Page 25 of Shadows and Flames
A heavy hand clapped my back, jolting me out of the memory of her screams as I rode away from her. My greatest regret.
“Do you have any more of that oil?” Tom asked, appearing beside me in the smudged glass of the mirror. He was dressed in similar finery, though his jacket was more revealing than mine.
I pointedly eyed his exposed chest. “Is that how we are getting close to Von Herron?” I reached beside the sink and handed him the hair oil I brought with me and used sparingly while away from the Well.
Tom poured some in his palms, rings clacking as he warmed it between his hands. His hair was so different than mine, but the oil had a similar effect, leaving his locs smoothed and glistening. The remnants left on his hands, he rubbed in and patted against his collarbones and down his sternum. “Seems like one of the easiest ways to get him alone. If you stay close, you’ll be able to sense when I’ve got him. We can slip away then.”
“And what is my role?” I accepted the small glass bottle and put it back near the faucet.
Tom scoffed and did a few last tugs on his jacket. “You act as if we haven’t been Shadows but a day, brother.” I was the one to roll my eyes this time, and more quietly, gaze going soft, he added, “You will have your queen to worry about.”
My jaw clenched at the mention of her. He did not say her name in my presence. I was not sure if he ever did, but I was grateful for this. Until she was mine again, I did not want to hear her name on another’s lips.
“Yes,” was all I said, and because my brother knew me better than anyone else, he did not press me for more.
The party was loud.
As all of such events were. As the trained dancers took their final bows, we, the guests, clapped pleasantly. Several, including Tom, murmured to each other about how impressive the entertainment was, and as the young women in fluttering, shimmering skirts walked elegantly away from the raised dais in the ballroom and the quartet began again to play, I assessed the crowd again.
She was not here.
The scent of a Lylithan alone would be distinct enough, but I would know the aroma ofheranywhere. It was imprinted in my senses, the feel of her hair between my fingers dug into my skin. I resisted the urge to clasp my hands behind my back, like a Shadow on duty, and instead, crossed my arms, leaning slightly backwards as a bored aristocrat.
Slipping uninvited into the reverie was easy, not that our employers were any help. They wanted as little involvement with us as possible, thirsty for power but unwilling to soak their hands with blood.
No matter. The taste of blood was one of the few pleasures I had in these years without my queen.
My brother beside me used his charming smiles more sharply than the curved blade of his shamshir, fangs a bright white that drew the guests like moths to a light. Another talent of his, thankfully, was forgery. In less than an hour, Tom had replicated the invitations to the birthday celebration of Paschal Von Herron, ushering another year while also welcoming himhome from his voyage to Savya. I was moderately skilled in this sort of subterfuge, but I much preferred sticking firmly to the shadows. But I would admit this method had its uses.
He was standing near the table laden with Morovan delicacies. Breads of all shades and toppings including white fish spreads, olives, tomatoes and cheeses. A tower of glasses filled with sparkling wine was constantly reconstructed as guests imbibed. A chef, dressed in their own luminescent jacket finer than most common folk who lived in the city owned, carved from a large cut of beef, showcasing the fine and expensive meat.
Tom turned away from me, giving me his back, and I meandered my way through the crowd. I marked the guards, dressed in steel armor and Morovan maroon. The guards surrounding us lacked the Morovan inscription a fluttering hummingbird, on their armor.
Von Herron, as we had suspected, was not alone for a moment, implanting himself in the center of the reverie and greeting guests who huddled around him, hungry for tales or a chance at his riches. Or maybe both. I had done some reconnaissance of my own on Von Herron, finding him to be a largely self-made man. Once an apprentice of one of the very colleagues who conspired against him. Finely woven fabric in rich, jewel-toned colors that had become as synonymous with Morova as the tiny hummingbird.
There was a shine to it. Something in the thread used, or the dye, I was not sure. I had traveled here enough to have my own safehouse, but it was often just a transition point. I held no true interest in this place or its people. Even for this contract, I was passively collecting information as a means to an end.
My spine snapped straight, then. The young man playing the pianoforte rose to a clanging crescendo, or perhaps that was just my blood rushing in my ears.
Pink peppercorns, the wind over the ocean, and a cool, deep darkness. It made me shiver, the knowledge of her presence, and from my corner near the back, where I had been monitoring the guards as they made circuits around the space, I saw her.
Zoko and Mother take me, Isawher.
My queen had just crossed the threshold, she and her cousin already swept up in a group of women laughing and reaching for glasses of the Morovan sparkling wine. But, she waswatchingme. Saw me.
The dress, if such a simple word could be used for what she draped her body with, was a deep jade color. The green of the trees surrounding my father’s home in the verdant shades of an evening in the summertime. When life was at once full and sated and also happily turning to rest.
White and gold beads made up the middle, hinting at her navel but obscuring at the same time, and more green softly cradled her breasts. Long gloves in the same shade reached up to her elbows, but I knew the delicate sharpness within her touch. Could feel her nails scraping my scalp when I closed my eyes.
And her hair was… gone.
Instead of the twin plaits or the bountiful mass of curls, there was a rippling layer of waves slicked down and small loops meticulously placed by her ears.
My heart felt as if it had punched through my chest, flying straight toward her. My mouth watered, my cock stiffened, and I wasted no time stepping toward her. The reason for my nightmares and the inspiration for my dreams.
My queen… Meline. She watched me as if we were the only two in the room. As if she felt the pull to me as I felt it toward her. I wanted to hold her in my arms. To take the plump flesh of her lip between my teeth. To give her all of my words, my tears, and beg her to let me in. To sink my fangs into her throat and claim her inside and out.
But, as I took another step closer, as I skirted around another group of wealthy partygoers, drunk and cackling as if they were not in the way of my salvation, Meline… ran.
