Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 1

by Shayne Silvers

  “Callie,” he repeated the name like it was succulent chocolate. “Is that short for Calliope?”

  “Sure,” I laughed, even though it wasn’t remotely close. I did that often — misled people, because it seemed everyone I met felt they needed to guess what Callie was short for.

  His smile stretched thoughtfully. “My name’s Johnathan. I’ll see you there. And have a good time tonight,” he said, turning back to the bar. “Can I get another, please? This is for the servers tonight,” he said, setting down a folded bill by his drink. Martha stared at it for a second, and then, smiling, moved to take his glass. Johnathan casually grabbed her hand, and before Martha could pull it away, he kissed it. “And that’s for me.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing as Martha began cursing him up and down. He smiled back, as if expecting full well how she would react.

  “Yes, I imagine you will…” I turned to go, shaking my head as Claire beamed at me from the doorway, nodding her approval. She also wore a coat to cover her evening attire, but her hair looked exquisite. She had done it herself, the bitch.

  My thoughts drifted back to Johnathan as Claire tugged me out the door. Well, that was… interesting. I had never had anyone hit on me at a bar only to ask me to lunch. Maybe it was a sign that tonight wasn’t going to be so bad.

  Chapter 11

  We stood at the top of a grand staircase, white marble cascading down to an atrium that sparkled with signs of wealth.

  The atrium held a sea of tuxedos, evening gowns, and well-dressed servers with polished silver trays. Bouquets of aromatic flowers decorated the room in ornate vases, filling the air with soothing hints of spring, but it was overpowered by the musk of cologne and heavy perfume from the attending masses. A crystal chandelier was suspended over the crowd, easily ten feet tall, the lower end hanging fifteen feet from the ground, and sparkling like a thousand camera flashes. Claire and I stood before the crowd as they turned to appraise the newest guests. The host had timed it so that each new party entered the event alone, victim to appraising stares from the already present guests. And there was a slight hush in conversation as they turned to judge us. I spotted a few lanyards around necks. Reporters, of course. The string quartet continued playing, but the sudden drop in conversation was unsettling, like we had rudely interrupted something important.

  The sea of bodies watching us glistened with sparkling throats, begemmed fingers, and precious metal watches, like a dragon’s treasure trove. If dragons existed, of course.

  My knees locked rigid as those eyes roved over me. Social situations didn’t typically make me uncomfortable, but the knowledge of how much money these people represented made me feel grossly out of place. And the fact that I expected some of them were monsters, as Roland had warned, didn’t help.

  I took slow, measured breaths, calming myself, bending my knees slightly so as not to pass out. Claire — just as nervous as myself — placed a comforting palm on my lower back, which was exposed to my tailbone. My black dress clung to me like oil had been poured down my shoulders, falling into place as the contours of my body dictated. Not indecent, but leaving little to the imagination. Roland had insisted on it after seeing it on me. It exuded elegance and, I hoped, incited a small sense of trepidation in those below eyeing me. It made me look bold, daring, commanding. Roland had said I would need that slight edge. Rather than him reminding me that he would attend if I didn’t wear it, I had accepted the inevitable.

  My thick, wavy white hair cascaded down my shoulders, freshly curled and now coated with sparkling hair spray that Claire had blasted me with in her car on the way over. It reflected the light below like drops of dew in a morning field. Claire had insisted on that. As nervous as she had been to join me, she had declared — more to herself than me — that if we were going to go to a place like this, we were going to do it right. We might never have the chance again.

  She wore a lacy, well-fitting, full-necked dress that left her arms entirely bare. Her heels were tall, making her look average in height, a little shorter than me, and they were bedecked with green and crystal stones — fake, of course — and she wore a flashy bracelet of similar design. Still, they were good knockoffs. Assessing the crowd staring up at us, I had a feeling that they would be able to instantly tell faux from real gems. Still, they would have to get a good look up close to discern that. And I wasn’t too keen on anyone getting that close.

  I felt like I was on my first day in a new prison yard.

  Or like I was a lone wolf stumbling onto a pack of hardened killers.

  It wasn’t just the attention of so many people striking at once, or the amount of money those faces represented, although that was extremely uncomfortable.

  It was that I kept coming back to the fact that at least a handful of these people were not as they seemed. Killers and monsters, in truth.

  The silence of speech stretched, seeming to overpower the jaunty tones of the violins still playing in one corner of the gathering. Then the strangest thing happened.

  One man laughed.

  A great booming laughter full of a physical joy, not just idle amusement. I saw Claire’s shoulders tighten out of the corner of my eye, and I took a subconscious step toward the laughter, searching for the man, as if placing my foot between him and Claire. She murmured thankfully to me under her breath, and I felt her begin to relax. I finally spotted him by the bar, swirling a glass of opaque green alcohol in one hand.

  He wore a bespoke suit of a distinguished pattern I doubted would ever be found on a rack anywhere, and his crisp white shirt seemed to glow in the soothing lighting. His tan hands contrasted with the white cuffs barely peeking out of the deep blue — almost black — coat. His other hand was absently twirling a coin around his fingers, rolling it over each knuckle before it disappeared into his palm, and then reappeared near his thumbs to begin the process all over again — the coin resembling a stone falling down the waterfall of his knuckles.

  My tight, challenging glare trailed up to find that he was the only one not wearing a tie, or a tuxedo. His collared shirt flared open at the neck, revealing an expanse of tanned skin and a bare tease of blonde chest hair, short enough to still reveal the curves of a muscular chest. He wasn’t large, but he looked deceptively strong… functional strength, not gym strength. The breadth of his shoulders confirmed this. His shirt flared out, the collars like daggers resting over his jacket.

  A scruffy blonde beard only emphasized a brilliantly white-toothed smirk of amusement, and his eyes…

  My breath caught, my anger stuttering like a candle in a breeze.

  Those eyes — although not looking at me — were the greenest I had ever seen, seeming to almost glow, absorbing and reflecting the light around him like emeralds. Faint creases marred the corners of his eyes, belying that he was no stranger to laughter. But as I saw that face, I realized something for the first time, and I felt my breath catch again.

  He wasn’t laughing at me. Or at Claire.

  He was laughing…

  At everyone else. But more than just them. Almost as if he was laughing at the world, the room, the city, their ideals, their fears, their joys, their existence. At the looks the people were giving me. As if approving of the reactions Claire and I had elicited… but over that approval was sheer, utter amusement at their thinly veiled looks of judgment.

  Very few turned to look at him, but I could tell they all wanted to. It almost seemed as if those in the room knew who he was, despised him, hated him, even, and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his outburst. Or risk the result of disrespecting him, or drawing any more attention to themselves than they already had. They acted as those surviving a storm — it was easier to ride the waves than scream at the sky.

  Those around him gave him a discreet, but wide berth. Several paces around him remained free of bodies, and he sat leaning against the bar as if this was entirely usual — his element — the natural order of the world.


  Time seemed to return to normal, knowing now that I wasn’t the source of his amusement, but that my entrance — and the reaction it had caused — was the source. He finally met my eyes and I almost took a step back. He slowly lifted his glass, dipped his head, and then turned back to the bar with another chuckle — judging by the light shake of his shoulders.

  I didn’t know whether to thank him or hate him. His laughter had been tainted with such arrogance and disdain that it was hard not to feel some of it directed my way.

  But I had also noticed a hard glint in the depths of his eyes — of one willing to break the world to get what he wanted. He was dangerous.

  Perhaps he was my enemy. One of those Roland had warned me against. Maybe he had been laughing at me. At my impudence of coming here to take what he had declared as his.

  Sounds of conversation quickly resumed — as if the crowd was eager to replace the memory of his laughter — and I felt Claire let out a breath. After a deep breath of my own, I began to descend the stairs, keeping my chin high as Roland had taught me. I just wanted this to be over with. Make my bid, win the artifact, and get the fuck out of here. This wasn’t my world. I felt like a dolphin that had just slipped into the tank with killer whales.

  We entered the crowd, wading around the dozens of small circles of those familiar with each other — speaking softly, laughing lightly, touching an arm here, fussing with a shoulder there, admiring jewelry. All fake motions of friendship, because a polite form of murder shone in those eyes. Friends today, enemies tomorrow. None of these people cared for each other. They were here for one reason, to annihilate their ‘friends’ by outbidding them for some overpriced piece of art. And to smile lightly at each other as they did it. Until the next auction, where the tables could turn and they could come out on bottom. It was a game to these people.

  Their one source of entertainment.

  Claire had snatched up a flute of champagne from a server silently slipping through the crowd, and noticing the discreet stares following us, I did the same. We met eyes, and I nodded. I motioned her closer to the bar where, thanks to the arrogant man who had laughed, there was a little more open space. As we neared, crowds shifted subtly, not wanting to appear to be associating with us. I caught a few disdainful sniffs here and there from other women, especially those attached to a well-dressed man who seemed to pay a bit too much attention to our passing.

  Lechers.

  I growled to myself, but kept my face carefully composed, a smiling mask for Claire. She was breathing quickly, but doing a good job of hiding it. I smiled warmly at her.

  “You look beautiful. We’ll be out of here soon. Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.”

  She nodded weakly, taking comfort in my words, and not believing a one of them. To the others, her face displayed no unease, looking more like disdain, which fit in well here. But I knew she wanted to have fun. The feeling in the air was shattering her dream of a fun night.

  I couldn’t blame her. I felt like I had just walked into a room of frat boys and sorority girls naked as the day I was born. Hungry and jealous gazes pinning us like darts on a board. But I was used to that. I wasn’t conceited, but I knew I was a pretty woman. Not overly so, but I was aware of the effect I had on men. Claire, on the other hand, was beautiful, but refused to hear a word of it.

  But anyone interested in nabbing us up as a pretty piece of arm candy was in for a rude surprise. I cared about what was underneath their green eyes, their broad shoulders, and their well-tailored—

  I realized I was reciting the arrogant bachelor’s looks, and felt my face flush with embarrassment. I let out a breath, masking my face with a sip of cool champagne. I didn’t give one shit about how handsome he was — although, like any girl, I did appreciate pretty packages. Still, none of that mattered if the man on the inside was a cave troll, intent on only the pursuit of a casual, hormone-infused night.

  Regaining my composure, I lowered my flute, and found the green-eyed man staring at me curiously, still knuckling the coin idly. He saw that I had noticed him, and flashed me a polite smile. Nothing more. But it seemed naturally tinted with mischief. Not directed at me, but like the sound of his voice had been — directed at everything around him. As if the world was one big joke to him. I opened my mouth to tell him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t appreciate him eyeing me when someone lightly rested their hand on my shoulder. I had time to notice the green-eyed man’s eyes crinkle at the edges, all sense of humor evaporating. I whirled, ready to instantly go on defense.

  Chapter 12

  A handsome older gentleman stared at me with incredulity in his hazel eyes, but his face slowly morphed to confusion. “Constance?” the man frowned, staring from my hair to my face. I didn’t recognize him, and he seemed to be suddenly realizing that he didn’t recognize me either. He dropped his hand and took a polite half-step back, well before it would have seemed inappropriate. His hand fell to his side with a slight bend to his arm, as if used to resting there.

  A distant part of me familiar to training with weapons realized it was where a sword would rest in the old days, a man placing his hand on the hilt of a blade.

  But, of course, those days were long gone. People didn’t walk around with swords anymore.

  I shook my head in answer to the mistaken name. He let out a breath, and gave me a disarming smile, his weathered face now resembling a loving grandfather doting on his grandchild. “My apologies. You looked like someone that I once knew—”

  A light, but deep gong cut him off, and the violins faded in a rehearsed closure, as did all conversation. I turned to see a man standing at the top of another set of stairs, opposite from where we had entered. He was a short man, and although dressed better than the servers, he still presented himself subserviently to the guests before him. “The auction will commence in a few moments. If you could please take your seats.” A low murmur responded as the crowd slowly drifted towards the open doors behind the speaker. The stairs were half that of the ones we had entered, and led into an old theater, complete with velvet seats that I could see from my spot near the bar.

  I made no move as I turned back to the man who had mistaken me. But he was gone. Claire was frowning as her eyes stared deeper into the crowd that had all mingled together now, no longer in small pockets as everyone hastened to take their seats.

  Claire turned to me, frowning, and then shrugged. She accepted another flute of champagne and handed me a paddle, the one they had handed me upon entering. Claire had taken it from me in silence, so that my hands would be free to act if necessary. I had two daggers sheathed to my inner thigh. Of course, I would have to reveal a flash of pale leg to reach them, but I could do it quickly, and with minimal motion. I had practiced before finally deciding on the garment. And anyone staring at my sudden reveal of flesh would be too distracted to notice the daggers suddenly hurtling towards his or her face.

  I accepted the paddle, and another flute of champagne, even though mine was only half gone, and we followed the crowd. Everyone seemed eager to be seated, but no one touched shoulders. Respectfully compact. You never knew who you might be bumping with this many modern-day nobles surrounding you.

  No one bothered us as Claire led us to our seats, but I did feel several sets of eyes following us. I hadn’t seen the green-eyed man or the older gentleman who had mistaken me for Constance. The name had meant nothing to me, but I had heard similar lines like that too many times to count when men were trying to pick up a woman. Perhaps he was one of those who liked much younger women to dote on him. Not uncommon. A light touch, a sense of familiarity with a tossed-out name, a flash of wealth, and then an apology and smirk — which often resulted in many weaker women feeling suddenly self-conscious enough to flirt back, not realizing that they were subconsciously competing with this other named woman for the stranger’s interest.

  As much trickery and work as men put into picking up women with lame psychological ploys, it was a wonder that none of them real
ized that if they applied that much honest effort into genuinely attracting a woman, they would likely be swimming with options. I shook my head softly, hair tickling my lower back as I sat down. Claire was already seated, leaving me the aisle.

  I leaned back in my chair, watching as events unfolded. A broad array of paintings, jewelry, knickknacks, manuscripts, and sculpted pieces of art decorated the stage with meticulous placement. My eyes studied the display, aware to make sure my eyes never rested on one piece too long, because I could feel eyes on my back, watching me watch the stage, as if curious what a young woman would be interested in buying — and even more, what that young woman had done to come into enough money to play here, and who that woman might be, and how deep her pockets were.

  I took a deep breath, pressing those concerns down. Then I saw it. An odd piece of wood in a glass case, looking like a broken shaft of a weapon, jagged on either end. The center section of the spear Roland had told me to acquire.

  Part of the spear that had pierced Jesus’ side during his crucifixion. I felt my breath catch, but hid it well with a sip of champagne. It looked so… ordinary. A length of old wood like a broken broom handle.

  But I shifted my eyes almost immediately, settling my attention on an old book, which was apparently the first item up for auction, because the tuxedoed man from the stairs began to speak, welcoming us, thanking us for attending, and without further ado, launching into a brief description of the book. A projector screen hung behind the man, over twenty feet tall, and the screen showed video footage revolving around the book three dimensionally, a pair of white gloves slowly opening the thick aged leather cover, and briefly turning a few pages with practiced care for all of us to see. Clever, letting everyone feel like they were inspecting it.

  No one stood near the book now, belying that they had recorded the video prior to auction. As the man opened the item up for bidding, the video repeated on a loop. Faint, almost unnoticeable piano music drifted on the air from the atrium we had just left. This had the odd effect of dispersing the heavy silence in the room while also not coming close to overpowering the bidding within. Just loud enough to let one miss the heavy, anxious silence in the room.