Page 8 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“You’ll be seeing me again,” she said, and turned before Alderrath’s curled lip could fully form into a retort. From his spot, Ark watched her go, the red of her hair a bold slash of colour against the club’s muted tones.

“Ridiculous,” Alderrath muttered, turning back to Ark. “The nerve of that woman.”

Nerve, or conviction? Ark watched the empty space where she’d stood. Whichever it was, she was the first interesting thing to happen in this club in a decade.

He headed toward the doors. Alderrath called out, “Where are you going?”

He didn’t stop. “Fresh air.”

Outside, his breath curled into the crisp winter chill. He followed the flash of her maroon coat, his stride matching the determined click of her boots on the pavement. Around them, Angelene pulsed—a living entity of revelry and light she cut through like an arrow.

A pack of young demons, too drunk to remember their manners, lurched into her path. Their laughter turned ugly when they saw her. One of them—broad-shouldered and seemingly empty-headed—stepped forward to bar her way.

“Well now,” he drawled, glazed golden eyes gleaming. “Lost, are we?”

Miss Aura stiffened. “Step aside.”

Three steps away, Ark watched as the demon blinked at her, then glanced at his companions. “She thinks she’s giving orders.”

Guffaws rippled through the group. He turned back to her, grin wide. “That’s not how this works, little witch. You’re in the wrong part of the city. Need someone to point you back to your side of the gardens?”

Ark’s fingers flexed at his side. But before he moved, the air around her shifted—a sudden, profound stillness. Her magic didn’t crackle; it bloomed. It washed over his senses: a deep, resonant hum, thick and sweet like rising dough, charged with the warmth of a hearth.

An idea crystallized in that moment. This witch wanted something from Agmon Alderrath—something Ark could help her acquire. And based on what he’d seen so far, she might just be bold enough to agree to . . . an exchange.

The moment her hand lifted, he moved, if only to prevent her from doing something that would land her in trouble, no matter how much these fools deserved it. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. Her skin was warm, and beneath it, her magic thrummed.

Their gazes met.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.

3

CASSIA

The man standing before her was a study in contradictions.

At first glance, he didn’t look like the rest of them. If he was a demon, he had no horns or markings, no Daemaric blue draped across his frame. Instead, his tall, broad form was wrapped in shadows—charcoal and ink-black layers, precisely cut but free of excess. Tailored restraint that suggested wealth without announcing it.

His fingers curled around her wrist, a firm but careful grip. Her other hand clutched her bakery box closer to her chest.

“You are in the heart of the Demon District,” he murmured. His voice was low and unhurried, with a richness that reminded her, absurdly, of dark honey dripping off a spoon. “This area is teeming with law enforcers. Your magic will draw attention, and subsequent penalty. How much do you imagine a Nightwatch patrol will enjoy hauling an Untethered into custody for breaking the law?”

Cassia swallowed hard. The air around her still hummed with the remnants of her gathering power, but with this stranger’s hand around her wrist, she hesitated. He wasn’t human—that much she knew. She’d wager he was a demon.

But . . . what kind?

Her mind raced, scrambling to place him. Every Meredithian child learned the five demon archetypes: Furia, the Rage-Brutes; Therian, the Beast-Shifters; Amoret, the Desire-Weavers; Sanguine, the Bone-Feeders. But none of them seemed to fit.

Which left only one: Nocturne—the Shadow-Strikers.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it. She pulled against his grip, her voice sharp. “I need to teach them a lesson.”

A flicker of recognition crossed his eyes. “Understood. Allow me.”

He released her and turned to stare at the group of drunken demons who had frozen in uncertainty the moment he’d arrived. The shadows at his feet stirred, a solidifying, obedient presence.

A Nocturne. Her theory confirmed, a fresh chill seized her.