Barbara Hancock - Brimstone Seduction

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.