still, although not one single person glanced downward, no one stepped on him. Or through him, as the case might have been. Perhaps it was some deep-coiled human instinct, avoiding even unseen peril; none of the Others breached this space, even when they had to move around him or take a little hop over his arm or head. He lay undisturbed, staring up at the underside of the gabled hip roof overhead, and relived last night again and again in his mind's eye.
James had been such a willing vessel. Inhabiting him had been far easier, and far more pleasant, than plunging into the dying coachman or the elderly flower gent. James was healthy, for one thing. Healthy and robust, and taking control of his body had been like slipping on someone else's glove. A tight but tolerable fit. It had taken him a few minutes to get the hang of it, moving the lax arms and legs the way Rhys wished them to go. In the joy of fresh sensation—the cotton nightshirt upon his body, the blessed ordinary creaks and scents of a house bedded down for the evening—he'd nearly forgotten his true purpose.
Zoe.
Nearly, but not, needless to say, completely. And that had been the most intense joy of all.
Touching her. Tasting her. Feeling her response to him—to the Hayden/Rhys drakon he'd created, that sleeping body brimming to the brink with his own black passion—letting himself believe, just for those few fervent minutes, that it was only he whom she loved. That it was he she wanted to kiss. Had he been able to carry his plan to fruition, the evil symphony could have consumed him for the rest of his life—his afterlife—and it would have been worth it.
As it was, it had damn near been worth it anyway.
He could handle her anger. He could understand it, even. He'd freely admit the entire scheme had been underhanded, a despicable trick, and had he a wisp of scruples, he'd be feeling properly miserable about it all. But Rhys thought perhaps his scruples had vanished with his mortal body; he wasn't sorry in the least. He regretted nothing beyond wounding her through her discovery of him. Hayden James was a fatheaded imbecile not to have claimed her already, and Rhys regretted nothing.
Which brought him back to one of the other costs of his actions last night: He was weakened now. He had reached that state of numbed exhaustion that meant he would be prone here on this sidewalk for probably some while to come. He'd been able to slip into her world twice this morning, long enough for her chiding, and then, later, to watch her defiantly claim her powers in front of James and the other
It was better to rest here a while, anyway. Let Zoe's temper smooth itself out.
She'd forgive him this, he was certain of it. She had to, he needed her to. He loved her and would not let go of her; by their nature, she was his, in spirit and disposition, and he was even willing to share her with a living dragon if that was what it took to keep her. And so she would forgive him.
Despite Hayden's admonitions, Zoe had come so very close to abandoning her word and tracking them across the city. It was a temptation that expanded inside her like a steel bubble, far stronger than she'd expected, and she'd had to sit down at a cafe on rue St. Denis to resist the urge to fling out the cloak and ensnare their trail of thoughts, to throw herself into the thick of their world, whether they liked it or not.
She hadn't told them about the cloak. Part of her had to admit that it was more than just that she had not found the proper time or place; she could have done it this morning, probably. She could have tried to demonstrate it by capturing the thoughts of either of them, but unless the cloak cooperated, she'd be showing off nothing. Revealing her invisibility had been a furtive sort of test; she wanted to keep her most powerful secret in reserve, hold it close to her heart just in case they tried to restrain that too.
Just in case.
The day had lost its luminous clarity already, and clouds roiled an ominous yellow-brown along the eastern edge of the sky. The wind had a bite to it, and so when she took her cup of tea and biscuits she sat inside the petite cafe with all the other patrons, glad for her gown and serge coat, and the gloves of kidskin on her lap. Still, she could not shake the chill that seemed determined to sneak up on her; she'd chosen a table by the grate of the fire, and only the half of her body closest to it seemed to keep any warmth.
With the chill, Hayden's ring was looser upon her finger. She fiddled with it absently with her thumb, sliding the band around and around.
The tea was tepid; most Parisians seemed to prefer coffee, and finding a decent pot of tea was difficult even amid the most fashionable of neighborhoods. She found herself gazing down at the round moon of its surface in her cup, searching for a reflection that was not there.
She remembered his kisses. Hayden's kisses. How welcome they had been at first, and then . how peculiar. Even as she'd embraced him, she'd felt the change in his body. At first she'd refused to acknowledge it, even to herself, because she told herself in that darkened bedroom, upon that narrow child's bed, it was what she wanted. What she'd wanted for so long: to be accepted, to be desired. And there he was, unexpectedly all that she wished. She'd known in her heart it was too good to be true.
Rhys. Wicked, wily, unconscionable Rhys, with his smoking halo and sharp green eyes, who told her openly how much he wanted her and damn the consequences. Who told her bluntly how he liked her, how their dragon nature and their animal passion bonded hearts. Who was so determined to prove their connection he'd invaded the body of a fellow clansman, and pressed his lips—Hayden's lips—to her skin, tasted her with his tongue.
Zoe brought her hands up to her cheeks. Hot color flooded them, made even the centers of her palms seem cold, but the cafe was nearly empty, and no one paid her any mind.
It had been so dreadful and so acutely wonderful. To be held like that, half-naked like that, stretched out upon the bed. To be stroked. To feel passion without the winter sting of his touch—
She removed her hands from her face. She brought the tea to her lips, attempting to relish the relative coolness of the liquid: inoffensive and flavorless. Everything opposite of the confusion that boiled inside her.
She would not be so idiotic as to fall in love with a memory. That he had a sort of substance, a manner of opacity and a great deal of sweet persuasion that went with his nefarious behavior did not make him alive, or real, or worth the risk of giving him her heart.
She
The clouds were swelling closer. She smelled the rain in them, the thunder that ached for release. The bell over the cafe door gave a merry tinkle; a group of pastel-clad ladies rushed in with a bluster of wind, laughing in happy tones, exclaiming over the coming storm. Their maids waited outside, huddled in bonnets and coats.
Instinctively, more out of habit than anything else, Zoe pulled the deep blue cloak about her, then flung it out in a circle with herself in its eye.
It returned to her with Rhys caught in its folds, his light brighter and brighter, and then he was there with her. There in the chair opposite hers, just like a living man, one arm draped over the back and his booted feet crossed.
She sighed. She set down the teacup, placed a few
He followed her, naturally. He kept near to her shoulder, glancing about at the brightly polished shops of imported lace and Indian silk like a tourist, then back down at her.
'Nice ring.'
She gave a nod of acknowledgment, stuffing her hands into her gloves. 'From him, I must suppose.' She only sent him a look.
'What,' he said, 'he couldn't bother to find a black diamond?'
She paused with her back and skirts flattened to a building to allow a sedan chair past; a little brown dog staring bug-eyed out the window at her began to howl most piercingly, hushed by a woman's voice. Rhys drifted ahead, turning to walk backward when she started off again.
'Are you still angry with me?'
She rolled her eyes, kept walking. The hues of the day were browning, changing shades with the coming of the storm, and there was a mercer's in particular she wished to find before the rain began. She'd seen it once after she'd first arrived, cramped and dusty and crammed with reels and reels of intricate lace. A measure of it
