J. Geissinger - Shadow’s Edge

Daria picked up her teacup and took another delicate sip. “We used to live quite in the open, but after those dreadful Romans took notice of us...” She shrugged unhappily and set her teacup back down. “We began to be hunted. We were driven out; most of our kind were killed. We’ve never really been safe since.”

“Hunted?” Jenna said, startled. “You were hunted by the Romans?”

Daria paused for just a hair longer than a heartbeat. “Among others, yes.”

“Driven from our homeland,” Leander said softly, studying Jenna’s face, “declared enemies of the state to be terminated at all costs. So we went into hiding.”

“We learned to blend in,” Daria agreed, stroking a finger along the delicate curve of painted flowers and bone china under her hand. “We interact with humans when necessary, of course, for trade or other purposes, but we never let them know what we really are. It’s far too dangerous.”

“But that was hundreds of years ago,” Jenna protested. “Thousands. Don’t you think it might be different now? So much has changed since then, things are so much better in so many ways—”

“People have not changed since the beginning of time,” Daria stated simply, still staring sadly down at her cup. “It’s only gotten worse for us with the passing centuries. In the thirteen hundreds, legends arose that witches could transform into cats to disguise their activities and demons rode to midnight meetings on giant black panthers. Because they didn’t understand us, they cast us as witches, consorts of the devil. That’s when the Expurgari were first formed—”

“The Expurgari?” Jenna interrupted.

Daria lifted her pale gaze to Jenna’s face. “The purifiers ,” she said in a hushed tone, as if merely saying the word would invoke them. “They’re a small branch of the Church—trained assassins, very brutal, very militant, with unswerving faith in their dogma of death. All across Europe cats were burned, drowned, tossed from church belfries, used as archery targets. Once again the Ikati retreated into secrecy to survive. Though our strength and wiles have helped us thrive, though we’ve amassed wealth and our leaders have risen to become Sir and Your Honor and My Lord in the human world, we are not safe. And we never will be. So though it may seem incredible that creatures such as we have been forced to do so, we’ve endured the centuries by simply...hiding.”

Jenna was overwhelmed by this. She thought of her parents, how they ran, year after year, how they suffered. A sharp pain bloomed under her ribcage.

“Hiding is never the answer. I can tell you that from personal experience.” She raised her gaze to Leander’s face. His beautiful eyes narrowed. “Whatever you’re running from will eventually find you, whether you like it or not.”

He drew in a long, deliberate breath, staring at her, his face impassive.

“I certainly hope you’re wrong,” Daria said quietly, going a shade paler than she was before. “Because what is looking for the Ikati is very nasty indeed.” She shivered lightly, then nodded to the hovering footman to remove her plate.

Jenna looked again at the wall of portraits, ignoring Leander’s piercing stare, and let her gaze wander over the rows of elaborately framed oils, moving down toward the end.

Last in the row on top was a portrait of Leander, in severe charcoals and burnt umber, all stern brows and shadowed cheekbones. Only the pleasing curve of his full lips softened his expression. The plaque below read Leander McLoughlin, 7th Earl of Normanton. Next to his, second from the end— Charles McLoughlin, 6th Earl of Normanton.

He was a handsome man, only slightly less arresting and leonine than his son, with the same blistering green eyes and a wide, intelligent forehead. His father , she thought, surprised that someone so fey and otherworldly had been formed in such a normal way. He seemed so self-sufficient and effortlessly in control of himself and everyone else, she couldn’t imagine him as a child, being taught how to walk, how to speak, how to read. It seemed far more likely he had once been formed of space and stars and merely willed himself into existence.

Her gaze flickered over to Leander, who now stared at her with a look of odd anticipation. She frowned at him, and this earned her an amused smile.

With a sniff she looked again at the wall and her eyes fell on one name carved in slanting gold that stopped her short. It was a portrait just next to Leander’s father, third from the end, which perfectly captured that look of stoic resignation she knew so well.

Rylan Moore, 13th Duke of Grafton.

The crystal glass slipped from her fingers and shattered like a bomb on the parquet floor.

Jenna couldn’t stop apologizing for her clumsiness, though Daria brushed off her stumbled explanations with an elegant wave of her hand and another sharp look at Leander.

“Your surprise is perfectly understandable, Jenna. I had no idea you’d not been told. I assumed Leander had explained it all to you before you arrived.”

She watched as the footman brushed the last of the crystal shards into the dustpan and moved away behind a recessed door before she turned her gaze once more to Jenna. “It’s only a glass, after all.” She smiled, pushed back in her chair. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but I must be off. My husband, Kenneth, frets if I’m gone too long, especially now...”

Leander stood beside Daria and offered her a hand as she rose in one fluid, elegant movement of slender limbs and rustling skirts. “Dolt,” she murmured under her breath as she accepted his hand with a chilly smile.

“ Merci ,” Leander murmured back, keeping his face carefully neutral. He knew neither of them would be pleased if he allowed himself to smile.

Though he was. Pleased, that is.

Albeit in a wretched sort of way. He felt immensely satisfied he’d finally gotten a reaction from Jenna, and equally mortified by the pain he saw in her eyes when she recognized the portrait of her father. He’d only meant to rattle her enough to peer beneath the icy exterior she’d formulated; he’d chosen this room for their breakfast with a great deal of deliberation.

But she now seemed utterly disoriented and shaken. She had the wide-eyed, startled look of a deer in headlights. A deer just about to be run over by a very large truck.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Daria murmured as she turned away, glaring at him from the corner of her eye.

She had always been the one with the keenest sense of justice, his older sister. Always the one who insisted they play fair, even if it tipped their hand or gave away their advantage. She was softhearted and kind to a fault, very much like their mother had been.

She turned back to give Jenna a warm smile. “It was lovely to meet you, Jenna. I hope we can spend more time together after the Council of Alphas convenes.”

“The Council of Alphas?” Jenna echoed. She was looking at the table, at the food, at the footmen lined along the wall, but she wasn’t looking at him, and she definitely wasn’t looking at the portrait of her father on the wall.

With a small, hissed exhalation of breath, Daria spoke through her teeth. “I see you have much to discuss with Jenna, Leander. Try not to leave anything out,” she said, her pale eyes like ice above her serene smile.

She released his hand and turned away, gliding past the tapestries and footmen and portraits, the scent of tea roses and hand cream lingering behind her. Her head was held at the stiff angle that told him he’d be in for an earful later.

Leander turned back to Jenna still sitting in her chair, all pink and gold and dreamy, sorrowful distraction, her perfect poise fracturing around the edges.