Текст книги "Throne of the Fallen"

Автор книги: Kerri Maniscalcol

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

All Vexley would need to do was come around to her side of the desk and give the impression that something untoward was happening; then if one columnist spied the action through the window and reported on it, Camilla’s life and all she’d worked hard to achieve would be in total ruin.

An icy finger of dread trailed down her spine.

The lord standing before her had no qualms about blackmail and might very well be desperate enough to trap her in marriage. Then she would be his pawn for the rest of her days.

Vexley suddenly reached for her bare hand and brushed a chaste kiss across her knuckles, his cool lips causing a slight shudder of revulsion that he mistook for pleasure. His pupils dilated, mouth quirking upward. He thought much too highly of his ability to seduce.

“I see you’re overcome by my charms. Let’s continue this discussion another time. I’m hosting a lavish dinner party in two nights to show off my most recently acquired treasure; expect an invitation shortly.”

Before she could find a reasonable excuse to decline, Vexley turned on his buffed heel and exited the gallery.

The bell tinkling overhead was the only indication he’d truly been there and it hadn’t been a wretched nightmare.

He wished to make her Lady Camilla Vexley. God save her.

She pushed that horror from her mind and glanced at the clock. Thankfully it was almost time for her weekly dinner with her best friend, Lady Katherine Edwards, and Camilla’s own beloved cat, Bunny, whom Katherine watched while Camilla worked at the gallery.

Kitty had been there during Camilla’s darkest hours, a guiding light and advocate for Camilla’s place in society who ensured that Camilla attended all the balls and social gatherings, regardless of her financial difficulties. She not only acted as Camilla’s chaperone when necessary, she was the truest friend Camilla had ever known, and Camilla was grateful for her in many ways. Without Kitty, Camilla wasn’t sure what would have become of her.

To pass the last half hour before closing, Camilla returned to her painting. Getting lost in creation was precisely what she needed to do to forget Vexley’s absurd proposal.

She’d been trying to paint a world she saw repeatedly in her dreams, one where winter reigned in all its stark, lethal beauty.

Camilla had just returned to her easel, plucked up her paintbrush, and sat when the bell over the door sounded again. This time she nearly snapped her brush in two.

How dare he come back and coerce her again.

She closed her eyes and prayed for some hidden well of strength to appear and save her from committing murder. At eight and twenty, she was far too young to be either locked in a cell or beheaded for strangling that scheming, arrogant rake right then and there.

“Apologies for any insult it causes,” she said without peering out from around her easel, “but I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. Please just go.”

A beat of silence passed. With any luck, Vexley would be insulted by the bite in her tone and would turn right back around and leave for some faraway city at the edge of the world.

“Well, that’s quite a relief, considering I’m in want of a painting, not a wife.”

The deep, rumbling voice had Camilla immediately standing up from her stool to see who it belonged to, her lips parting in surprise.

The man who stood just inside the doorway was most decidedly not Vexley.

For a moment, Camilla somehow lost the ability to speak as her attention roved over the dark stranger.

This man was tall, his hair black with the slightest hint of brown in the flickering candlelight, and while his frame was lean, she noticed the hardness of his body as he moved farther into the gallery, his clothes tailored to show off the definition.

Not moved but prowled.

Camilla innately sensed that she was in the presence of a jaguar—a sleek apex predator one couldn’t help but be fascinated by even as it drew close enough to bite.

His eyes, a unique, lovely shade of emerald, glittered as if he knew where her thoughts had traveled and he rather enjoyed the idea of sinking his teeth into her flesh.

Whether he would do so for pleasure or to cause a bit of pain, Camilla couldn’t immediately discern. Though if the wicked gleam flaring to life was anything to go by, she’d choose the latter. Which indicated he was quite dangerous, yet her heart wasn’t pounding from fear as he stalked closer, his gaze lazily taking her in as if he had every right to do so.

This man owned every inch of space around him, including her attention. Camilla found she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. Not that she was trying very hard.

He wasn’t simply handsome, he was striking, his face a study of fine contradictions that made her fingers twitch with the urge to paint the hard, chiseled angles of his face, the soft curves of his lips, and those jewel-toned eyes that stood out against his bronze skin, forever capturing that devilish glint on canvas.

His beauty was cold ruthlessness with a regal edge. A polished blade meant to be admired even as it cut you down. He’d make a fine portrait, one Camilla imagined would cause quite the stir among noblewomen.

Her cheeks pinked at what she’d said about marriage, and she hoped it was too dim in the room for him to notice.

A hint of mirth curled the edge of his sensual mouth, indicating that he had indeed picked up on her embarrassment.

If he was a gentleman, he’d let it pass without comment.

“You are Miss Camilla Elise Antonius, I presume.”

His knowing her middle name struck her as odd, but when he studied her appearance with quiet intensity once again, she could barely form a clear thought.

No one had ever looked at her with such singular focus before—like she was both the most glorious answer and an exceptionally troubling riddle tied into one.

“Correct, sir. How may I help you?” she asked, finally regaining her wits.

“I came to discuss details of a piece I’d like to commission,” he began, his voice like warmed honey melting over her, “but I’m intrigued by you now, Miss Antonius. Is that how you welcome all patrons or just the ones you find incredibly handsome?”

Only the ones I find insufferable, she thought crossly as the spell she’d initially felt broke.

Camilla bit her tongue to prevent herself from outwardly commenting on his arrogance.

She’d been wrong. He was no jaguar, he was a wolf.

Which meant he was just one more cocky aristocratic dog she’d need to rid herself of this evening.

“Are those the specifications?” she asked, nodding to a crisp piece of hunter-green parchment he held.

Her tone was as cool as the autumn air outside, but the gentleman didn’t seem at all put off. If anything, a flicker of intrigue ignited in those impenetrable, jewel-like eyes.

He silently held the parchment up for her, not moving from where he stood near her desk.

Camilla hesitated. He was making her come to him.

It was either a subtle show that he could be trusted, or a calculated move to exert his will upon her. Given the dangerous curve of his mouth and the cold calculation in his eyes, it had everything to do with power.

Here stood a man who wanted to be in control. Camilla considered kicking him out to put him in his place and his wolfish smile grew wider, his gaze quietly mocking.

“Unlike asking for your hand, you’ll find it’s a rather simple request.” His attention never wavered from hers. “Come. Look for yourself.”

Said the wolf pretending to be a sheep.

Camilla highly doubted that anything this man wanted would be simple but made her way to him nonetheless. The faster she knew what he desired, the faster she could send his dark, mysterious arse on its way and be rid of him—and his wicked grin—for good.

TWO

FEW THINGS PLEASED the Prince of Envy more than making a strategic move.

Fortunately, as he placed the parchment down and slid it across the old desk, careful to avoid snagging the paper on the scarred wood, today was one such glorious day. He was one step closer to unlocking his second clue.

From what he’d briefly observed of Waverly Green, the females in this realm were taught to please males. He had little doubt that Miss Antonius would have the painting completed by week’s end. All he’d need to do was walk in, command the room, and she’d do his bidding.

The woman who now stood across from him narrowed her silver eyes, her full lips turning down as she read. Her embarrassment had quickly given way to annoyance.

The feeling prickled over his skin, not quite the stabbing sensation of fury, but with enough effort, he was certain she’d get there. And as that was his brother Wrath’s sin of choice, Envy wanted nothing to do with stoking Camilla’s anger.

“See?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, though internally he was feeling anything but. His heart thudded against his ribs the longer the artist stared at his note. She wasn’t reacting the way he’d imagined.

When she finally glanced up, he offered her one of his most sinful smiles.

She arched a brow, less than impressed.

Well, then. He’d get straight to the point.

“As promised, it’s a rather simple request, Miss Antonius. I want a painting of a throne. Pristine and dazzling on one side and blazing with flames on the other. If you succeed in this piece, I’ll commission another.”

The petite artist carefully handed the slip of paper back, then brushed her hands down the front of her work smock as if the paper had grossly offended her.

His gaze sharpened at the unexpected movement, his hand simultaneously flexing toward the emerald-studded dagger he always wore strapped beneath his jacket.

Wrath was the general of war, but Envy could wield a weapon just as easily, and any sudden movements had the warrior in him on high alert, no matter how mundane a potential adversary might seem.

Miss Antonius repeated the motion, and Envy forced himself to relax and really take her in, realizing that—with her shimmering silver hair and unique eyes—there wasn’t anything mundane about Camilla’s appearance after all.

In fact, as he studied her further, he couldn’t help but note that her mouth looked like a heart, and if he’d had a mind to paint her, that was precisely the shape he’d use to capture it on canvas. The gentle sweeps and curves of both the upper and lower lips were wonderfully balanced, her Cupid’s bow a study in perfection.

Unaware that she’d caught his attention, Camilla dragged her teeth across her lower lip as she fussed with her clothing.

Those lips were plump, tempting things that caused his gaze to linger and his mind to spin with all sorts of wicked ideas. He’d been so focused on his weakening court, on the game, and on the curse before that, that he hadn’t thought of much else.

Temptation and sin fueled him, and he’d neglected both for far too long, it seemed.

His brother Lust would be pleased.

Envy immediately stopped his mind from wandering down roads he refused to travel and watched Camilla cringe slightly at the rough-spun work garment, then untie the strings at her waist, promptly removing the paint-smeared apron and shoving it under the desk.

He gave her a cool look.

“When can you begin work? This is rather time-sensitive, Miss Antonius.”

“Apologies, but I must have missed your name, Lord…”

Clever woman, her interrogation was subtle. Based on his fine suit and the elegant, cultured manner in which he spoke, she already knew he was a blueblood.

Little did she know he wasn’t human, and he was no mere lord; he was one of the seven ruling Princes of Hell.

In some mortal realms they were known as the Wicked—a name they’d earned after centuries of perfecting that moniker through sinful games and debauchery.

He was playing one such game now—except these stakes were the highest he’d ever played for.

“Lord Ashford Synton. But those who know me best simply call me Syn.”

It was a lie, naturally, but it would be the first of many now that he could do so.

“Well, Lord Synton,” she said, using his full surname to clearly remind him she was not one of his acquaintances, “I must decline this commission but am happy to consider another.”

“Pardon?”

Envy’s eyes narrowed. Of all the ways he’d considered this meeting might go, he hadn’t once imagined her declining his patronage.

He needed that painting to unlock the next clue.

And, according to the previous clue, which had played out in his throne room, she needed to be the one to create it. Same lie Lilac deciphered was Camilla Elise. He still hadn’t quite figured out why it had to be her, but he’d have an answer to that particular mystery soon enough.

Envy’s spies were currently unearthing all they could find on the artist, and whatever secrets she had wouldn’t stay hidden from him for long.

By week’s end, Envy would know every sin, vice, or virtue she held dear, and then he’d exploit that knowledge for all it was worth. Everyone wanted something, and he’d happily pay Miss Antonius whatever price she required.

Camilla nodded to the paper.

“You’ll need to find someone else to paint that for you, my lord.”

“That won’t do. You’re the best, hence my coming to this… establishment.”

He glanced around the gallery. The wooden sign outside swinging pleasantly in the breeze proclaimed WISTERIA WAY. It was hand-painted, yet elegant, and utterly charming.

The exterior was a simple stone cottage with lush vines of wisteria hanging over the entry. Something quaint one would imagine in any provincial countryside, if one had brought the countryside into the heart of the vibrant art district and wedged it between two larger, less welcoming buildings.

Inside, it felt more like a darkened chamber where secrets were whispered and clandestine meetings were held.

Dark carpets were layered over broad floorboards, and the walls were papered with a deep hunter-green brocade. Paintings and sketches in every medium hung in gilded frames, while sculptures and statuary stood guard over dark corners.

On a tiny round table in the alcove where she’d been painting by candlelight, multiple cups of used paintbrushes were collected in every size and shape imaginable, the water a swampy array of discarded colors.

Her canvas faced away from the door, leaving him to wonder what she’d been working on. Everything else in the gallery had been meticulously set up, showing the art to its best potential. It was all most intriguing. And not entirely what he’d expected.

Much like the woman standing before him, who, he realized, was studying him as closely as he’d just examined her gallery.

“I’ve not seen you at any society function nor heard any mention of you before, Lord Synton. Are you visiting?”

A tinge of annoyance hit him. He’d been in this mundane city for nearly two weeks, slowly restoring an old estate that overlooked the whole damned town. Surely she’d heard some whispers of his arrival. He managed a tight smile.

“For the time being, I’m staying indefinitely, Miss Antonius.”

It was close to the truth. Envy was prepared for anything—perhaps Miss Antonius would take longer than expected to paint the Hexed Throne, or the following clue might keep him here.

Of course, he’d also wanted a base from which he could keep watch—if the game had led him here, other players might soon follow. Or worse, had already arrived.

“Well, then, welcome. I can happily direct you to someone else who can help you.”

Envy noticed that her emotions had changed slightly. While he still sensed her annoyance bright and clear as day, he also felt a rising tide: impatience.

He could not fathom anyone feeling put off by his company.

Perhaps he should have listened to his brother’s ridiculous scheme to woo Camilla. If he flirted with her, she couldn’t possibly dismiss him so thoroughly.

Envy quietly seethed. Most humans had quite a different reaction to his kind. Demon princes had a certain dark charisma that attracted lovers; some believed it was due to their power to wield sins. He’d been certain she’d be taken in with little to no effort on his part.

He tried to keep the contempt from his voice.

“Is it a matter of payment?” he asked. “Name your price.”

“I assure you it has nothing to do with money, my lord.”

Her chin notched up defiantly. Envy knew damn well that she wasn’t in any position to turn down work that would pay so handsomely.

“Is there anything else I may help you with, or will you be on your way?” she asked. “I’m afraid you’ve come at an unfortunate time, as the gallery is closing.”

“Perhaps.”

Envy debated whether to use a bit of his sin to influence her agitated mood but decided against it. Fae games were tricky. Players couldn’t use magic to win. It kept the playing field level, reducing immortals to mere humans. Envy would burn before he’d admit how exciting he usually found that challenge. But these weren’t usual circumstances.

For him to move forward in this game, Camilla needed to freely choose to paint the piece.

And she’d need to do so soon.

“Might I inquire as to why you’d turn down my work?” he asked, mindful to keep his tone pleasant.

“Of course.” Her smile was as sharp as the dagger hidden on his hip. “I refuse to paint any hexed object. And correct me if I’m wrong, my lord, but the Hexed Throne is one of the most powerful.”

Envy appraised her in a new light. “What does a woman of your standing know of hexed objects?”

“Enough to decline getting involved with one.”

At last, Miss Antonius came out from behind her desk, sweeping past him toward the door, where she placed her ungloved hand on the crystal knob. Paint speckled her skin like a colorful constellation of freckles.

“Perhaps you should visit the dark market on Silverthorne Lane. They’ll know much more about that particular realm of art than I do.”

With that she tugged the door open, the bell ringing in finality. The Prince of Envy was being summarily dismissed.

He blinked down at the little hell beast before him, and she smiled even more sweetly back up.

“You may wish to hurry, my lord.” She glanced out at the darkening sky, her silver irises like strikes of lightning against the storm clouds. A beautiful portent of doom. “It looks about ready to rain.”

A clap of thunder punctuated her warning, and before he knew it, Envy was standing outside and the quaint door was being slammed and locked in his face.

Two beats later, the candles went out, plunging the gallery into complete darkness.

Envy cursed every saint he could think of under his breath as the first plump drops of rain freckled his shoulders. Then he heard the scrape of a boot, only seconds before his companion stepped from the shadows, chuckling darkly.

“You’ll just walk right in, was it?” the Prince of Pride asked, his eyes an annoyingly bright silver against the night. His chestnut-brown hair was mussed, giving the impression that a lover had run their hands through it. “Simple as that.”

Envy gave his brother a murderous look. “I thought you were waiting at the pub.”

“Changed my mind.” Pride shrugged. “I wanted entertainment. How does it feel to have your balls handed to you?”

“Not now.”

Envy headed across the street toward the nearest awning, wanting to escape the impending storm and his damned brother. His cavalier mask was slipping.

“Now is the perfect time to point out it was a dismal plan,” Pride said, strolling beside him, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Even Lust’s idea was better.”

“It’s Lust’s only idea.”

“Point? It always works.”

Envy gritted his teeth.

“So, Lord Syn.” Pride still drawled, but there was a sharper edge to his voice now. “Care to explain how the fuck it’s possible for you to lie?”

“Not particularly.” Envy wasn’t in a giving mood. “Aren’t you supposed to be searching for clues to Lucia’s whereabouts?” he asked instead. “Perhaps you aren’t as heartbroken as you’d like everyone to believe.”

It was a low blow, but Envy needed to be left alone before Pride noticed the cracks in his armor. If he could have risked the power needed to summon his wings, he’d have catapulted into the heavens, leaving his brother behind. As it stood, Envy had to remain grounded until he won the gods-damned game and fully restored his magic.

All levity vanished from his brother’s face at the mention of his missing consort. Pride’s lips pressed together tightly, revealing the ancient scar that still carved a path across his lower lip. For most, Pride pretended to be a drunken rake, obsessed with all that glittered. Frivolous, egotistical. Unconcerned with anything aside from pretty lovers, parties, and baubles.

But Envy, king of masks, knew these were false identities his brother wore. Pride was much more calculating than he let on. His secrets were so vast, even Envy’s best spies hadn’t unearthed them all yet.

“Don’t get pissy because I was right,” Pride snapped icily. “I told you to court her first, then ask her to paint the throne for you. Why else would she help a stranger do something so dangerous? Put yourself in her position—would you risk yourself?”

Envy grunted, and Pride studied him more closely.

“Wrath said you’re abysmal at strategy, and you’re proving him correct.”

Envy swallowed a retort. Wrath and Emilia had visited his House of Sin a month or so previously, and he’d narrowly avoided them discovering the slow decline of his court. Thankfully the worst symptoms had been held at bay by a curse that was recently broken.

Pride mistook his silence for quiet contemplation.

“If you’re that repulsed by Camilla, perhaps one of our brothers might seduce her in your stead. I’m sure Lust or Gluttony would be willing to help,” he said. “Perhaps they’d even team up if she asked them nicely.”

“You’re not offering,” Envy pointed out, watching his brother’s face carefully.

Pride glared at him but finally shut up.

Envy glanced back at the gallery, annoyance rocketing through him.

Even in the dreary storm there was something otherworldly about the building, something enchanting. Much like the vexing woman who owned it.

Pretending to court her wouldn’t be a hardship. But he had enough to focus on without adding another distraction, and mortal courtship was rife with inane rules and tiresome ballroom dances. He had no patience for promenading around for others to gossip about.

He had a game to win. And he’d wasted enough time.

“I’m quite through with your ego for one night.” Envy yanked his House dagger from its sheath, the emerald in its ornate hilt winking in the growing darkness. Princes of Hell couldn’t be killed by one another’s daggers, but they could be sent right back to their circle of the Underworld, whether the prince wished to travel or not.

“Go home, Pride. Unless you’d like a matching scar on the other side of your face.”

“Stubborn prick.” Pride held up his hands and stepped back. “Why won’t you just ask for help?”

Envy pressed his lips together, remaining silent.

His brother gave him a disgusted look.

“With Camilla’s first refusal, you’ve now got two chances left to unlock the next clue, right?” When Envy still refused to speak, he added, “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”