By sheer luck, a new carriage was delivered in time for Emma to attend the masquerade ball. It was the one event of the year in which she could attend without her father’s escort, and seated in the carriage alone, she questioned her decisions.

Often women planned their costumed ball gowns for such an event months in advance. Seamstresses were hounded, costumers were left without sleep, and weary fathers begged for their wallet’s respite. All Emma had wanted was a gown to give her the freedom to move if she were forced into a fight.

The world’s socialites always looked to Paris for the latest in fashion, and while bustles were popular, they went against everything she needed. She’d wanted something slimmer and unencumbered, even if that meant less places to hide weapons on her person.

She wore the opposite of what she wanted. Her corset, while annoying, slimmed her thin waist while her silk skirt fell with barely any petticoats beneath it. Above the tapered sleeves of her dress was no jacket, leaving much of her arms and shoulders bare.

She was dressed as the Madame of a French brothel, swathed in red and adorned with a pair of devil horns atop her head. It would surely be a costume to turn heads, which wasn’t entirely her goal, but the broad, scrolled mask would also keep her identity safely concealed.

As the carriage jerked to a stop and the door swung open, mortification slammed into her and she thought death a better option than going inside. Still, she had work to do, and with the aid of a deep breath, she took the footman’s offered hand and left the safety of her carriage.

What would Frederick think of me now?

It wasn’t a question she often asked herself. Surely, he would have been shocked.

Twice before Emma had attended a masquerade ball, but nothing compared to the splendor she found inside the grand ballroom. The pristine marbled floors and mahogany-lined walls glittered with the light of thousands of candles. Only the most perfect of wide, white roses filled vast vases in every corner, while the doorways looked like an arbor transporting the guests into a fairy-tale garden extravaganza.

Even the trays of food Emma saw drifting past on the hands of servers were touched by creativity and grandeur, leaving her to question whether the sandwiches were cakes or the cakes were sandwiches.

“Madame,” a single male, broad of shoulders and beaming with a pearly white grin greeted her.

Apparently, her costume worked.

“Sir,” she offered simply with a nod of her head as she continued on. She noticed the disappointment in his eyes as she’d walked off.

She settled herself farther into the ballroom, off to one side where she could easily observe the crowd. Somewhere among the masked women were Henrietta and Victoria. But no matter how much she focused her eyes in puzzlement, she couldn’t find either one of them. No one looked familiar, and she wondered if Callom had stood her up.

Not that they’d agreed to attend together.

With a slight scowl on her face, Emma waved off an offer of champagne, even though she desired it desperately. Once more though, practicality won out. She didn’t want to find herself dizzy from imbibing if it came down to a life or death situation. A warlock, if that was who they truly sought, wasn’t a figure to be trifled with. She needed to have her full and proper head on her shoulders throughout the night.

Emma watched a masculine figure move across the room. His shoulders looked broad enough to match Callom’s, and from under the brim of his hat, tendrils of hair dark as night fell. With a reassuring breath she stepped off to get a closer look, until a hand wrapped around her arm, halting her from behind.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist, ready to defend herself against a drunk imbecile.

She turned around, her fist hurtling upward toward her captor’s face when it was caught squarely in his open grasp.

“So good to see you, too, Madame.”

It took a moment for the voice to register, and then for the golden hue of Callom’s eyes to solidify it for her. Roughly, she tugged her hand away before someone saw them.

Callom wore a well-fitted sable suit with a long coat and a mask thinner than hers. Somehow, though, the pure ebony attire, except for the crisp white of his shirt made him look too debonair for her tastes.

He stepped back and examined her from the bottom of her gown to the top of the curls upon her head. His movements were unhurried as he leisurely took her in. Did the golden hue of his eyes glow? No, impossible. It was a catch of the light and nothing more.

“I needed something I could move more easily in,” Emma finally said once her heart had settled back to its normal rhythm.

Callom grinned with the wickedness of the devil. “I approve highly of your choice, and how very fitting it is, given our target.”

“It means nothing,” Emma said. She had no idea which one of them she was trying to convince more.

“Of course not.” Callom’s hand stretched out in offering. “Would you care to dance?”

Emma eyed his open palm as if it were poison. “I hate dancing.”

“Ah, then you won’t dance with me simply because you don’t like dancing, and not because I am the one you would be dancing with.”

Her eyes narrowed up at him, and though she couldn’t be sure of it, she swore he winked. She looked away and focused on canvassing the crowd again. “Have you seen him yet?”

“No.” Callom’s voice was close, too close over her shoulder, but Emma dared not pull away and let him know his nearness flustered her. “But I was informed that he was seen leaving his home with a single emerald peacock feather tucked into his hat. Quite fitting considering our last conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Emma tightened her mouth and held back a grin. She refused to acknowledge any reference to their last encounter, especially considering his indecent behavior—and the way his statements affected her. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to.”

“Of course not, my lady.”

She needed a change of conversation before her skin matched the crimson color of her dress. She leaned toward him, knowing her whispered words wouldn’t carry far in the din of voices and music. “When the carriage was attacked, one of the men left behind this cloud. It looked a bit like dust particles, and it was a vibrant green like emeralds.”

Though Callom looked intrigued by the information, he seemed uncertain what to do with it.

“I’m not sure what—” The warmth of his grip again wrapped around her arm, this time high up where her skin was bare and cool under his touch.

“Over there,” he whispered against her ear, “near the piano.”

She saw the feather far across the way atop a figure shorter than the others. The moment he set on the move, his slightly shorter stature made it difficult to keep an eye on him.

“Come on,” Callom said, as they followed him through the crowd, darting between exuberant dancers and those who’d already had too much to drink. Several women gasped in protest at their imprudent movements, but Emma ignored them as she kept her eye on the prize.

Several times, their target glanced over his shoulder, leaving her to wonder if he feared them or someone else.

They followed him through a side door and down a grand corridor that echoed only remnants of the party left behind. They were completely in the open as they trailed after Graves, and the moment Emma saw his head swinging around in their direction, she turned and grasped at the lapels of Callom’s jacket.

She smiled up at him, leaning in close as if she was some lusty lover unable to contain herself in the midst of a wild party. Following right along with her ruse, Callom’s hot hand drifted across the deep curve of her waist, leaving her flustered as she heard the man’s shoes click off the marble floors.

Flashing Callom a weak snarl, she smacked his hand away and hurried after the man she hoped to be Chester Graves. The followed him down another hallway until he turned into an open doorway. They waited a moment, then continued after him. The two of them crept toward the door and peeked inside. An enormous library with high ceilings and books covered every wall. They watched as the last of Chester Grave’s feathered hat disappeared behind a wall of books that slid back into place, sealing his secret escape from them.

“Ballocks,” Callom said, as he rushed toward the wall and felt for any indentation or marking that might let them open it. The pair pulled upon every book and Callom reached up onto every high shelf.

Eventually, they resigned themselves to failure and headed for the door when Emma heard a pair of heavy steps coming their way.

Panic flooded over her as she grasped hard upon the front of Callom’s jacket and jerked him behind the nearest drapery. With the window directly at her back, a cold chill swept over her, sending a rippling sensation down her spine just as Callom tucked himself and his boots out of sight.

Emma was left pinned entirely between the cold window and the heat of Callom’s body as they kept their breath quiet under the sound of clicking shoes. Emma kept her gaze lowered, settled on the base of Callom’s throat as tobacco smoke filtered through the curtains.

Her breath quickened every time he shifted minutely against her. She jolted when a radio turned on in the library, filling the air with a muffled tune. Leather squeezed under the stranger’s heavy weight, making it clear they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

Callom’s ever-intoxicating nearness did improper things to her mind, and Emma was desperate for a reprieve. She tried to find space where there was none and her heartbeat escalated as the seconds ticked on.

Gently, Callom’s warm hand pressed beneath her chin and brought her gaze upward. Even in the dark she found herself frozen in the hypnotic lure of his amber eyes.

She should’ve pulled away.

Turned away.

Done anything but stand there.

In an instant, his lips crashed over hers, stunning her into stillness. His hand drifted up into the nape of her hair, cradling her head with a rush of warmth that awakened something in her.

Emma kissed him back with a fervor she’d never known.

He tasted of gin and spice, and every touch of his skin against hers felt like a wildfire she wanted to let burn. Pinned hard against the glass behind her, her chest heaved with her gasping breath, giving him far more than she’d bargained for as his lips dipped to trace along her neck.

Her sensible mind ordered her to stop but. . . she couldn’t. They had masks on, and for tonight, she was not Emma Clearwater. Sensible. Proper. Respectable. She was simply a woman, experiencing real desire for the first—and perhaps only—moment in her life.

Her fingers dug into the length of his hair, tugging him back up for another possessive kiss that left her breathless. After several more hungry kisses, Emma regained control over herself and stepped back.

With parted lips and a heavy breath, Callom stood still as stone, respecting her wish to stop but clearly wanting more.

The tobacco smoke had dissipated, and though the radio still played, Emma was fairly certain they’d been left alone. Had they not, well, she imagined even the deafest of men would have heard them.

Cautiously she peeked out from the edge of the curtain just as an unusual light drew her eyes downward. Nestled just above the heave of her chest sat her necklace, an old stone amulet that had been passed down to her from her mother. It had been a part of the family for generations, and though it was missing a single stone, she chose never to leave home without it.

For some reason, one of the stones glowed.

With a quick shove of the curtain she escaped Callom’s grasp into the empty room. Her cheeks and neck flushed with embarrassment, and she covered the amulet with her hand, shrouding it from his eyes.

“I need to go home,” she said abruptly. Without giving him a moment to protest, she raced for the door and out into the hallway.

Charles Graves be damned. Though she was desperate to find him and protect her people, the shame of her actions had won over the reasonable side of her mind.

Callom ran into the hall after her. “Wait, Emma!”

“Goodnight, Mr. Smythe,” she called out without looking back. She couldn’t look, not when she was on the edge of the precipice, ready to fall at any moment.

In a hurry she sprinted through the halls, nearly knocking several people over in her hasty escape. The moment she reached her carriage, she jumped inside without aid and slammed the door shut.

“Go! Please!” she shouted to the driver, and off they lurched, hurriedly heading home and away from the danger that was Callom Smythe.

Emma’s father was still awake when she walked through the front door.

“Father?”

He looked haggard and exhausted, with bags under his eyes and his gray hair a mess. It was an unusual sight for the man who took great pride in himself and the way he presented the Clearwater name.

“Oh good, you’re—” As his eyes focused on her, he drew more and more quiet until he reached over to switch on a tableside lamp that hummed the moment a dim, flickering light flooded the room.

Emma stood tall with the horns still atop her head and a sigh escaping her lips.

“Goodness dear Emma, what have you done?”

“It was all the rage, I assure you.” Grasping her mask, she plucked it off and wondered if her lips looked swollen from Callom’s kiss, or if any of her rouge mussed from his touch.

“Oh.” Thomas’s brow crinkled in thought. “You chose this, then.”

“I—yes. It’s a fashion . . . from Paris.” Emma’s head shook. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of the press of Callom against her when she spoke with her father. “It doesn’t matter. Why are you up this late? You look positively exhausted.”

“I needed to be certain you made it home all right.”

“Of course I did,” she said, but something in his weary look softened her. “What’s wrong?”

“Another slayer has been murdered.”

“Oh,” Emma said, as the weight of it pushed her into the nearest chair.

“Tomorrow the clans will meet to decide.”

Unease churned in her gut like a lead weight. “To decide what?”

“When we go to war with the dragons.”