Thomas’s eyes widened at the circle of magic hurtling toward him. He shoved hard against his aggressor but it was too late.

Emma’s scream pierced the air when the flame hit, and unbeknownst to her, she let loose the grip on her own knife. She’d nearly sunk to her knees in desperation when Callom’s voice cut through the air.

“Behind you!” he called out.

She barely had time to register he was attempting to aid her when she spun and found her own knife and gun both brandished in the hand of the man she’d already shot.

Well, this is a terrible turn of events.

She ducked under his haphazard swing before realizing he’d left one vital piece of himself vulnerable. Grabbing at the lapels of his coat, she brought her knee up hard and jammed him in the groin.

The man plummeted forward to his knees, nearly knocking her over in the process, as she snatched away her weapons and cracked him hard across the skull with the butt of her gun.

Emma scrambled over to her father’s side, relief filling her as she realized he was still alive and mostly uninjured. Down at his feet lay the ashes of a burned man, and in front of him stood another assailant. Every ounce of his strength focused on making certain he survived before Callom himself jumped in and halted the deadly man with one well-placed crack of his neck. The man slumped to the ground, leaving the trio standing there in silence.

“Thank you, but . . . who the hell are you?” asked Thomas.

Callom’s attention swiveled about the empty street for additional threats, before he turned back to address her and her father. “Callom Smythe, sir.”

In slow motion, Thomas’s lips turned to a snarl and though he was clearly outmatched, he lifted his cane in anger.

“No! Father, no.” Emma pushed his cane back toward the ground. “He just saved your life.”

“It’s a ruse, I’m sure of it,” Thomas grumpily said.

Emma wasn’t entirely certain he was wrong, but now at least she would listen to Callom. She owed him that much.

“I haven’t figured out the specifics,” Callom explained, “but these men, these things aren’t entirely human.” With nothing but burning embers remaining from the dwindling fire, Callom kicked at the man’s arm alerting Emma to a loud thud of metal.

This couldn’t be. “What is that? A metal man?”

“Some type of mechanized arm. I don’t know who or what precisely they are, but my soldiers have been tracking them for some days now. It may be coincidence, but they seem to be growing in number—and strength.”

Emma peered down and peeled his closed eyelid open. A shudder ran over her spine as she stared into the gaze of a dead man—or dead metal man. She wanted to examine firsthand what she swore had been eyes dark than obsidian and void of white. Now though, she could see that wasn’t the case at all. Unexpectedly, they faded before her very eyes into nothing more than a picture of pure, white snow.

Startled, she jumped back and stood beside her father, who leaned into her.

“There are rumors,” Callom said, “that these men are creations of those who desire a war.”

“Why should I ever believe you?” Thomas said.

Callom scoffed. “I just saved your life, did I not?”

“And your kind killed many of our ancestors.”

“And yours, mine,” the dragonborne prince said through gritted teeth. Both men stared each other down. “Look, we may not trust each other, but this is bigger than all of us. We need to work together. Otherwise, we play right into their hands.”

Laughter cackled from her father as he turned to leave his wrecked carriage behind. “It will be a cold day in hell when the Clearwaters work alongside the dragonborne. Come, Emma. Let us go home.”

“Of course.” She took her father’s arm.

There was no trying to convince her father otherwise when he so strongly believed a point. Though Emma believed Callom spoke was truth. He wanted to work together rather than pursue their long-held feud.

“More will come,” Callom called out. “More will come and they will kill us all given the chance.”

Emma caught his gaze over her shoulder. A lump formed in her throat. One of them or both of them would die if nothing was done. She was sure of it.

For three nights in a row, Emma attempted to change her father’s mind. They’d been attacked and Callom had clearly come to their rescue. Not only had he saved Thomas, but he slayed two of the metal men. Who would go through such lengthy efforts and kill their own men, just to gain their trust?

Unfortunately, Thomas was even more stubborn than Emma.

On the second evening, she’d received a letter from the dragonborne prince. He again tried to persuade her an alliance was needed and time was their worst enemy. He’d also left his address and an open invitation to his home.

Convinced it was at least worth a conversation, Emma decided to take a chance and visit Callom. She slipped out of the house unnoticed one evening while her father busied himself with a rousing game of poker. He’d been so concerned about the strength of his terrible hand, he hadn’t even heard the door clicking shut behind her.

Emma darted across town on foot, her breath ragged by the time she’d reached the dragonborne’s front door. Flush of face and gasping for breath wasn’t the impression she wished to give, so she milled about until she calmed down.

Her knuckles rapped in quick succession upon Callom’s front door. Only a moment, later the door opened. A proper footman dipped his head in greeting. “Evening, miss, may I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Smythe, if he’s in.”

“And your name?”

“Emma Clearwater.”

“Very well.” He pushed the door open, gaining her entrance to a marvelous foyer. The staircase, which rounded upward toward the second floor, was awash with deep walnut railings and carved with intricate designs that must have taken hours of dutiful, detailed work. “Please, wait here a moment.” The man scurried off, farther into the vast halls.

There wasn’t much to see from where she stood, but Emma inched forward enough to peek through an ajar door. Inside was a sitting room, much as any Victorian home had, but something about the velvet furniture and thickly draped curtains made it feel warm and inviting.

“Right this way, miss.” The footman reappeared and led her beyond several closed doors and into a large great room where much of the furniture had been pushed against the wall. A large table and several chairs sat clustered together, making room for the game of folly that had taken root in the space’s center.

Callom and another man, similar in age, danced with rapiers at the ready. Emma was rendered speechless since both men were entirely shirtless. She’d never seen a man in such a state of undress. Especially one as fit and firm as Callom Smythe. His advances looked effortless with his arm outstretched to perfection. Every inch of his tan skin glistened with beads of sweat, making him appear like a bronze statue.

Emma knew she should look away or remove herself from the room, but there was something captivating about the hypnotic swings of their rapiers as if they’d practiced the same dance a thousand times before.

When finally the pair finished, and their weapons were tossed with a loud clang against the far table, Emma snapped back into a rigid posture. She had difficulty keeping her eyes from roaming along Callom’s half-naked figure as he sauntered closer with a towel in hand.

It was even more difficult when he used it to wipe the sweat from his face rather than cover his bare, thickly muscled chest.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He beamed with confidence and self-pride.

“I came to . . .”

He flung the towel over his shoulder, the disturbed air cascading a few droplets of sweat down the concave of his chest.

“Aren’t you going to put on something a bit more decent?” Emma asked.

“Why?” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Does it bother you?”

“Yes,” she said, though in what way, she wasn’t sure. She found it unnerving to look him in the eye when there was so much more to see below his jawline. She wondered if Fredrick’s chest would look similar.

What a silly thing to ponder.

Frederick was a sensible business man, not a warrior or a fighter—and she didn’t desire him any other way. In fact, she didn’t desire him in any way. That wasn’t the nature of their relationship. Sure, she’d have . . . wifely duties to attend to, but those would be infrequent. Instead, her focus would remain on her role as a slayer and keeping her people—and New York—safe.

Callom had the gall to laugh. “It would be foolish to put a shirt on over all of this sweat. Terrible waste of clothing, don’t you think?”

His rationale infuriated her as much as it made sense. She edged past him to give herself some space as she wandered the now empty room. “I came to discuss your offer.”

“And which one would that be?”

She faced him. “The alliance.”

Taken aback, he asked, “You wish to agree to one?”

“I do.” While it pained her to think of working alongside the dragonborne, it also seemed to be her best option if she wished to take down this new enemy of theirs.

“And your father?” he asked.

“I can only speak for myself. My father, I am afraid, may never be convinced, and many others never will be, either. But you have my word. We’ll work together until this is over, then we will go our separate ways.”

“Ahh.” His lips curled. “And here I thought we could be friends.”

“It will be an alliance only, and a temporary one at that.”

Callom stepped forward with his hand outstretched in offering. Figuring it would be rude to deny him, Emma returned the hearty handshake with the hope she’d find no reason to regret her decision to trust a dastardly dragonborne.