helped secure his place here. I made a mistake.”
“You were trying to help him, darling,” Kincaid says, placing an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “It was a lapse in judgment. Now go to bed.”
He kisses her full on the lips, and I see it: whereas Valery melts and simpers into Kincaid’s arms during dining times, she’s stiff during this act. Unyielding. She doesn’t want his attention. Not now.
And still she goes to his bed, with the slightest glance at Deniel as she passes.
“Hold on,” Kincaid says. He gestures for Dante to come over, which he does reluctantly. “Will you do the honors?”
Dante’s eyes flicker to mine, and I know that whatever punishment Kincaid has in mind, I don’t want to see it. Is it too late to excuse myself? Beside me Jost takes my arm and pulls me close to him. Dante’s attention turns back to his boss and he shakes his head.
“I’m not playing your games, Kincaid.”
“Games?” Kincaid echoes with a guffaw. “My interest in your daughter should please you.”
Dante’s shoulders stay set, his lips a firm line of refusal.
“No?” Kincaid asks, but he sounds indifferent. He wags a finger at a burly guard, who steps forward. “Show Adelice that we will protect her. Show her what I do to those who would betray her.”
The guard nods, and Deniel is lifted to his feet. The guard’s eyes stay on Deniel’s chest, but Deniel remains passive and remote. Then he gives a loud groan as the guard’s fingers reach toward him.
My pulse leaps, pounding against my veins, and as the guard reaches forward, Deniel’s strands glimmer to life again.
I can see them so clearly now, more so than I did when he attacked me. His strands are thin, well worn, patched with newer strands. Some grafted in seamlessly and others barely attached. Whoever Deniel is, he’s endured a fair amount of alteration. Who did this to him?
Through the center of his jumbled weave runs a slender golden strand. The last pure thread remaining within the man. Another set of strands moves within Deniel, pushing apart the threads and patches, making straight for the man’s core. With a great wrench, the guard rends apart Deniel’s threads, below the tear that I gave him. For a moment my concentration is broken and I can only see the crimson that drips thin across the guard’s hands, but then the golden strand pulls slowly from Deniel and he starts to melt away. I am fastened to the sight, unable to turn my head.
First, Deniel’s skin shrivels. The blood stops flowing from his chest until only a seeping puddle remains on his shirt. His eyes sink into his skull and his head lolls back, and I know he’s dead, but it isn’t over. The golden strand pulls cleanly from him, and the shriveled skin cracks and falls away. Deniel’s bones follow, until the only thing that remains is a pile of dust at the feet of the guards.
Kincaid steps forward, surveying the guard’s work. His face is grim, but there’s a gleam in his eyes he can’t quite hide. And then, without a smile, he says quietly, “Dust to dust.”
SIXTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, A KNOCK ON THE door to my quarters startles me. I’ve been sitting at the desk, absently brushing my hair. When I open the door, a younger valet is waiting with a silver tray perched on his fingers. A small ivory card with my name penned in elegant writing rests on it. I take the card and nod a thank-you to the valet.
“My instructions are to wait for your response, miss,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Okay, give me a moment.” I turn into my room, and after some hesitation, shut the door. I can’t stand the thought of him waiting there, watching me. I’m not fond of the idea of shutting the door in his face either, but, well, choices.
I unfold the card:
My eyes flick to the ticking clock on my nightstand. It’s already noon. I scrawl my acceptance across the bottom, trying to sound enthusiastic and failing miserably.
I don’t want to go, but this isn’t so much an invitation as a summons. I traipse back to the door, nearly tripping over my dressing gown, and give the card to the valet, who does a good job of not looking too annoyed at having had the door shut in his face.
“Thank you,” I say, but he merely tilts his head in acknowledgment, pivots to the right, and moves down the hall.
I’ve barely shut the door when another knock forces me to open it again. On the other side I find Jost standing there with two large turquoise boxes. Another valet is walking hurriedly down the hall, carrying more of the same boxes. I raise an eyebrow at Jost.
“A gift from our amiable host,” Jost says, nodding to be let in.
“I see you’ve been invited to the show then,” I say.
“And what a show it will be,” Jost mutters. He crosses to the bed and sets down the boxes. I walk over and lift the lid of the one with the tag addressed to me. Inside I find a cloud of pink tissue paper. I push it open and pull a silk gown from the box. It’s a lovely pale pink and the fabric swims down my body when I hold it up. The decolletage is a sunburst of crystal. I turn it over and study the draping back, finding another sunburst to decorate my derriere.
“Pretty,” Jost says. It’s as much enthusiasm as he can muster up for something as shallow as clothes.
“Let’s see what you got,” I say.
“Oh, I hope mine is purple and shows more skin,” he says with a wink.
“If you are going to be a smart-ass, I hope it does too.”
He lifts a pressed black suit jacket from the box. “No such luck.”
“You’ll look dapper,” I say.
“I’ll be uncomfortable.”
“I never knew you were so anti-tux,” I say.
“Tuxes are for men like Cormac.”
“And what’s for a man like you?” I ask, pulling the jacket from his hands and tossing it down on the bed.
“Careful, you’ll wrinkle that,” he starts, but as I latch my arms around his chest, he stops.
“How very conscientious of you,” I murmur as I move closer to him.
“What can I say? You know what a conscientious guy I am,” he says, but the words mute as my lips meet his.
“I think the dress is pretty. It will be beautiful when you’re in it,” he says, pulling away from me.
“Should I try it on?” I ask.
Jost hesitates for moment, his eyes growing serious.
“We’re alone here and we have hours to get dressed.”
He sinks onto the bed and watches me with serious, widening eyes. For a moment, I feel shy, my bravado failing me, but my fingers grip the sash of my robe, and I hope he doesn’t see how they tremble as I begin to pull
