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 jutted 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.

“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.