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There wasn’t a single box or candlestick or willow branch in sight, which meant everything had probably made it onto the truck and over to the library. Or Helen had gotten sick of all of it and hosted a bonfire in the backyard. That seemed unlikely, so I’d just assume the wedding would go forward as planned.
“The wedding would go forward as planned,” I whispered with a smile.
There’d been more showers, brunches, and cake tastings than I’d have thought possible—and still more than I thought was reasonable. Ethan had enjoyed the process, the preparations for our life together, so I’d humored him, and now the bachelorette party had been the last of them. The last hurdle before the wedding, before we took vows of fidelity—for an eternity. Nothing stood between us now but the rise and fall of the sun, and even Sorcha Reed couldn’t change that.
That was when the nerves set in. Not fear, but anticipation. Excitement. Tendrils of desire, possibly stoked by a little too much time with Lord Byron.
The hallway was dark—Malik’s and Helen’s offices were dark, as was the cafeteria at the end of the hall. Ethan’s light was still on. I doubted he was back yet; it seemed more likely they’d enjoy whiskey and cigars until the last possible moment. Probably the cleaning crew had forgotten to turn the light off, or maybe Helen had forgotten some last-minute bauble for the wedding.
I could leave him a note. A message to say good night, that I’d be thinking of him during our vampire-imposed exile, and that I’d see him tomorrow at the library, books optional.
That I thought that was funny probably said more about the gin I’d enjoyed at Temple Bar than about my comedic skills.
I walked into the office, headed for his desk . . . and didn’t realize I wasn’t alone until I caught the flicker of movement across the room.
He stood in the conversation area, a man in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, the fabric mottled with dirt and ratty on the edges. His pale skin was smudged with grime, his dark hair tufted from what looked like constant pulling by the hands that now scratched nervously at the legs of his jeans. The House was still saturated by the scent of wedding flowers, but I caught the odor of unwashed male beneath it.
He was a vampire. Older than most I’d seen, but the faint, effervescent magic proved his supernaturalness. His magic did have a different sense about it—a chemical smell, like uncapped markers. I also didn’t recognize him. If he was Housed, he hadn’t been in a House recently. Not given the look of him.
; “How many names does this thing have?” I whispered to Mallory.
“I think seven? We threw out ‘Merit Does Chicago’ and ‘Sullivan Two: The Resullivaning.’”
“Good call.”
“Colin,” Lindsey said, gesturing to the bartender. “If you would?”
The overhead lights dimmed, but the spot on the small stage in front of us brightened on a single black chair that sat in front of a microphone. Music began to play, a jazz song with a playful, flirty rhythm.
As Lindsey sat down to join us, a man walked out of the back room, onto the stage.
Tan skin, dark hair, dark beard, his hair in a very well-executed knot at the top of his head. His eyes were green, his lashes as thick and dark as his beard, his mouth a long line that turned up at one corner. He wore jeans, boots, and nothing else. The terrain of his body was all smooth skin and hard, curving muscle, his left arm marked by a complicated monochrome tattoo.
The room went absolutely silent.
“Well,” Margot said quietly. “He is . . . rather attractive.”
“Attractive,” Lindsey said, tilting her head as she stared at his biceps. “And well-defined.”
“A dictionary couldn’t do it better,” Mallory said, eyes glassy as she stared at the man.
I glanced at Lindsey. “I can’t believe you hired a dancer. Ethan is going to kill you. Or me. Or both of us.”
“Oh, honey,” Lindsey said. “He isn’t here to dance.”
Regardless, with the grace of a dancer, the man spun the chair around backward, took a seat, and pulled a thin, worn paperback from his back pocket. He looked up at me, smiled. “Your party?”
I nodded, suddenly nervous.
“Cool. Lord Byron work for you?”
I actually felt my face warm. “Sure?”
Beside me, Lindsey snickered, the sound full of satisfaction.
He nodded, thumbed through some pages. “Ladies,” he said, meeting our gazes. And then, looking down at the page, he began to recite.
“She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
