The air turned thicker as they neared the industrial side of the city, lined with warehouses and factories pumping the skies full of smog and steam. Ahead Emma saw her chance in a tight alcove that would at least give her a moment’s privacy in taking the man down.
Only a few steps behind her target, she lunged after him, her outstretched fingers burying themselves in a forceful hold on the back of his linen coat. She jumped into the passing alcove, wrenching the man along with a forceful swing. His skull smacked off the stone wall and hung slightly limp.
Dazed and off-balance, the man’s weight plunged him and the unsuspecting Emma to the ground. Grappled together, they pawed at vulnerable necks for supremacy.
His blurted words threw hot air across her face. “I’m not the one you want!”
Emma’s fingers dug into his neck. “You’re a dragonborne, aren’t you?”
In her eyes, that was reason enough, but he was right in deciphering she sought one target in particular.
“The dragonborne haven’t killed a slayer in years,” he said.
His weight sent them rolling out of the alcove in a tangle of grasping limbs. Emma’s back hit the dirtied street first, soaking through her layers of crinoline and sending a stark chill down her spine.
The hard hit loosed her grip on his neck. A passing carriage splashed mud into the air and sprayed her face. She closed her eyes to shield them. Through the darkness, she knew the man slipped away. Emma peeked one eye open. Mud and dirt stung at her eyes, but she didn’t relent.
Unexpectedly, she felt his weight lifting but saw no one at all. He’d gone invisible.
“Dammit!” she said, as her fist slammed against the ground.
At her side, a more traditional horse-drawn carriage had come to a complete halt. Shocked ladies gawked out the open window at her dirty predicament.
Hopefully, none of them would recognize her. She did still have a reputation to uphold, and in their eyes, she’d just rolled around fighting nothing but her own imagination. Countering their assumptions with a blame of magic wasn’t the best course of action, either. Like most of society, they clearly had no idea anything outside of the ordinary even existed.
A night or more in the psychiatric ward did not sound like a fun evening, indeed.
“Charles!” One of the women sharply ordered of the driver. “Help that mad woman before she injures someone!”
Emma groaned as she pushed herself upright. The driver jumped down from his perch and before her, he cowered in utter loss.
“Uh, ma’am, what—”
“G’day, sir,” Emma called out politely as she offered a perfect curtsy and bolted down the street.
Dumbfounded, the man and his ladies stared with dropped jaws with no intentions of chasing down the lunatic running amok through the streets.
Lady Emma Clearwater was no true lunatic though, and in a hurry, she sprinted toward her first option of respite. She stood at the entrance of her friend’s home and knocked politely. She wiped at her gown to push off what little dirt she could. Unfortunately, much of it still dripped with thick mud and wouldn’t clean easily.
The door swung open, and Henrietta Collins’s eyes widened at the sight of her disheveled friend. “Emma, what’s happened?”
In a hurry, Henrietta ushered her inside, but Emma dared not move far beyond the threshold. Surely she would stain Henrietta’s favorite area rugs.
“I nearly had a dragonborne, but he vanished, quite literally,” Emma said with an air of disgust.
Henrietta’s arms slipped across her chest. “You rolled around in the mud in front of witnesses, didn’t you?”
Sometimes it seemed the woman knew her all too well, though it wasn’t a difficult feat given they were both born slayers. Someone needed to protect the world from the magical creatures that need not exist on earth, and if ladies needed to take up the mantle, then so be it.
“There were perhaps . . . a few witnesses,” Emma admitted as she reached up to fix her fallen curls, only to realize mud had weighed them down as well. Replacing a dirtied gown was one thing, but repairing her hair was another entirely.
“And you chose to come here, rather than go home?” Henrietta asked as one of her house staff stepped into the room and froze at the sight of Emma caked in mud.
Emma ignored the woman. “Your house was closer, and father’s entertaining tonight. I certainly can’t waltz into the house looking like this while he’s in the throes of a poker game.”
“You’re in need of a fresh gown, then.”
“If you’d be so kind.”
Henrietta’s gaze turned to the maid who’d managed to mask her shocked expression. “Ms. Bonet, would you please ready some bathwater and my violet walking gown for Emma?”
“Yes, of course.” The woman’s curtsy was cut off quick as she rushed up the stairs.
Henrietta waited until Ms. Bonet’s footsteps faded before signaling the pair had privacy once more. “Come now, you’ve more to say, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, Emma.”
Emma’s lips curled in response. It was nice to have someone she could talk with that understood her odd choice of career.
“It’s as if he knew who I was looking for. He said he wasn’t the one I wanted, and that the dragonborne haven’t killed a slayer in years.”
Henrietta’s head tilted in curious regard. “Ballocks! If that’s the case, then how did Everett die?” Henrietta’s great uncle lived in London and she’d often picked up on his colorful vocabulary.
“Precisely my thought, my dear friend.” Everett Brant was Emma’s cousin, and while they’d never been particularly close, she’d taken great personal offense to the untimely death of one of her family members. “And if this man and the dragonborne weren’t responsible, then why was it I caught him staring in Victoria Hadley’s windows?”
“No!” Henrietta looked aghast. Victoria was another of their slayer line, who would not allow her lesser sensibilities to be put on display in public. She would have let the perpetrator run free rather than allow anyone to see her in such a state.
“Oh, yes. I’d seen him before, lurking in the shadows on more than one occasion, but I hadn’t been able to put much thought to it until Father confirmed he was a dragonborne.” Such a genetic makeup was enough to condemn a man, but to add the stalking of women and spying on Emma’s dear friends made him a priority target.
A door clicked open upstairs, and at the crest of the second level, the woman’s mousy brown hair appeared. “Miss Collins? Your bath and gown are ready.”
“Ah, thank you.” Henrietta made her way for the stairs and waved at Emma to follow. “Come along now, we can’t have you showing up at home looking so drab.”
Soon, Emma found herself seated in her friend’s powder room while the latter dutifully plucked dried mud from her hair. It was a tedious task, but luckily one Henrietta didn’t mind. It also helped that she was able to gossip along the way.
“Have the final plans been set for your engagement party?” Henrietta asked, drawing a huff of a sigh from Emma.
“I don’t know if I can handle another question on what types of sandwiches or how much tea I desire for it.”
“But . . .” Henrietta wiped a particularly matted piece of Emma’s hair clean with a damp cloth. “You know that’s what everyone will judge you on, and you are a Clearwater, after all.”
“Yes, well, what will they think if Frederick doesn’t make it back in time?”
“What?” Henrietta stopped her motions. She stepped around her friend to look her in the eye. “You mean to tell me your own betrothed may not be at your engagement party?”
Emma merely shrugged. “I’m not certain, but from what I understand, his business has been delayed and that might affect his travels.” He’d been in London already for weeks, and crossing the Atlantic was no small task.
“That is the least romantic thing I have ever heard.” Henrietta scoffed as she returned to her task of hair with a renewed v
igor. Emma winced under the pain of it but made no protests.
“What of our betrothal has been romantic? Nothing. You know this is simply an arranged match.”
In fact, she’d chosen Frederick Milton merely because he was from a family of slayers. Never could she have faced the prospect of being tied down by society’s traditional values, so at least with Frederick she would be given the chance to continue her work.
“What about love?”
“Love?” Emma practically choked on the word.
“Yes. Don’t you want love? Romance? Passion?”
No. Well—yes, she did—but love, romance, and passion weren’t practical for a woman like Emma. She’d a legacy to fulfill and a respectable name to uphold. Gentleman preferred wives fast asleep in their beds come nightfall, not scampering across the dark streets of New York.
“I think you’ve read far too many novels, my dear. Shakespeare will do naught but damage to a woman’s rational mind.”
“Well,” Henrietta huffed, “you know how I feel of it.”
“Yes, I know you’re a tireless, hopeless romantic in need of an intervention.”
“I am not!” Henrietta looked legitimately offended by the notion, but the truth often hurt.
Emma smirked to herself and grabbed the damp cloth to finish wiping the mud from beneath her nails. “You once declared you were in love after having met a man for no more than five minutes time.”
“I was young and didn’t know any better!”
Emma laughed, her eyes alit with amusement as she looked up to her friend. “It was only six months ago, Henrietta.”
The woman scowled, but Emma knew her friend wasn’t upset with her. She often tried to hide her amusement but failed miserably.
“Get up from there, would you? We’ve a whole new gown to get you into, and you know how terrible I am with the fasteners.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said with a snicker as she jumped to her feet.
Sometimes, the best thing a woman could have, wasn’t a choice husband, but instead a best friend willing to deal with corset strings, gossip, and a bit of dragonborne slaying.
2
There were days when Callom Smythe wondered whether life wouldn’t have been far more enjoyable had he been born a mere human, one low in society. Pounding headaches had been his normal fashion for weeks now, and no amount of brandy aided in diminishing the nagging pain.
He wasn’t upset when his brandy had gone dry, but one of his men and closest friends, Logan Stanbury, had offered to make the trip for him. It had seemed a nice gesture but Callom knew better—the man wanted a reason to get out of what he thought was a stuffy, overbearing house.
Soon enough heavy-footed steps echoed throughout the marble-lined corridors, alerting Callom of his return.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find the exact kind you like?” Logan asked the moment he’d swept into the room without fanfare or pomp.
In this case, Callom liked such social ease. “How do you think I got it before you came along?”
“I figured you drank nothing.” Logan’s lips curled into a devilish grin as Callom stood to refill his decanter and pour himself a glass.
Within the doorway, Logan perched himself. “Have you any news yet on the search?”
Callom’s hefty sigh filled the silence. “No, nothing yet, and you know those damn slayers won’t give up until they’ve exacted their imagined vengeance for the death of one of their own.”
“Are you absolutely certain none of the dragonborne were responsible?”
Callom’s amber eyes lifted under the weight of his lashes toward Logan. “Our numbers have dwindled so much over the years, I would be shocked if there was a rogue in the midst of New York’s society.”
“A transplant, perhaps.”
“No,” Callom’s head shook, “we would have been informed.”
Callom was absolutely certain. The dragon clan would one day be his to protect, and soon if his father’s health kept deteriorating as quickly as it was. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth as he crossed the large sitting room and took up residence on a crimson velvet settee. It wasn’t quite in his taste, but being the prince of the dragonborne didn’t come with unlimited perks.
A pounding on the front door set off a flurry of steps as his footman dashed from one of the back rooms in a hurry. While his voice was muted, the other was frantic and recognizable in an instant. Callom was about to get up when Oliver Brewer rushed through the doorway, nearly toppling Logan from his spot.
“In a bit of a rush, are you?” Logan grumbled as he grasped at the front of his coat to readjust the fit.
Oliver stood with his fingers wrapped around the doorjamb for support as he inhaled massive gulps of air. He’d clearly run a very long way, and the sight of it was enough to make Callom sit upright. Oliver had always been a steadfast man, and seeing him with such grave concern, and mud caked all over his good coat, left Callom deeply troubled.
“Catch your breath first, Oliver,” Callom offered in hopes it would help calm him more quickly. He’d sent him out earlier to do more digging into Everett Brant’s death, but with all of the walls they’d run up against, he hadn’t expected any clear answers. Now, it seemed, the man had some and couldn’t breathe long enough to spell it out.
“I was almost killed,” Oliver gulped for air again, “by the Clearwater girl.”
In two lengthy strides, Logan planted himself in front of Oliver. “You’re certain?”
Oliver nodded as finally his breath settled. “I saw the emblem, their family crest on her revolver. Had I not gone invisible, she would have killed me in the street. With witnesses.”
Callom carefully considered two thoughts. First, such a move would be bold—even by slayer’s standards. Second, the Clearwaters had never been ones to trifle with. For ages they’d been the greatest of slayers and were responsible for felling many of his kind.
“I thought Margaret Clearwater died,” Logan said.
Callom nodded. “She did, but we’d received reports that her daughter had taken up the mantle. Emma, I believe?”
Both men looked to Oliver for confirmation, but the shrugging lift of his shoulders was indication enough he wasn’t interested in pleasantries. “She was young enough, I suppose,” he said.
“I’ve need to see for myself, then,” Callom said.
Logan’s raised his brow. “Do you mean to go knock on her front door?”
“Do I look like a fool? Of course not. The girl would aim to kill me on the spot.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Callom wanted to tell Logan off so he could have a moment of quiet. But, even if he planned on sticking to the shadows to observe the Clearwater girl, it was still a potentially dangerous decision. Backup wasn’t a bad idea.
“Fine,” Callom grabbed a hooded cloak from the nearest closet, “but no heroics.”
“I would never.”
“You would, and you’d get us both killed if you had the chance.” With the draped hood drawn up over Callom’s head, the tufts of his midnight black hair barely peeking out nor were the slightly exotic amber color of his eyes noticeable. Instead, he faded into an obscured shadow that allowed him to pass by unnoticed, like much of the lower classes did without effort.
He swept toward the door, Logan hot on his heels.
“Don’t let her see you!” Oliver called out after them. “And if she does, she stops only for schoolchildren!”
The fact of it curled Callom’s lips with delight. They had at least one weakness of hers learned. “Good man. Have some brandy in our stead.”
The walk to the Clearwater home would’ve been more enjoyable had the air not been thick and damp with impending rain. The streets were still muddied from the prior night’s downpour, and while it helped in tamping down the dust that sometimes lifted like a cloud across New York, Callom disliked soggy boots and drenched coats.
“It’ll be right over here.” Logan j
utted a finger toward a row of terraced homes. If it was the one Callom thought, it stood out from the rest. Detailed scalloped moldings along the roofline, with bay windows that protruded where the other homes had more meager, flat panes. A picture of architecture but Callom didn’t favor the vibrant hues letting the molding and framing shine.
They stopped nearby and faced one another, as if drawn in by their own conversation as they stole secret glances of the Clearwater house.
Light glowed from within, giving the two men a near-perfect view of the three-tiered floors. Without the aprons adorning their well-appointed house staff, Callom would have questioned whether half of them were Emma herself.
“Is that the father? Thomas?” he asked, when an older gentleman with a head of stringy gray hair shuffled past one of the windows, pipe in hand. He stepped into one of the farther rooms to where a group of men, all near to his age, resumed their game of cards.
“The one and only,” Logan said as he kept his eyes elsewhere to lessen any suspicion. “He may not look like he has much pep left in his step, but I assure you, he can still pack quite a punch.”
“Felt it, have you?”
“Of course not.” Logan’s shook his head, but the curl of his lips told Callom otherwise.
Callom chuckled and with another glance toward the house, he sighed. “Let’s try the back.”
Logan nodded and led the way down the street to access the alley. Where usually such cramped spaces were straight filth in much of the city, here lived wealth and as a result, it was relatively clean.
A passing woman, house staff by the looks of her dress, flashed them a flirtatious smile that nearly had Logan halting in his steps were it not for Callom’s guiding hand to drag him along.
“Apparently,” Logan grumbled as the woman stepped around a farther corner out of sight, “I need to dress down more often.”
“If you hadn’t yet noticed that upper class women prefer a ring before they’ll offer you a smile then you are surely doomed,” Callom murmured as they came back upon the house. There were fewer windows here and much smaller in size, but a single one showed a vision of a young woman he imagined was Emma herself.
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