“Is that her?” His chin tilted up toward the space where she waved off her maid’s help in favor of fastening her hat of her own accord. The understated piece rested atop thick curls of golden brown that cascaded down shoulders covered in a rouge silk. She looked too ladylike and coquettish to be a natural born killer, but Callom forced the thoughts off, knowing he’d been surprised by a woman or two before.
At his side, Logan squinted to focus. “That’s her. Hard to imagine she nearly killed ol’ Oliver in all those skirts.”
“Quite.” Except, it wasn’t, not entirely. For years the slayers had succeeded in their duties of dwindling the numbers of the dragonborne, and given the chance, they’d eradicate them entirely. Women never shied from their family traditions, either. It had never purely been a man’s game.
Emma drifted from the view of the window, bringing the men with slow steps closer in. Someone aided her in draping a shawl over her shoulders, and with a peck to her father’s cheek it appeared that she would be leaving out the front door, on the opposite side of the building.
“We must follow her,” Callom said as his booted steps hurried back from where they came.
“And what will we gain from that?”
“Information.” Callom couldn’t believe Logan had asked such a thing. “The more we know of her, the easier it will be to protect our kind.”
In a hurry, they raced around the corner to catch sight of Emma with a parasol in hand, traipsing casually down the street. Nothing about her visage screamed slayer, and Callom would never have guessed it on his own.
Keeping a good distance behind, they sauntered along with an air of casualness that let them meld into their surroundings. No one paid them any mind, not with their wealth and status hidden beneath the worn, oversized cloaks.
They followed her onto busier streets where horses and motorized carriages rocked over the uneven cobblestone. The noise of the turning wheels was enough to drown any conversation out, but Callom had far more important things to think about.
Wherever Emma’s head turned, his eyes flicked, painting a picture for him that he could not yet piece together. What interest did the cobbler’s store have to her beyond shoe repair? Did she hold allies in the grand hotel?
Emma stopped for no one, and nearly every man passing her by, tipped his hat, save for one. The figure was darkened in shadow deeper than Callom’s hood could offer, leaving him obscured entirely. The man’s direction changed as he turned into the nearest shop’s doorway, leaving him trailing between Emma and the two dragonborne.
“Is he following her?” Callom asked quietly.
“How should I know? He could have simply forgotten something and needed to change his way,” Logan said.
It seemed plausible, but Callom was left with an odd twist in his gut as they continued their slow chase. Where Emma turned, so did the man. Where she paused, he did as well. It was all too coincidental. She ducked into a sprawling home and the obscured man stepped farther into the building’s shadow.
He was watching her, Callom was sure of it, but why? He wasn’t dragonborne. He couldn’t be or else Callom would’ve known of his efforts. So who was he, and what interest did he have in following one of the slayers?
Logan grasped onto Callom’s arm, yanking him from the sidewalk and out of his stupor. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” his friend whispered with a glare toward where the stalker had gone.
“I believe so,” Callom replied. “But we can’t be hasty. If this man or someone connected to him is responsible for the murder of Everett Brant, then he’s no one we wish to tangle with alone.”
Whoever had killed Slayer Brant had intended to frame the dragonborne for it. Someone clearly looking to restart an old war. Callom’s dragon wanted nothing more than to slash her pursuer from throat to navel, but he needed answers first—and this man, would help him get them.
3
Had Emma Clearwater been given an introduction to the man who invented petticoats, she would have killed him on the spot.
As it were, she smiled graciously and stood poised and proper in a voluminous match of crinoline and silk that made her feel less a skilled hunter and more a stunning centerpiece.
The hall had been decorated spectacularly for her engagement party. Bright pink peonies dotted the scattered tables while a string quartet played a soft melody in the background. The marble floors beneath their feet gleamed like a mirror while every inch of the wood paneled walls and oil painted arts had been scrubbed to perfection.
Emma could have taken pleasure in it all, and the soft glow of candlelight, if she weren’t forced to play her appointed role of a proper lady.
“Please do try to enjoy yourself, Emma.” Her father’s smile exuded warmth, but better than anyone except for Henrietta, he knew this was not her choice avenue for spending an evening.
If she had the opportunity, Emma would have preferred to be hunting down Everett’s killer, but illusions of polite society had to be maintained.
After all, she was a Clearwater.
Emma’s lips barely moved behind a great smile as she murmured quietly to her father, “I will enjoy it at two junctures. First, when I am able to sip champagne, and second when I am able to leave.”
With the Marples, a high society couple drawing nearer, Thomas let out a deep laugh, as if Emma had said something quite smart.
The gossip-seeking pair changed direction, no longer interested in anything less than scandal. It was a bold move on his part, and one that worked well as they passed pleasantries and went on their way to mingle with others.
Thomas’s eyes softened as he regarded his daughter. “You are absolutely certain you wish to go through with this?”
Emma’s lips pursed. “I’m certain that if I wish to uphold our family name I must marry, and to continue as I am, that match must be with a slayer. You know in that regard my options are limited.” Love was never on the books for Emma, and as a practical woman wanting a life of her own, she brushed it aside as something frivolous.
“I just wish for you to be happy, Emma. That is all.”
“I know.” A grin graced Emma’s lips. Henrietta, and their far more proper friend Victoria, joined them. Though it was her party, Emma had specifically chosen a spot farthest from the raucous, chatting crowd.
“Did he make it?” Henrietta asked, wide-eyed, the moment she drew near enough to hear.
“No,” Emma said, “he has yet to return from his business, and the plans had already been made. I couldn’t cancel my own engagement party.”
Victoria’s pale blue eyes widened in shock and horror. “You are having an engagement party without your betrothed?”
“Should I have canceled the catering? Told the florist there was no need for three hundred blooms?”
Victoria’s lips formed a tight line as she strove to find some sort of response adequate to her own desires. “Perhaps, if that was what it took.” She shook her head. “How terrible that you should have this opportunity to profess your undying love for one another and he isn’t even present.”
Sometimes, it was difficult to believe Victoria was a slayer, especially as her hand lifted to her chest in mock disgust. “I would have called off the entire engagement!”
Emma forced herself not to laugh. “Yes well, it isn’t you that’s marrying, is it?”
Aghast, Victoria’s jaw fell open, but Henrietta quickly came to the rescue.
“Oh, come now, you know as well as me that Emma must be overly stressed from all of the planning.” Over her shoulder, Henrietta shot Emma an amused glance that washed away the moment she looked back to Victoria. “It has made her tongue sharper than usual.”
“That,” Victoria said, “is an understatement. But, I suppose you are right, the poor dear.”
Emma played the part of a woman worn down by the stresses of mundane life, rather than of being on the lookout for a murderer. “It’s been quite difficult,” she said, and it worked, as Victoria’s attent
ions turned away toward the milling crowd.
“Have you invited any eligible men?” Victoria asked.
“None that you’d wish to be introduced to, I assure you.” Emma didn’t know if Victoria wished to marry another slayer or just toss that part of her life behind her. Henrietta, on the other hand, still wished for both slaying and romance.
Emma hated to think her dear friend may never achieve both.
“How can you say that?” Victoria’s blond curls bobbed as she looked around the room, only for her searching gaze to come to a sudden halt. The edges of her lips plucked upward as she zeroed in on a single target. “Who is that?” She nearly purred, sending both Emma and Henrietta spinning on their heels in search of him.
The man in question remained far across the room, engaged in what she imagined was frivolous chatter in a group of well-mannered, droll people. It looked as if they clung to his every word and laughed far too loudly to jokes that probably weren’t even funny.
His long coat looked groomed to perfection, and even the golden buttons running up the side twinkled in the dim candlelight. His mere presence gathered a crowd, and Emma couldn’t place how she knew the raven-haired man who was enjoying her engagement party.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before,” Emma said.
“Oh!” Henrietta nearly jumped with glee that her usually useless knowledge would for once do them some good. “If I remember correctly, I overheard one of the ladies at Tuesday’s luncheon gushing about him. Callom . . . Smith? He’s no American, he’s come from somewhere in Europe, and scandalous as the talk was . . .” Henrietta’s voice lowered to a near inaudible whisper, “Rumor has it he’s set to inherit incalculable riches.”
“No!” Victoria gasped, already appearing deeply in love.
Money, while handy when it came to weapons and gowns, wasn’t particularly something that drove Emma forward. Her own fiancé, though nowhere near that level of wealth, would provide well enough for her. Henrietta’s choice of phrasing “incalculable riches” sounded like outright extravagance.
She continued to study the man across the room, noting the tufts of his dark hair fallen across his high brow. His jaw seemed to be chiseled of stone, and it wasn’t until his brightened gaze caught on her own that she realized her brow had sunk in her determination of his unusual eye color.
He lifted his glass into the air, punctuated by a cocky grin. Emma scowled and spun to give him her back. How could anyone be drawn in by such arrogance?
Even more, she hated to admit she was equally angered that she could find his visage so attractive. But a handsome face only lasted a number of years—and even the handsomest of men weren’t worth the trouble of having to hide who you truly were.
“Oh Emma,” Victoria said breathlessly, “if only you weren’t already destined to wed.”
“What? Why?” Emma searched her friend’s face in confusion.
“Because! He’s shown you interest. Oh just think of it, the wealth—”
“Victoria, you know I don’t care for material things.”
“You would if you were forced into a drab gown that hindered your chase!” Victoria said sharply.
In Emma’s opinion, every gown hindered a slayer in some way or another.
“Well,” Emma finalized with a shake of her head, “it doesn’t matter, since I’ll be marrying Frederick.” A man she didn’t love and could only tolerably be around for shorter moments of time.
Oh, what a future she had ahead of her.
The party dragged on longer than Emma would have liked. The moment Henrietta and Victoria were able to secure introductions to some eligible men, they’d run off, leaving her to fend for herself. There was no reason for her to go gallivanting around with them since she was a soon-to-be-married woman.
Distracted by the sweet taste of champagne on her tongue, Emma hadn’t heard the approaching steps bringing someone new to her side.
“I suppose congratulations are in order.”
She shifted sharply toward the unfamiliar masculine voice, nearly sending champagne sloshing over the rim of her slender glass. When her eyes connected with the roguish glimmer of Callom’s, she knew he was trouble.
“Are you offering them, then?” she asked uncouthly.
Warm laughter slipped from his lips, which both infuriated her and quirked her mouth slightly upward.
“I could, if you so wish, but I couldn’t help but notice from even across the room that you have appeared uncomfortable every step of the way.”
The admission made Emma freeze, if only because she’d worked tirelessly at masking her general disdain for societal pleasantries. How easily he could see through her illusions, was worrisome. She’d need to try harder.
With pursed lips, she looked over the crowd, forcing him to remain at her side rather than directly in front of her. “And you seemed rather pleased with yourself and have apparently forgotten your manners in introductions.”
“Ah.” He grinned too devilishly for her liking. “My apologies. Callom Sm . . . S, at your service. I did quite a lot of traveling before finally setting root here in New York, so my pleasantries aren’t completely in order.”
Emma huffed out a laugh as she finally turned her attention toward him. It still wasn’t entirely proper for her to introduce herself, but it would be foolish to find someone to do it for her. “Emma Clearwater, a pleasure, I’m sure,” she said with a shallow curtsy.
“Soon to be Emma Milton, no doubt.”
Emma stilled. It was one thing to agree to marry and another entirely to hear one’s name changed because of it. “Yes, yes of course.”
“I was about to go out to the terrace for some fresh air,” Callom said. “Would you care to join me?”
From the corner of her eye, Emma regarded the man’s more neutral expression. Certainly waltzing off with him would be another faux pas in society’s eyes, but it would also be good to learn of the newcomer to New York, wouldn’t it? Frederick would understand.
With a glance to be certain her glass wasn’t empty yet, Emma nodded. “Fresh air would do me well.”
Outside. Emma gratefully inhaled the chilled evening air tinged with the sweet aroma of fresh roses. Over sweeping arbors and across swathes of lattice, the shy, red blooms were scattered, making the terrace appear more romantic than her own engagement party within.
“It seems I could have done without the peonies and just held the party out here,” she said as she returned to the comfort of her drink.
Callom’s chuckle sounded almost strained and wrinkled her brow wrinkled as she turned to face him. Something was awry, and she suddenly wondered if she hadn’t made a grave choice in following him outside.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” she asked.
His quiet laugh chilled her. “We’ll see how well I am after I tell you what I must.”
Emma’s grip on her glass tightened. “Excuse me?”
“Certainly you’ve heard of the Smythe name,” he said, stilling her breath and thoughts simultaneously. In slow motion her eyes connected with his, and it was then, as she stared into their depths that at first appeared a vibrant hue of brown, she realized they were tinged with more gold than normal.
He was a dragonborne.
One might expect a slayer to recognize the legendary dragonborne families immediately, but many of them had disappeared from the normal social circles. The last time a dragonborne and a slayer had come face to face was more than fifty years ago. The dragonborne kept to themselves and maintained their status through old money.
Emma swung her glass, spraying champagne across the deserted terrace as she aimed the hefty crystal piece straight for his head. Ducking out of the way, he barely missed her makeshift weapon, which slipped from her grip and sailed into a thousand pieces of shattered, glittering crystal.
Emma’s hand dropped, ready to rifle her revolver from the folds of her skirts when Callom grasped her arm, jerking her closer to him. Her chin tilted up,
allowing her eyes to narrow darkly at his attempts to halt her when a feminine voice shattered her thoughts.
“Heavens!” One of her father’s friends, and now an old maid desperate for gossip, stuck her head out the door. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, just fine Ms. Knolles,” Emma said with a smile. “I tripped and this kind gentleman was on hand to make sure I did not fall entirely.”
“Well,” the woman gasped, “I should be glad he was there!” Her head vanished back inside for a moment to a calling voice before she looked back to Emma with a warmth in her eyes. “If you’re all right then dear, I must be off. Congratulations once more.”
“Thank you, Ms. Knolles.”
The moment the woman disappeared, Emma spun hard, snatching her arm from Callom’s annoyingly warm grip. “You have the gall to come here and announce to me that—”
“That we dragonborne had nothing to do with the death of your cousin.”
“Do not speak of Everett to me!”
With each sharpened barb she threw, she unknowingly drew herself closer toward the flame that was her mortal enemy. It was a terrible shame he was so attractive, and she chided herself for the lingering heat she felt on her arm from where he’d held her.
“Please, just let me explain,” he said.
With a flat expression she nodded. “You have one minute to speak and then you’ll leave one way or another. Do I make myself understood?”
He folded his firm arms across his chest. “I swear it when I tell you we did not kill Everett Brant. I’ve had my people searching for the true perpetrator ever since we heard the news. So far, we’ve a few leads, but I found no one to name as the guilty party. I can only tell you that someone wishes for the slayers and dragonborne to wage battle once more. We must ask ourselves, why?”
“And what of the assailant I chased off yesterday?” Emma asked haughtily.
“He was searching as well.”
Sirens and Scales Page 448
