by Eva Chase
A small smile crossed Declan’s face. “That should be true. From what I understand, the blacksuits are withdrawing from the town as they confirm that none of the locals are saying anything incriminating. The fearmancers I’ve spoken to are talking about the experiment as a total failure. I don’t think we need to worry about them restarting that. And with that failure, it’ll be a lot easier to push back against continuing to expose the Nary students on campus to magic.”
We’d won ourselves major ground—at immense cost, but still. I inhaled deeply into my lightening chest. “All right. I guess that’s where we’ll start once the dust settles. I don’t know how the other barons are going to react to my mother taking ‘justice’ into her own hands… There might be plenty of conflict just within what’s left of the pentacle in the next little while.”
“Less chance they’ll come up with new ways to screw us over,” Malcolm muttered with a wry note. “Connar can focus on getting his brother better, and I can figure out what my sister can do with herself for the next year or so until she comes into her magic, and…”
“And I was thinking,” Jude put in, “what with extended family recently coming out of the woodwork and all—maybe I should see where my uncle—well, Baron Killbrook’s brother—would fit into all of this. I know the baron has been worried about him having designs on the barony, but I don’t think he’s ever done anything horrible. If his values are closer to ours than my not-actual-father’s are, he could turn out to be a decent ally. Especially if we have the opportunity to expose the current baron for the crap he’s done.”
“That’s a good idea, if you’re comfortable with reaching out,” Declan said.
As I nodded my agreement, my phone chimed. My pulse hitched with the thought that it could be news from—or about—my mother. I dug it out of my purse.
The text was from Maggie. Need to talk to you ASAP. Can we meet? I’m already near campus.
She could know what was going on, and it sounded urgent. I glanced up at the others. “Speaking of the extended family, Maggie wants to talk to me about something important. It might be good if you all hear it too. Can I tell her to come here?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Why not? We’ve had guests in the lounge before. She’s been all right since she sorted things out with you. As long as she doesn’t have designs on replacing you as scion, I’m good with her.”
With the other guys’ agreement, I texted back that Maggie should come down to the lounge. My emotions whipped up with fresh anxiety as I paced the rug, waiting for her to arrive. What if the other barons had decided to arrest my mother for her attack on Stormhurst? The entire leadership would end up in chaos—and Lord knew what it’d do to her to find herself imprisoned again.
Maggie knocked rather than coming right in. When Declan opened the door, she hesitated for a second, seeing all five of us gathered around. Then her chin came up. “I guess it’s good that you all hear about this as soon as possible. I can’t stay very long—Baron Bloodstone is waiting on me—but I didn’t want to risk passing this on over the phone.”
My mother was waiting for her—then she couldn’t be in that much trouble. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Maggie crossed her arms over her chest, her mouth flattening into an uncomfortable line. “I know you thought the attack on the town would interrupt the barons’ plans for dominating the Naries. They are abandoning that experiment… so they can escalate their tactics in a different way. They’ve decided they went about it in the wrong direction, that they’ve got to destabilize the Naries on the highest levels behind the scenes and then they’ll be able to swoop in and take over. And crush the joymancers out of existence too, if your mother has any say in it.”
My mouth had dropped open. It took me a second to get my vocal chords working again. “Take over what?”
Maggie gave me a grim look. “Everything. The whole damn country. And they’re figuring out their first step in that plan right now.”
* * *
Are Rory and her guys strong enough to stop the barons’ plans for good—and how much will they lose along the way? Find out in Vicious Arts, the final book in the Royals of Villain Academy series. Get Vicious Arts now!
If you’re a fan of reverse harem paranormal romance, why not check out one of Eva’s complete series, The Witch’s Consorts? You can grab the prequel story FREE here!
Next in the Royals of Villain Academy series
Vicious Arts (Royals of Villain Academy #8)
The battle lines have been drawn with Rory and her fellow scions on one side and the powerful—and power-hungry—barons on the other. How far will Rory and the guys she loves have to go to prevent a catastrophe that could shatter both their community and the nonmagical world?
Find out in the eighth and final book in the Royals of Villain Academy series!
Get it now!
A Study in Seduction excerpt
Did you know I have a suspenseful reverse harem paranormal series in which the heroine is the villain? In Moriarty’s Men, criminal mastermind Jemma Moriarty matches wits with London’s most brilliant detectives—and sparks fly! Here’s a sneak peek inside the first book, A Study in Seduction.
A STUDY IN SEDUCTION
1
I slipped into the reception hall crowd like a lover’s hand easing up a skirt, half of my attention on the figures around me and half watching for the man I was going to ruin.
The finest investigative minds in the world filled the expansive room, all decked out in their cocktail best. The light from the crystal chandeliers shimmered off silk and satin. Voices bounced off the high molded ceiling, their tones bright thanks to the champagne that was flowing so freely I could taste the bubbles in the air.
The sequins on my violet evening gown whispered as I sidestepped between a few Australian sergeants and a couple of Peruvian detectives. I smiled demurely at the latter. One of the sergeants, who looked as though his suit was wearing him more than him the suit, took a surreptitious picture of the reception’s finery with his phone. This gala was a pretty far cry from a normal day for a cop on the beat.
A waiter swept by with a platter of canapes, but I’d eaten before I arrived. The moment of action wasn’t going to catch me with my hands full of poached pear on brioche. The wine glass in my hand served as a perfectly good prop—especially since I could transform it into a weapon with a quick smash, on the off-chance I needed one.
Even in distinguished company, you could never be sure. And not all of my company here was distinguished.
Ah, there was my man. If the cops and PIs around me had been half as good at their jobs as their being invited here should suggest, they’d have noted the recently released convict in their midst. The catering uniform fit the guy’s stocky form just fine, but there were telltale signs a few months out of the clink could hardly come close to erasing. The marks on his shoes. The hang of his hair.
He’d been posted at the champagne table doling out glasses. That would make it easy to keep track of him.
The guy could have used some lessons in subtlety. I followed his gaze to the Glasgow commissioner. The woman was flicking back her fluffy blond bob as she chatted with a younger female officer who’d dabbed on enough face powder to turn an elephant Honey Beige. My convict was just barely restraining a glower at her.
The steady beat of my pulse picked up its pace in anticipation, but it wasn’t time for either of us to make a move yet. I drifted in the commissioner’s general direction. My mouth had gone a bit dry.
Everything was in place. There was no reason to get anxious, even if the consequences of failure would be devastating. Better to simply put that possibility out of my mind.
Another face caught my eye, this one from an interview I’d been perusing yesterday. I paused and turned toward it.
“Professor Charleston, isn’t it?” I said, holding out my hand and beaming at the droopy-eyed man as if my life depended on this gambit. Which it very well might. “I’ve been followi
ng your work on trace evidence retrieval for years. It’s an honor to be in the same room as you.”
The professor made a pleased sound, with a twitch of his suit jacket like a bird ruffling its feathers to show off its plumage. As he shook my hand with a brisk pump, he peered at me, from my face down to the narrow but precipitous dip of my neckline, and then jerked his gaze back up. A little skin could make a large impression if you picked the right part of the landscape.
“I considered it an honor to be asked to lead one of the seminars here,” he said. “It’s good to know I have some wisdom worth imparting on the next generation.”
“Absolutely! I’m dying to hear more about your recent strategies regarding gunshot residue. We’ll see if I can’t score a front row seat tomorrow.”
My enthusiasm brought a flush to the professor’s cheeks. “I’d save you one if I could.”
I waggled a finger at him. “I’ll just have to be resourceful. I’d better give the rest of the attendees a chance to talk to you before I embarrass myself with my gushing.”
Professor Charleston chuckled as I gave him a little wave and glided onward. I continued smiling, now to myself. He might as well be tied up in a gift box with a bow on top.
Skirting a cluster of Japanese officers who’d gotten into a hushed debate, I checked that my convict had remained at his table. Indeed he had, with a little tug of his pants that told me in an instant where he’d hidden the pistol. Excellent. Every part of this plan was flowing along smoothly, except… where was the most important part of my audience?
A twinge of impatience had only just passed through me when the three I’d been waiting for strode into the reception hall. Half the heads in the room turned their way, which meant I could observe without looking unusually interested. This time I smiled only inwardly.
The trio of men who’d been selected for this conference from right here in London made odd companions. On the left, Garrett Lestrade was a little fox terrier of a man with dark eyes and boyishly angular features—the youngest detective inspector in Scotland Yard. On the right, John Watson, surgeon turned army medical officer turned forensics specialist, sported the bright hair and upbeat demeanor of a golden retriever. And looming tall between the two of them, his lean face as sharply alert as a deerhound, walked Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, all of twenty-eight and already hailed in some circles as one of the greatest analytical minds of the century.
It might have been that reputation that drew so many gazes their way, but even an objective observer had to admit that the three of them were easy enough on the eyes in their differing ways. Watson bounded forward, a gleaming wooden walking stick offsetting his slight limp, already offering cheerful greetings and grasps of arms. Lestrade sauntered behind him, his hands slung in the pockets of his trousers and his chin raised at an angle that looked like a dare.
Holmes proceeded at a more leisurely pace, studying the room from beneath the messy dark waves of his hair, his stance aloof but a pleased smile curling his lips when a couple of lieutenants from Cardiff came over to compliment him on this or that brilliantly solved case. With the great height of his slender frame and that detached attitude, he might as well have been a king accepting the reverence of his subjects.
He had a dazzling mind to back up that confidence, absolutely, but even the mighty could falter. My heart thumped a little faster with a giddy shiver through my nerves.
I would have him, one way or another. The great Holmes hadn’t yet tangled with the great Moriarty. Barely anyone even knew the great Moriarty existed, which was exactly how I liked it.
Possibly by design, the trio had timed their entrance perfectly. As the initial round of fawning wrapped itself up, a burly man with a pinstriped suit and a head like a turnip walked up to the podium at the head of the room and leaned toward the mounted microphone.
“Distinguished colleagues,” he said with a faint whine of mic feedback. The conversations around the room quieted. “I’m overjoyed to welcome you all to London for our first International Conference of Investigative Skills.”
I veered toward the fluffy-haired commissioner as we all moved closer to the podium. As if by chance, I came to a stop just a couple feet to her left. A quick glance toward the wine table told me that my convict was on the move too. I adjusted my weight on my feet, ready to spring.
Turnip-head at the podium went on with his speech. “I pride myself in thinking we’ve managed to assemble the top minds in criminal investigation from all across the world. You were invited because you’re at the top of your field, but I’m sure you made it to those heights through the understanding that there’s always more you can absorb. For the next ten days, you’ll be able to learn from other investigators as skilled as yourself in their specific areas of expertise.”
A flicker in the light over his head caught my eye. When I glanced up, the glow streaming down from the chandelier shimmered with a texture like a filmy piece of gauze. I didn’t let myself visibly react, but inside my stomach tightened.
The shrouded one had already tracked me here. What was it doing, playing with light effects?
No one else appeared to have noticed anything off. It only wanted me to know it was here. Watching. Waiting.
My fingers curled toward my palm, not quite a fist. I wasn’t letting that piece of supernatural excrement distract me from my mission.
Turnip-Head rambled on about how lucky, dedicated, and wise we all were—I could claim the latter two out of three; not bad—and the catering convict edged into view through the crowd. He had his hand tucked close to his waist, close to his pistol. Well, technically my pistol, since I’d contrived to get it into his hands. And to get him in here. And to give him this opening.
Fifteen years ago, Ms. Commissioner had been a sergeant who’d gotten him put away for killing a father of two in a bar brawl. The guy’s long-time girlfriend had left him. He’d lost a job he liked to brag about. He’d been happy to take an opportunity to get revenge.
I couldn’t really take credit for ruining him. That honor belonged to his poor life choices.
He could have ignored my offer. He could have walked away even now. But he didn’t. Instead, he lunged, whipping the pistol forward at the same time.
All his attention had been focused on the commissioner, and none of it on me. Another poor choice.
A shout of warning rang out. The commissioner spun around, her face blanching. I sprang between the convict and her in one smooth movement guided by years of physical training.
Knee to the groin. Elbow to the ribs. My heel to his hand, kicking the gun out of his grasp.
I giveth, and I taketh away.
I pinned the convict to the ground, braced against his back. The flexible fabric of my violet evening gown pooled against his white catering shirt. Quite a few people were yelling. A security officer hustled through the throng and knelt down to snap a pair of handcuffs around the guy’s wrists. We were in a room stuffed with cops, but this one night they’d all left their equipment behind.
“Oh my God,” the commissioner said, holding out her hand to help me up, the other pressed to her chest. “Thank you so much—you moved so fast. He came out of nowhere.”
I’d give too much away if I looked around to check, but I hoped the London trio had gotten a good view. I stood and squeezed the commissioner’s hand with a small smile. “I saw the gun, and I just reacted. I’m glad you’re okay.”
After toasts and exclamations over my heroics, I welcomed the stillness of my hotel room. The grand establishment hosting the conference boasted worn historic limestone and ornate arched lintels on the outside, but the innards had been tastefully modernized. Ivory walls, thick slate-gray carpeting, a sleek ebony desk against one wall, a king-sized bed with matching ebony frame against the other, a little table in the corner near the window.
The window looked out over the back courtyard, dark now other than a few pools of light from the security lamps. I’d arranged a suite at the end of t
he hall on the second floor. The broad limestone sill outside would serve Bash just fine when he needed to drop in.
I turned away from the view, and all my satisfaction drained away.
A translucent white figure wavered in the glow of the bedside light. It formed a lumpy but vaguely humanoid shape beneath overlapping strips of ragged white fabric—at least, they looked like fabric. Sometimes I wondered if they weren’t swaths of dead skin.
The only part the strips didn’t totally cover was the area that should have been a face. There, amid the folds of cloth, a haze of mist stared back at me, so deep that if I looked at it for long, I’d feel I were staring clear across the continent into a realm where no human had ever ventured.
A chill raced over my skin, but I meandered across the room to the mirror over the desk as if I had no qualms about my visitor. “Hello, Bog,” I said. “What brings you here?”
Bog wasn’t really the thing’s name. The shrouded folk had their own language that human ears couldn’t properly decipher. Bog sounded somewhat right, and it gave me a tiny shred of amusement to call the monster after something repellant, if I had to address it at all.
I could still see it at the side of the mirror while I unpinned my hair. As the red waves spilled down over my narrow shoulders, the folds around Bog’s face quivered.
“You are playing games,” it said in a voice as dry as desert-bleached bone and as distant as the mist it came from. “I thought you might need reminding of our agreement.”
A pinching sensation emanated from the spot on the back of my neck just below my hairline where the magic of our contract had marked me.
