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 attentions 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.”

“By looking in the window of my dear friend?” Emma was appalled.

“Look.” His hands flung up in defense. “I’ve no reason to know whom you may or may not trust, so we have been searching all avenues, including turncoats.”

Rage flooded Emma’s veins. How dare he show up at her engagement party uninvited and proceed to tell her one of her dearest friends could have been the villain?

“But there’s something else. Something you must know,” he said.

“And what is that, Mr. Smythe?”

“Someone is following you.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She’d know it, if it were true.

“I’m sure of it.”

“How?”

“Because.”

She waited. Even though his statements filled her belly with unease, taking the word of a dragonborne wasn’t something Emma could ever get accustomed to. Even Callom himself hesitated in his admission

“I saw them follow you the other night to Miss Hadley’s house.”

“Well, there you go!” Emma forced herself to lower her voice and calm herself. “The one following me is you. Now, leave, this very instant.”

He didn’t move an inch. “I wish to form an alliance.”

Callom Smythe was crazier than she imagined if he thought she—a slayer—would listen to his advice. Rather than allow him the dignity of exiting back inside through the front doors Emma shoved him hard toward the stone steps to lead him back to the street.

“I will never form an alliance with the likes of you,” she said.

Callom sighed as he strode a few steps down and turned back toward her. “Do watch your back, Miss Clearwater,” he said with a final bow before he hurried off, the tail of his coat trailing behind him in the heavy breeze.

For a long while Emma watched the corner around which he’d vanished, wondering to herself what Henrietta would have made of such a scene. The Smythe’s weren’t simply dragonborne, they were royalty, and as far as she’d been made aware in her studies of her enemies, that man was a prince.

Long after Callom’s departure, Emma had mingled among the crowds inside, hollowly responding to conversation and laughing whenever appropriate. When she heard her father calling, she quickly excused herself and made her grand exit.

Never had she been more excited to deposit herself within her father’s old carriage. It jolted forward from the force of a couple of trustworthy horses. Seated across from him, she exhaled sharply, closed her eyes, and let her shoulders sag.

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” he teased.

She popped open one eye. “Society?”

“Being engaged.”

“Oh. Yes, quite.”

She struggled to push Callom and his offer from the depths of her mind. Part of her wondered whether her father would have some wise counsel on the matter, but she’d yet to gather up the courage to tell him at all.

Maybe he already knew.

The thought plagued her as the carriage bounced over rough cobblestone near the port and sweeping views of the sea. It would have made a lovely view, if not for the billowed smoke and the sadness of widespread poverty.

Quietly, Emma sighed. “Father, do you think it—”

A crash, loud as lightning, rattled the carriage’s side. Emma’s hands flung out to steady herself from the sudden rock before another crash hit. Her surprised scream mixed with the terrified cries of their horses as the carriage defied gravity and tilted over, upending Emma and her father in a mix of limbs and groans as they struggled to decipher which way was up.

“What’s happened?” he called out to the driver. The grimace on his face as he struggled to upright himself in the sideways carriage worried Emma greatly.

“Father, just stay here, let me check what’s going on.” Half of the carriage’s roof had split open, giving her a wide enough space to slip out with ease. Caution was her number one strategy as she fished into her skirts for her revolver, and a single click cocked her gun at the ready.

The street around them appeared deserted, and somehow in the mayhem the horses had come loose and run off. She was grateful they weren’t hurt, but the coincidence of their situation couldn’t be ignored.

Hesitance marked her steps as she rounded the overturned carriage and came face to face with a menacing snarl. The man was dressed formally, in a long tail coat, with a kerchief or perhaps a mask concealing most of his face. The most distracting of it all was the top hat upon his head. It ticked with a multitude of gears and whatever its purpose, Emma did not want to find out.

She swung up her revolver and aimed, popping off a shot as her attacker sidestepped quicker than she could blink. In his wake, he’d left a cloud of emerald dust, both mystifying and worrying. She heard her father cry out over the carriage’s wreckage just as a well-placed hand curled tight as iron around her upper arm.

“That,” she snapped, “is rude.”

She aimed again, the deafening shot sinking into the man’s shoulder and dropping him to his knees in momentary anguish. Emma lifted her heeled boot and kicked hard in the same spot she’d just left a bullet. He fell over with loud groans of agony as she raced to aid her father.

He’d barely made it out of the carriage and was now fending off another man dressed much the same. The attacker’s thick knife continually swung close to her father, while his walking cane was his last line of defense. Though her father had always been quite the champion, it had been years since he saw action. Emma knew his age had limited his strength to survive.

Emma took aim again, this time straight for the attacker’s head. Just as her finger tightened on the trigger, someone grabbed her from behind. Her feet lifted from the ground, leaving her flailing as the man in the geared hat relieved her of her revolver.

Fear iced her heart as she watched her father losing his strength. He couldn’t hold off much longer, and with one of her arms pinned hard behind her back and her other swinging frantically for a good hold, she was of no help.

With her one free hand, Emma tugged hurriedly at her thigh holster, knowing she’d hidden a small knife within. Silently she cursed the ridiculous layers as her father took a swipe to the cheek, drawing a thin line of blood across his skin.

A movement from the corner of her eye startled her. The dragonborne prince, Callom Smythe, sat perched upon the short-lying roof of a nearby shack with his eyes trained on her father.

“No!” Emma screamed as she finally found the knife and yanked it free with an audible tear of fabric. She plunged the knife backward into the man’s torso, soaking her hand in the thick of his blood just as Callom’s palms raised into the air and a burst of light flung forward.

Emma watched in horror as the ball of flame sailed straight toward her trapped and fatigued father. The dragonborne was a goddamned liar, and now she would pay for it with the life of the person she cared for most.