough to see the colored striations in his dark irises was a compulsion she should have been sure always to deny.
There was bold and there was crazy. Severne inspired mad impulses she should have resisted.
She imagined it for only a second—her hand fluttering softly over the plane of his chest, his stomach and his thighs—but the vision was undoubtedly braver than one she would previously have had. The flush her vision inspired spread more intimately until her knees grew weak.
Again, she could feel his heat. Maybe he would blame Brimstone for the blush he could see in the candlelight? The candles’ glow was cruel, causing more warmth and intimacy in the room than she was prepared to handle.
She drew in a quick breath when he reached out toward her, but his hand went past her to the table. She held the sudden gasp in her lungs because to exhale might cause her body to brush his reaching arm. And one touch might betray her. The air filled her chest, tight and unexpressed, as he lifted a tiny pastry from her plate and brought it to her lips. When it was so close to her mouth that the scent of vanilla cream teased her nose, she exhaled softly, meeting his eyes over the proffered treat.
It was a confession, that exhalation. And his eyelids drooped over his eyes in response.
“You didn’t enjoy your own pastry,” she said.
His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips and back again.
“I’ve eaten them a thousand times a thousand. But you chew as if nothing so perfect has ever touched your lips and tongue. They’re dust to me. Watching you enjoy them is delicious.”
Katherine’s head grew light as blood rushed to her lips and the tips of her breasts. He knew. He must. His jaw relaxed, and he brought the pastry to her mouth. He touched the pursed bow of her lips with a light, teasing tickle of sugary cream.
She licked out, instinctively dipping into the residue of icing with her tongue. He watched as she tasted it once more. It was even more decadent when combined with the intensity of his attention.
“I’ve tasted cream a thousand times a thousand, but I’ve never tasted it on you,” he said.
Had she known? Had her head gone light because she knew her nibbles of delicate pastry had overwhelmed any decision on his part to keep his distance? Or on her part to stay calm and controlled?
Earlier in the evening, he’d given her a calla lily instead of a kiss. The lovely flower had been no substitute at all. Its soft petals were nothing compared to...
He sucked the sweetness of cream from her lips. He sought its remnants on her tongue. He pressed into her until her bottom was on the table and his impossibly muscular body was between her legs. The pastry was forgotten as his mouth took its place, a much more decadent treat. Forbidden. Bad for her. Crazy. She tasted sweet cream and pastry and fire and a wicked hint of wood smoke that must be the never-before-tasted burn of Brimstone heat on her tongue.
She opened to him. She didn’t resist. Their tongues twined. Their bodies melded as closely as clothes would allow. He tasted her completely, plundering every gasp, every sugar-sweetened sigh.
And when he finally pulled back, as she clung to him so she wouldn’t fall, she finally saw the flush of pleasure on his face and neck that the pastry alone had failed to give him. Heaven help her, but she instantly ached to give him more. It wasn’t his marbled perfection she wanted to caress; it was his vulnerability. She wanted to explore the chink in his armor that had allowed him to taste her.
“Good night, Katherine. You heard Sybil. It’s time for bed,” Severne said.
He backed away. She straightened. In his deep, smoky voice, the suggestion of bedtime was much less utilitarian.
It had been only a kiss.
Only.
She walked by him on quaking legs. He let her go. But between them was so much more heat than could be blamed on hell’s fire.
Her whole life she’d hidden in music. Perhaps being excellent at hiding made her also long to seek. Severne hid many things behind his mystery and his muscle. His hardness was his armor. But he was capable of softening. He’d softened tonight. For one stolen moment, his mouth had softened on hers. She couldn’t risk losing herself in the search for the softness he hid from her and from the world.
Victoria was missing, and she couldn’t afford to lose herself in John Severne before her sister was found.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_35dad1cd-54cb-5536-a41c-9b248b73a8f2)
The next day John left the opera house as much to escape the memory of Katherine’s taste as to fulfill his duties. The house he visited was small, but neat, in a row of older bungalow homes in Roseland Terrace, a part of Baton Rouge’s Garden District that had been carefully maintained. The elderly man inside the historic Craftsman was happiest in a home with few rooms and big windows to let in the sun. The navigable home kept him from being confused as he moved from room to room with poor eyesight, failing legs and a cane in a stoop-shouldered shuffle.
And the big windows kept the shadows at bay.
He didn’t like shadows.
He didn’t remember why.
At first John Severne had tried to correct his father’s failing memory. He’d consulted the best doctors. He’d experimented with homeopathy and modern medicines. But then he’d seen the grace in Levi Severne’s forgetfulness. The relief.
His grandfather had been killed by one of the daemons he’d been charged to hunt. He’d died a doomed man. He’d known hell had come for him. Though only a young teen, John had seen him consumed by Brimstone’s fire until nothing was left but dust. His father had seen it, too. He’d taken John’s hand, helpless to prevent for them both the same fate unless they were successful in their task.
Down to the last name on hell’s most-wanted list.
John Severne had visited with the father who hadn’t known him for decades. Every time he came, they met for the first time. A nearly immortal man with Alzheimer’s was a pitiful sight. But it was also a respite. They spoke of other things. The hydrangeas were blooming. Levi Severne liked blue. The big clusters of blooms made him smile.
Severne had left his father on a chair in the backyard, where the flowers swayed in the breeze. The nurse would collect him in time for an afternoon siesta. No more killing. No more strife. He had no memory of the damnation that had once plagued him with nightmares.
“We’ll beat it, John. We’ll beat it. I promised your mother before she died I would see you saved. I promised her my father’s terrible contract wouldn’t damn you.”
How many times had his father repeated that pledge to him?
How many times had he stood watching the frail old man he loved and quietly vowing the same pledge back to him?
