Hopefully it’ll be a night to remember.
Chapter 18
Severin
I’VE NEVER LIKED THE RAIN, so I’m already in an ill mood as I leave the room I rented at the tavern and move through the crowded establishment, an umbrella held in one hand. It’s raucous, with people laughing and talking and clinking big tankards of ale together. Many like to let loose on Samhain—humans included.
I left the academy early today, trying to get away and clear my head, intending to spend the evening at the tavern instead of making the journey back to Coven Crest after the party. And it helped for a while. For a few hours, I didn’t think of Maeve once. But as night started to fall, her eyes crept up on me, like they always do, and I’m already thinking of her as I step out of Boar and Badger and snap the umbrella open against the deluge.
The rainy air smells of autumn: wet earth, decaying leaves, and a hint of the cold to come. Despite the foul weather, many are out in the streets, and the magical energy of the night is tangible, even to me, a vampire with no magic to speak of.
I step off down the tavern’s cobblestone path, the wind tossing my cloak behind me as I walk, polished shoes striking the rain-wet walkways. Coven Crest is having its own Samhain festival tonight, and I can’t help but wonder if Maeve is there. Since the kiss in my office, I’ve not seen her alone—mostly by design. In class, I have to put effort intonotstaring at her, thoughsheseems to have no qualms about it. Last class period together, I was so distracted by her staring that I accidentally skipped half of my lecture and had to go back, to the confusion and amusement of my students. And Maeve just smiled the whole time, as if she knew she was the cause of my discomfort.
Centuries of control and restraint, unraveling thread by thread because of one storm witch. If I weren’t so upset about it, I might laugh. Instead, I shake my head and sigh.
Gild, the bar where the party is being held, is close to Boar and Badger, resulting in a short walk through the rain—thankfully. The awning over the doorway allows me to close my umbrella and shake the rainwater off before reaching to open the door.
Inside, the air is warm, almost muggy. The foyer is separated from the rest of the bar, and an attendant quickly steps forward to greet me.
“May I take your cloak and umbrella, sir?” she asks.
With a nod, I hand her my effects, then adjust my high-collared jacket and the cravat at my throat. I’m about to step through the doorway into the bar when the attendant returns from the coatroom and says, “One moment, sir.”
She sweeps behind the desk and emerges with a basket overflowing with...
“Masks?” I ask, arching a brow at her.
“Of course. It’s a masquerade party, after all.”
I try to repress a groan. Arella didn’t tell methatdetail. I can’t count the number of masquerade parties I’ve been to in my life; they lost their glamour many decades ago.
The attendant smiles and holds the basket out to me. Seems there’s no getting out of it.
I pick through the available masks—some with feathers or glitter—and select one that’s simple: black fabric lined with gold thread. I slip it over my eyes, then tie it behind my head.
When I meet the attendant’s gaze, her cheeks go a light shade of pink. “Very handsome, sir.”
With a dip of my head, I turn for the door into the bar, then finally step through. And as my eyes adjust to the dim candlelight, it takes me a moment to assess what’s happening.
The bar is packed with bodies, busier than I’ve ever seen it. The air has a sharp smell of alcohol, along with something sweet, something I’ve not smelled in a while.
Glimmer dust.
It’s a powder that, when consumed, makes everything look like it’s sparkling, like you’re in a room full of glinting mirrors or glittering crystals. It also softens inhibitions, not unlike alcohol, and I’m unsurprised to see so many partygoers partaking in it. I had my foray into the world of glimmer dust, but it’s a world I’m not keen to return to.
A shirtless waiter dressed in black pants and a mask carries a tray through the crowd, and many accept the offer of the white powder, tapping it onto their tongues.
The waiter catches sight of me and heads in my direction. “Sir?” He holds up the tray, and I glance at the powdery whitedust before giving a small shake of my head. With a nod, the waiter moves off.
Another assessment of the room reveals a woman standing at the bar, her glossy short dark hair reflecting the light from the chandeliers overhead as she sips from a long-stemmed glass.
Arella.
I don’t move toward her at first. Because I know why she invited me here, and I know what she wants. The question is, What doIwant?
Maeve twirls into my mind again, with her violet hair and stormy eyes, and the reaction within my body is immediate.
I want Maeve Vandermere. Ishouldn’twant Maeve Vandermere. These things are at odds with each other.
