Page 14 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

His lips twitched. The world believed him idle. Let them. It made his work—his real work—and his life all the easier.

A tall figure stood at the edge of the circular driveway, arms crossed, exhaling plumes of breath into the wintry night. Ark smirked as he eased the car to a stop, letting the engine hum for a moment before cutting the ignition. He stepped out, the chill biting through his coat, but the tall figure remained exactly where he was—watching, waiting, radiating the same unshakable presence that had defined him since they were boys.

Even in the darkness, Elios Rhodes was impossible to overlook.

Now, standing still, wrapped in a dark wool coat with the collar turned up against the cold, he carried himself like a creature meant for war rather than polite society. His dark, ash-brown hair, thick and cropped short, curled against his temples, resisting any attempt at civility. The shadow of stubble roughened his jaw, and his sharp, hawkish features only added to his perpetual scowl.

But it was his eyes that gave him away. Bright copper, shifting in the low light—not quite demon, not quite elf, but something in between. They glowed like embers stirred to life.

A Rage Demon’s gaze.

Rhodes exhaled, plumes of breath curling into the night, and tipped his head toward Ark. “You’re late.”

Ark shut the car door behind him. “No, you’re early.”

Rhodes scowled. “No, we’re on time. You’re late.”

Before Ark could retort, another voice—smooth, unhurried—cut through the darkness. “Will you two stand there squabbling all night, or shall we get on with it?”

A figure detached from the shadows of the mansion’s porch, descending the steps with the grace of someone who had never hurried a day in his life: Meridan Caius, in all his infuriating elfin elegance.

He was a contrast to Rhodes in every way—lean where the half-Furia was broad, cool where Rhodes burned hot. Even his long, silky, pale-golden hair seemed to move with an unnatural sort of ease, catching the moonlight as he sauntered toward them, gloved hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his tailored overcoat.

He surveyed them both with the mild disapproval of a parent indulging brawling children.

“Really, darling?” he sighed, addressing Ark first. “Late again? I gave you the pocket watch for your last birthday in the hopes you’d be more punctual.”

Then, flicking a languid glance at Rhodes, he added, “Much as I enjoy your bickering, you seem to have forgotten the poor solicitor has been waiting for us. Leaving him standing on the porch while you argue is inconsiderate.”

Ark turned his eyes toward the solicitor—a thin, nervous man hovering by the front steps, clutching his leather briefcase with white-knuckled fingers. The poor man looked ready to bolt.

Ark’s amusement deepened. “Shall we put him out of his misery?”

The solicitor, clearly not appreciating the joke, cleared his throat. “If we could proceed with the formalities?” He shuffled through his briefcase with quivering fingers. “The sooner we conclude, the sooner I can be on my way.”

The man’s gaze flitted to the looming mansion behind them—dark and brooding against the moonlit sky. In its state of disrepair, it carried an air of quiet menace, as if the walls themselves remembered all that had transpired within them.

Ark exchanged a glance with Rhodes and Caius, barely suppressing a knowing smile. “Certainly. The hour is late. I’m sure you’re impatient to return to your family.”

The solicitor let out a breath of relief as he pulled out a sheaf of documents and a battered leather clipboard. The papers slipped twice from his trembling fingers before he finally secured them on the third try.

“I trust you are all . . . aware of the property’s history? The seller wants me to reiterate that the house will be sold as-is.”

A gust of wind swept through the grounds, rustling the branches. The house’s frame groaned. The solicitor flinched, scrambling away. Ark considered telling him the house might be unsettled, not dangerous, but the man’s nerves were shot enough that it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Rhodes scoffed. “You mean the rumours about curses, hauntings, and all that nonsense?” He gave the house an unimpressed glance. “A drafty old wreck like this is bound to make a few eerie noises. Doesn’t mean it’s cursed.”

Caius slipped on a pair of black gloves. His smile at the solicitor was almost benevolent. “Even if it is, that’s hardly a concern. We’ve dealt with worse.”

Ark watched the solicitor’s hand shake and decided to put him out of his misery. “Not to worry,” he said, taking the pen. “We know what we’re getting into.”

He bent over the paperwork, scanned the text, and signed with a practiced flourish.

The solicitor, relieved that no one seemed inclined to back out, shuffled the documents toward Rhodes and Caius. Rhodes signed with much less ceremony—a single, impatient scrawl. Caius took his time, his penmanship precise.

The moment they finished, the solicitor snatched the documents back, shoving them into his briefcase with a speed that suggested he had no intention of lingering a second longer than necessary.

“All is in order,” he declared with a forced grin that resembled a grimace. “The property is now under your ownership.”