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With a deep inhale of the frigid air, she cloaked herself in a shroud of overconfidence and climbed the stoop to the devil’s mansion. Only a day earlier, she had worried about the snow and how it would leave footprints behind. Now, she purposely left them against the front walkway, announcing her arrival to all who were watching.
She shivered. Not from the cold this time.
The iron knocker was ancient: a slithering dragon shaped into a figure eight with its serpentine tale whipping around at the end and a crown of holly floating atop its head. Perhaps it was his mark. He certainly had holly all over the property. Either way, it left a weighty impression when she lifted the giant thing and banged it three times against the stately door.
The door creaked inward, and the butler appeared in the entranceway. He was a graying man of average height with sturdy steps and a kind blue gaze. She’d guessed him to be in his fifties, but up close she could tell that he was more fit than she’d assumed. As if his fifty years had hardened his body. To what purpose, she had no idea.
“Hello. Miss McKenna, I presume?” he said with a cheery disposition and slight British accent.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Excellent. Come in out of the cold. It is wonderful to have you in residence.”
“Umm, thanks,” Kierse replied.
“Allow me to take your coat,” he said, helping her out of her leather jacket.
“And you are?”
He smiled. “I am Edgar.”
“Nice to meet you, Edgar.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss McKenna.”
“Kierse. You can call me Kierse,” she said with her doe-eyed smile.
“As you wish.”
“How long have you worked for Graves?”
Edgar just gestured her forward. “Follow me and we’ll get you warmed up. The snow is really coming down.”
Kierse appreciated the dodge. She hadn’t expected him to give up his master’s secret, but it was worth a shot. She let him lead her through the house. It was as grossly opulent as ever, with Persian rugs and tapestries and priceless paintings. She was a thief. She could put a price on every item she passed, knowing exactly how much she could fence it for. But Graves’s house was something else altogether. A firedrake’s hoard. The dragon on the knocker was certainly fitting.
His assets seemed to be limitless. And yet the one thing he wanted and couldn’t get, he needed her for.
Edgar led her into a cozy sitting room, complete with a fire burning in a fireplace the size of a small child. No other light came from the room. No electricity at all. Just the soft glow from the fire revealing the velvet-lined chairs, luxurious fur throws, and carved wooden tables. A large matching wooden bookshelf was adorned with the kind of knickknacks she collected for her clients. Somehow the vases and carved figurines and candles didn’t look out of place. They brought the rest of the room together.
He couldn’t be a wraith. They loved their opulence as much as the vampires, but she couldn’t imagine a wraith enjoying a roaring fire. Not to mention he’d touched her and she hadn’t lost a part of her soul. She checked that off her list, too.
She’d told Gen and Ethan that he didn’t seem like any other monster she’d met, but until she knew, she couldn’t help but wonder.
“Well, have a seat, dear,” a woman said, bustling in after her with a silver tray laden with a teapot, cups, and saucers as well as a few biscuits and tiny little delicacies. She had a thicker British accent than Edgar. As if he’d tried to train it out of himself but she reveled in it.
Kierse followed her to the most inviting chair and took a seat.
“I’m Isolde. Don’t mind Edgar. He’s not used to guests,” she said with a warm smile. Everything was warm about her, from her brown hair up in a bun at the top of her head, to her black-and-white serving dress, to the softness in her lined face. “We are delighted to have you in residence. How do you like your tea?”
“Um . . . hot?”
Isolde chuckled. “We’re British, dear. Tea should only be hot.”
“Right. Of course. Earl Grey with honey is my preference, but however you like it is fine.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Isolde said easily. “But for now, milk and sugar it is.”
Kierse watched her serve the tea with fascination. This was nothing like how Gen made tea in the attic. It was more like the fashionable ladies uptown with their little cups and saucers and finger sandwiches.
Isolde passed her the cup of tea, and Kierse brought it to her lips.
Her eyes widened. “This is excellent.”
“We can make a Brit out of you yet,” Isolde said, beaming. “Now, have a scone with some jam and cream. I’ll be back if you need anything else.”
