Brimstone Seduction (11 page)

“We could call for help,” she suggested. “Maybe Grim would come?”

“There's no danger here. I don't think there's cause for alarm. Let's finish what we started and see if someone comes by the time we're ready to leave,” Severne suggested.

She should leave. Now. Because she didn't really want to go.

This down-to-earth Severne was worse than the stoic opera master. His raven hair was liberally sprinkled with dust. His handsome face was smudged. His jeans were worn until they fit his hips and thighs like a well-loved denim glove.

“And what were you doing down here?” she asked.

“I was revisiting old friends from
Turandot
,
Parsifal
and
The Nightingale
. I usually choose what the company performs after the summer's
Faust
,” Severne said.

He'd named a few of the most popular operas for children, dark fairy tales full of fanciful music and colorful costumes.

“Shows very different from
Faust
,” Kat noted.

“Yes. They are,” Severne said. “They were my favorites once. I like to recall a simpler time.”

They stood face-to-face in the shadows, and she suddenly wished for more ghost light. A nostalgic daemon was intriguing. Too intriguing. It hinted that she'd been right. Severne might have a heart beneath his hard, muscled chest.

“I'm here for the masquerade. Sybil gave me a dress. I still need shoes,” Kat said.

A daemon drawn to operatic fairy tales was a dark contrast she didn't dare explore. Not when her eyes already searched his for traces of green.

“Ah, speaking of fairy tales,
Cinderella
, then,” Severne said.

Unexpectedly, he reached and took her hand. She didn't pull her fingers from his. She didn't jerk away to pound on the door and demand her release. She probably should have. In Severne's strangely playful company, this dusty prison might prove too decadent.

But it was only shoes, after all.

How dangerous could that be?

She followed where Severne led.

Thankfully, they avoided the all-knowing smile of Mephistopheles.

Instead he pulled her toward another row she'd yet to see, where floor-to-nearly-ceiling racks of cubbyholes were filled with shoes to accompany the costumes. They'd passed the alcove where the dress was still covered in its sheet. The way Sybil had revealed it to her made her feel that Severne hadn't seen it before.

Yet he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

With no hesitation, he searched the racks of shoes until they came to a numbered slot with too many digits for her to note. He left her standing near it until he disappeared around the corner and then reappeared with a stool.

He unfurled its folded legs and set it near her. He nodded toward the seat, but she remained standing while he turned to retrieve a pair of shoes from the cubbyhole. They weren't glass slippers, but Kat stared at the delicate pumps made of gossamer strands as if artistic spiders had woven them with sparkling thread. The heels looked insubstantial, as if she'd be expected to walk on air.

She sat.

The dark opera master of l'Opéra Severne knelt in front of her, a daemon Prince Charming with dusty hair and faded jeans, as if the fairy-tale shoes in his hands were a practical offering and not some kind of unexpected magic so perfectly suited to her dress.

He placed one to the side and lifted the other for her to see.

They were closer to the ghost light's glow than they'd been at the door. It illuminated the waves in his hair and the very green glitter in his eyes when his gaze met hers. Not a practical offering, then. Not if it inspired the light of unspoken emotions to show in his dark irises.

She should refuse, but she couldn't break the spell of the find, not when she wondered how the perfect shoes could possibly fit her feet when chosen from their hiding place among thousands of others.

Kat bent to remove her everyday shoes. The worn ballerina flats came off easily while Severne watched. But when she reached for the shoe he held, he shook his head.

“No. Allow me,” he instructed. He was on one knee. His tone was polite. But it brooked no refusal.

He took her bare foot in his warm hand and slipped the gossamer shoe on her foot.

It fit.

He continued to hold her foot in his hands, and their eyes met again.

“Fairy tales are dangerous. In
Cinderella
, the stepmother danced until she fell down dead,” Kat said.

She needed the reminder.

Any magic John Severne possessed was damned. Daemons couldn't be trusted.

“Still, I do believe l'Opéra Severne would be the perfect place for deadly dancing,” Severne said.

He placed her foot back on the ground. He stood and paced several steps away with his back to her. Kat slipped the shoe off her foot and put her own shoes back on. She left the perfect shoes lying on the floor beside the stool as she stood.

“Maybe we should call for help now,” Kat suggested.

There was tension between them that couldn't be blamed on Heaven or hell. It was a purgatory of unexplored feeling somewhere between paradise and devastation. She couldn't accept the shoes, no matter how badly she ached as she left them behind. It wasn't safe to indulge in happily-ever-after dreams with a daemon. Even if the shoes weren't a daemonic bargain, they were a heart's bargain she couldn't afford to make.

“Help never comes, Katherine. We have to save ourselves,” Severne said.

He ignored the shoes as he turned back to face her. He pulled a key from his jeans pocket.

“You had a key all along,” Kat said.

In spite of her distrust of daemons, she hadn't expected him to be playfully tricky.

He led the way back to the door and easily unlocked the latch. The opening yawned wide enough for her to pass, but she hesitated.

“Why?” she asked.

“Would you have stayed if the door had been open?” he asked.

She was afraid of the answer. He suspected that she wouldn't have stayed. She was fairly certain he was wrong. He didn't move aside as she passed. She brushed lightly against the wall of his chest, all steel once more. He closed the door behind her once she had stepped outside. She heard him turn the key.

As she made her way back upstairs, she worried about Sybil. Severne had said the daemon woman often had an agenda of her own. What favor would Sybil require of her now that their bargain was sealed? And how did her agenda collide with the secrets surrounding her sister's disappearance? The costume matron was a fixture of l'Opéra Severne. She must know something about Victoria that she hadn't seen fit to share.

Katherine tried not to think about John Severne shut in the shadowy warehouse with all his fairy tales that could never be.

Chapter 13

T
he men stood before him.

Many of them had traveled hundreds of miles to reach the enclave. He could see their exhaustion in the way several of them swayed on their feet. One had suffered a daemon bite that festered on his neck. Black ooze didn't stop him from standing tall with his stoic face firm and his shoulders squared as he faced his master. Another had a broken leg. He hadn't even gone to a hospital to have it professionally tended by a doctor. Instead it was splinted, and Reynard could see how it pained the monk because of the sweat running down his face and staining the robe he wore.

His chair was positioned on a dais so he could peruse their ranks from above.

They stood at attention while he inspected them. They had changed from traveling clothes into the robes that they were expected to dress in while training in the enclave. Many of them wore the robes even when they were away. He wouldn't have been surprised if these, his best men, wore them always, even though he'd chosen the material for the roughness of the cloth. Most of the men had permanent skin conditions from the wool rubbing their skin raw for decades.

In spite of the obedience and devotion that had brought them here so quickly in response to his summons, Reynard found fault with them all. They were too tall, too muscular, too young, but he didn't share his disappointment at their perfection.

He would relish the opportunity to wear them down.

He would enjoy breaking them.

His heartbeat had quickened. He shifted in his chair. His current favorite, Joshua, stepped closer with a tray, and Reynard reached for a hammered copper goblet, which held his wine. The wine was bitter, mixed with an herbal cocktail that would soothe him.

If he broke them, the duty of fathering the next generation of D'Arcy Seekers would fall to him. It was a temptation and a trial at the same time. He must not be greedy or presumptuous although anticipation hummed beneath his healing skin.

He drank the full goblet of drugged wine and sat back in his chair. Joshua took the goblet from his slackening fingers. Like a good servant, Joshua also gave the signal for the monk near the stairs to sound the gong that would allow the sparring to commence.

It would be a sacred duty to father the next generation of Seekers, not a forbidden fantasy he indulged in late at night when the blood ran too hot in his veins. He was healing. He could feel the blood strengthening him and making him whole once more.

He was a man with a divine purpose untainted by the sacrifices he'd made to survive.

That night, Reynard had the heavy silver chains brought to him in his chambers. He inspected the links, one by one. He imagined what it would be like to see their shine pressed tightly into soft, rebellious flesh.

Chapter 14

A
piece of yellow paper fluttered to the floor when Kat opened her cello case to practice that evening. The rest of the orchestra had finished for the day and left the opera house to enjoy Baton Rouge nightlife before performances began and their social life was reduced to Monday mornings and a few hours each afternoon.

Kat had to be careful. Reynard had eyes everywhere. Baton Rouge was a musical city only forty-five minutes from New Orleans. It wouldn't be beneath his notice. She had to lay low even as she turned every stone looking for Victoria.

She bent to retrieve the small square of rough-edged cardstock. She turned it over to read the print on its front side. The Blues Queen. It was a riverboat ticket stub for a cruise earlier in the spring. Kat fingered the perforated tear that indicated the ticket had been used.

How had the scrap found its way into her case? It hadn't been there earlier in the day. The black lining of her case wouldn't have hidden the bright yellow paper. Printed along with the words was a tiny rendering of a showboat. The kind that had offered cruises up and down the Mississippi since before the Civil War. The drawing included whimsical clouds of steam from smokestacks that would be mostly decorative in these days of gasoline-powered engines.

Kat closed her case and placed her cello in the corner. Someone had put the ticket in her case. Sybil? Tess? The find wasn't accidental. It was a deliberate hint. But it also felt like a lure. It was dangerous to leave l'Opéra Severne. Vic surely had in the months she'd been in Baton Rouge, and now she was gone.

Katherine decided against going to Severne with the ticket. He might not understand the tug of intuition she felt as she looked at the tiny stub. And she needed to avoid him as much as possible. A night on the town did not figure into the strategy. He might try to persuade her not to go, or he might decide to go with her. Neither of those were options she wanted to consider.

Kat rummaged for clothes to blend in with a riverboat party crowd. Even with her decision made, she wondered what she might encounter alone on a sultry Louisiana night.

She chose a simple belted shift dress she could pair with wedge-heeled booties. Sleeveless in a soft watercolor pattern, the dress wasn't eye-catching, but a sheer wrap of pale green chiffon matched her belt and the leaves on the print, showing enough effort that she wouldn't stand out in the opposite direction. She didn't want to be over-or underdressed. She clipped her hair up in deference to the humidity and added a swipe of matte lipstick.

The yellow clutch she grabbed felt ironically un-weapon-like in her hand. She wasn't as prepared to find and rescue her sister as she should have been. She was unsure what dangers she might face. But she didn't have time to become a ninja or proficient with guns or knives. She was a cellist, and a cellist had to be enough.

The walk out of l'Opéra Severne was interminable. She expected Severne or Grim at every turn. She'd called a cab to avoid lingering on the street and flagging one down. Leaving the opera house and stepping out into the city was like trading one world for another.

Suddenly glittering lights and traffic, the sound of distant music and horns, enveloped her with seductive warmth. Somewhere Reynard stalked, and her sister... She tried not to imagine what was keeping her sister from calling. The pull of Severne's Brimstone blood didn't diminish. It was so strong it followed her into the Baton Rouge night, an attraction she tried to ignore.

The cab took her to the river and the quay, where several paddle wheel cruisers awaited their departures for dinner cruises. She paid the driver and got out to walk down the boardwalk as if she was only a tourist. But the light wind fluffing her skirt didn't charm her. She was too nervous. Her motives for being here were too urgent to enjoy the happy sounds of the throng.

When she approached the window of
The Blues Queen
's booking booth, she saw others being turned away.

“There are no more seats available for the evening,” she heard the agent at the window say.

She could see the large showboat gleaming with lights in the distance. It dwarfed the other boats tied nearby. She could hear the music already playing to welcome its passengers. Beautiful blues piano played by expert hands floated across the water. So near and yet so far. She couldn't sneak on board. There was a narrow ramp with several crewmembers taking tickets from orderly boarders.

She stopped. Instinct still urged her that only
The Blues Queen
would do, even though other potential passengers in front of her were easily moving away to purchase tickets for other boats. Last minute partiers couldn't be picky.

Just as Kat decided she would purchase a ticket for another night, a familiar figure stepped around her to talk to the agent at the window. The agent was obviously familiar with John Severne, as well. She smiled, nodded and picked up a phone.

Severne turned around and approached her. Kat could only stiffen her spine and stand firm rather than retreat.

“I like to let them know when they can expect me. We'll be putting their preparations to the test tonight. Let's see if they stand as ready as I expect them to be,” Severne said.

The daemon held out his arm. She noted his perfectly tailored suit. Very different from the shorts he wore in his gym. Yet its fitted lines revealed as much about his physique to the observant eye. She tried to observe less. She failed. He wore the suit casually with a loosened shirt and no tie. Her eyes were drawn to his bare neck. It was so very human of him to seem vulnerable in the loosened collar in spite of the hard body below it.

“I own
The Blues Queen
. My table is always reserved. Will you join me?” he asked.

His pants were slim-cut and low on his lean hips. Painfully sexy and modern for a “man” who had probably stood on this same quay a hundred years ago as casually as he did tonight.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” Kat said.

It wasn't a date. He must have followed her here to help her find her sister. No more. No less. But she could see in the fairy light glow that the green was already apparent in his nearly black eyes. She hadn't meant to match the moss there with her wrap. Or had she? When had green become a color that appealed to her?

“It isn't safe for you to go alone. I'm not the only one who followed you tonight,” Severne said.

Kat looked around. Her affinity was focused entirely on Severne. He had moved closer to her as she hesitated. She was blind to other threats just as she'd been blind to Sybil's true nature. She felt no other pull.

“Is it Reynard?” she asked. She tugged her wrap closer even though the night held no natural chill. Her goose bumps were prompted by her emotions, a physical rejection of the evil that stalked her always.

“He and his Order are always a possibility. You know that. But I was referring to other threats,” Severne said.

He had reached to take her arm. Solicitous to onlookers, but she could feel a tension onlookers might not see.

“Is that why you followed me? To protect me from...?” she asked.

She looked up into his eyes. The shadows had reclaimed them as black. She couldn't read the tight line of his lips or the clenched angle of his jaw.

“I'd like to be able to give you an unequivocal yes to that question,” he said. “Shall we?” He indicated the movement of the crowd down the quay and up the ramp onto the showboat. It was a happy, boisterous line up of couples and small groups.

“Well, we're here. I'm not going to turn back now,” she said.

She slipped her hand into the crook of Severne's arm as if they were a couple, and he led her on board. She probably should have walked away. Chances were her other stalkers might be dangerous, but in ways she could fight. Severne was the true danger. Him, she might not be able to beat. He felt far too good by her side.

John Severne was the master of l'Opéra Severne, but that wasn't his only realm. It was obvious from the moment he climbed the ramp up to the waiting boat that he was also the king here on the river. The staff and crew of
The Blues Queen
welcomed him onto the deck with practiced deference, and they treated her royally as his guest.

They were led past rows of bistro-style tables to a more private setting in an alcove that overlooked the gleaming river from a private balcony. Severne held her chair and she stood stiffly, not knowing what to do. She was here to look for her sister. She wasn't here to explore the flutter in her stomach when Severne watched and waited for her to act. Every time, every minute, every move, she felt him teasing her to action. Just as when he'd held her silver chain, he held her chair, almost daring her to resist...or not to resist.

“This isn't the time for chivalry,” she said. It was a standoff. Him offering the chair. Her standing even though she was drawn to him and his company.

“But it needs to appear to be. We are being watched. Seeming to be here for any other reason than enjoying my hospitality would be a very bad idea,” Severne warned.

He was nothing but a handsome playboy enjoying an evening with a willing woman. No one else would see the tension in his shoulders or the tight grip of his hands on the chair. No one else would see the unmitigated black of his eyes or know that their lack of color indicated his level of tension.

Once again, Kat glanced around. The crowd was an elegant one seeded generously with tourists. She saw no monks. Felt no daemons. Then again, she could feel only Severne when he was standing this close. She decided to accept the proffered chair if for no other reason than to get Severne to move away from her to the other chair.

She tingled with the pull of Severne's Brimstone from head to toe. Or maybe that was the response to the perusal of his eyes. He took in her appearance, lightly, but the approval she thought she saw in the slight softening of his mouth made her heartbeat in her chest seem obvious. Its sensual rhythm would increase with the brush of his hand.

“It's dangerous for you here. In ways you can't see. I'm unpopular with some. Used by others. It's a deadly dance between two factions that will be fighting long after you and I are gone,” Severne said. “And your affinity...”

“...is completely unreliable around you,” Kat confessed.

They spoke about a technicality, but it was also an intimate truth. Kat could feel her face grow warm. She knew when the flush spread because his dark gaze followed it to her chest and lingered before rising to meet hers.

Their gazes held. His said he wasn't a cad, but he enjoyed his effect on her. He enjoyed her attraction and the hold he had over the affinity she'd always had for daemons.

“You are free to go. At any time,” Severne said.

“I'll never leave without Victoria,” Kat replied.

She raised her chin and broke the spell of his eyes. She looked away. She would resist the pull Severne had over her senses. Quietly, without meeting his eyes again, she told him about the ticket she'd found in her cello case.

“You came here tonight because you thought someone had left you a clue. I thought you were trying to get away from l'Opéra Severne. It can be a dark place to linger too long,” he said.

“But it's also beautiful. Dark and lovely. When I was a girl, I discovered the cello at your opera house. No matter how dark, I'll always love l'Opéra Severne for that gift,” Kat said.

“I've learned to be wary of gifts. But your music is very like the opera house. Seductive. Dangerous,” Severne said.

“My music? Dangerous?” Katherine asked, incredulous.

“Distraction is dangerous. I have no time for beauty and ease,” Severne said.

No time for beauty yet so beautiful in the glittering lights of his steamboat that he made her ache. No time for ease, yet he sought out the comfort of a child's favorite fairy-tale operas in a cavernous warehouse where he had memorized the placement of every shoe.

“But you have time for blues and champagne?” Kat asked.

A waiter brought them a bottle without menu or consultation. Severne nodded, and he popped the cork with very little sound. Kat sipped what she'd been given, but when the flavors hit her tongue, she paused and savored the obviously aged vintage.

He said she was being watched. He said she was in danger. But she suddenly felt the need to enjoy. She wanted to stop the fear and the worry and make Severne relax his guard. He still looked at her as if she were a beguiling specimen that fascinated him, but his tension indicated more than danger. He held himself apart. Always.

The boat beneath them had separated itself from the dock. As they talked and sipped, they floated down the Mississippi, easy and slow. In the distance, the cantilever bridge that was a famous part of Baton Rouge's skyline was aglow beneath a rising moon.

From the stage where they'd passed a shiny baby grand, a jazz standard played. The sound made it to their table. The other passengers talked or danced, enjoying a perfect Southern night for a river cruise.

But Severne was apart in more ways than their alcove position. He was tense. He was stiff. He was cold and controlled in spite of the Brimstone burn urging him to be other, less controlled things. His aloofness was as much an enticement as his daemon magnetism. This was why she should avoid him. His call to her wasn't only Brimstone. He called to her in other, more human ways.

He had fire in his veins, but he needed her warmth.

She needed to find Victoria. She also needed other things. Starting with this daemon's kiss.

“I'm not afraid,” she said. In that moment, she meant it. She saw his need and she responded to it as a woman, not as a tool for the Order of Samuel.

“That's what frightens me,” he said.

Kat rose from her chair. She moved to Severne's side. But he'd already risen to his feet, as well.

“There are creatures in this room that would burn you for eternity if they knew you helped me or hindered me. They need to see you simply dance with me. As any woman would,” he said.