Page 1 of Phantasm
“Ihope you know how reckless this is.”
Ignoring the head of the house and our inside spy, Mrs. Jones, when she whispers in my ear, I reach for another glass to polish on the large table. It gleams by the time I’m done. Mrs. Jones means well, but I won’t rest until I’ve exacted my revenge on the Exodus for the death of my father. If I had my way, I’d burn the entire secret society to the ground—that’s how deep my hatred runs—but Rome wasn’t built in a day. I need to pick my battles carefully, and the Elders are a good starting point. Tomorrow is the Reckoning. A ten-hour period once every ten years where all crimes are legal in Vale for Exodus members. Nothing is off the table. Not even murder. And it’s happening here, in this extravagant cottage. Naturally, I needed to scope out the place beforehand. Mrs. Jones was kind enough to sneak me in under the pretense that I’m part of the hired staff responsible for prepping the cottage before tomorrow’s event, which is why I’m polishing glasses, dressed in a maid’s outfit, feeling ridiculous.
“You’re on your own,” Mrs. Jones says, moving away from me when voices drift from the hallway. “If Mr. Sinclair or Delacroix asks, I’ve never seen you before.”
“Relax,” I reassure her as I reach for another glass. It soon sparkles. “They’re too self-absorbed to pay attention to the paid staff.”
Unimpressed, Mrs. Jones huffs. “You underestimate Mr. Delacroix. He’s observant, not to mention dangerous, and I dare say, out of all the Elders, he’s the cruelest. There’s not a kind bone in that man.” She straightens when two men in pristine suits enter the room.
My eyes lift without consent, and I’m caught in the frostiest, bluest eyes I’ve ever witnessed. While I’ve seen photographs of Mr. Delacroix, they don’t do him justice. But don’t let his good looks fool you. Mr. Delacroix is a monster. A cold-hearted, evil monster incapable of empathy.
For all of five seconds, I allow myself to admire his sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and broad shoulders inside that expensive suit that probably cost more than the average mortgage payment. A blush creeps up my neck as I squash any sexual attraction I feel for the man involved with the secret society responsible for my father’s disappearance.
I’m mortified at finding him even remotely attractive—a man old enough to be my father. I drop my gaze and spend the next few minutes polishing champagne glasses like my life depends on it. Mr. Delacroix and another Elder, Nathaniel Sinclair, retreat to the study across the room. Much to my pleasant surprise, the door is left ajar, and I feel Delacroix’s eyes on me the entire time, but I don’t lift my gaze. Not once.
Earlier, I mapped out the cottage, trying to be as inconspicuous as I could while pretending to vacuum pristine carpets and dust antique gold-framed mirrors. There are security cameras everywhere, but some are more obvious thanothers, like the one currently aimed in my direction. The Exodus takes security seriously, but I already know that. I also know that Mr. Delacroix is seated behind his desk, watching the security cameras on his monitors while Sinclair discusses business. My ears strain to listen. Why does the table have to be so far away from the study? If only I could get closer.
Sinclair’s rich laughter drifts through the doorway. Delacroix mutters something before he rises from his seat, rounds the desk, and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. His imposing presence instantly suffocates the room, and I feel his eyes burning into me like molten lava against my skin.
I keep my head lowered as I place the glass on the table, careful not to let the tremble in my fingers show. Heart pounding, I pick up another glass by its fragile stem.
Why is he staring? Maybe it was naïve of me to think I could go unnoticed, because no man has ever ogled me so openly before. I feel naked beneath that hard stare.
“I’d like a word in my office, miss.” He pushes off the doorframe, expecting me to follow.
I finally look up. Delacroix is back behind his desk, sans his suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal tanned, corded forearms.
Sinclair eyes me curiously. I’m in deep shit. This is not how I planned today to pan out. I was meant to scope the place, learn as much as possible about the layout, and then report to the others. I was not meant to catch the attention of Darian Delacroix himself. This is bad news.
After placing the glass and cloth back down, I enter the office with my nerves on edge. Two sets of eyes study me from head to toe. One with curiosity and one with suspicion. Sinclair clears his throat. “I’ve got business to attend to.” He brushes past me in a cloud of bergamot and vanilla cologne, adjusting his circular glasses on his way out.
Delacroix watches me coolly without a change of expression. His eyes rake down my body and then return to my face. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name.”
“Cecilia,” I reply. It takes tremendous willpower to keep my tone friendly. There’s a letter opener beside his tumbler of whiskey on the desk, and I try not to eye it while entertaining fantasizes of ramming it into his throat.
“Cecilia?” he mirrors, waiting for me to follow it up. When he waves an impatient hand, I blurt the first lie that enters my head.
“Cecilia Taylor.”
One of his dark brows rises. “Cecilia Taylor?” His tone is cold enough to rival the Arctic’s temperatures, and judging by the slight tic in his jaw, he knows I’m lying. He spins the letter opener with a finger. “You look very familiar, Cecilia. How old are you?”
I swallow hard, clasping my hands behind my back to hide my tremble. “I’m twenty-five, sir.”
His eyes penetrate through my lies. I’m burning up beneath that glacial stare. “You don’t look old enough to be twenty-five. How long have you worked here?”
“Today’s my first day.” It’s best to stick close to the truth. Mother taught me that. Though I’m only twenty. But I must not, under any circumstances, let Delacroix know my real age.
“Is that so?” He rises from his chair, unfolding like a predatory lion, his long, powerful legs eating up the distance between us. Delacroix moves with purpose, every shift of muscle highlighting his impressive physique, a work of art created by a vengeful god. I try to swallow my fear when he stops before me and openly sweeps his eyes over my face with an indifferent look. A smattering of a beard covers his sharp jaw, and the crow’s feet around his eyes add to his allure. He also smells good, with hints of warm cardamom and tonka bean.
Reaching out, he fingers the white lace collar on my dress. “You were eavesdropping on my conversation with Mr. Sinclair, were you not?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but he takes hold of my jaw in a firm, unforgiving grip, reminding me yet again of how dangerous he truly is. I’ve heard the rumors. Darian Delacroix enjoys instilling fear in people.
“Were you not, MissTaylor?”
“Yes,” I whisper. There’s no point lying to him about this. Something tells me he could smell it a mile away if I tried.
He hums, his touch softening. “You’re an exquisite, curious little thing, aren’t you? Tell me, why are you here?”
