Page 9 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She watched as the shadows deepened, coalescing into something solid that flowed out from him like a spill of ink. The gas lamps flickered and dimmed, the light itself seeming to bend away from his form. A wave of pure, intimidating authority, cold and silent as a midnight eclipse, washed over the group.

Colour drained from their faces.

“Forgive us,” the leader stammered, the words a choked whisper. “We didn’t . . . We didn’t know⁠—”

“Now you do,” the Nocturne said, his voice flat. The creeping shadows snapped back to their natural places as though they had never moved. It took only a second, one blink of an eye, so fast the revelry around them didn’t even pause. The gas lamps brightened, and the oppressive chill vanished.

Her demon assailers scattered, running toward the direction of the garden.

Cassia exhaled slowly, her gaze settling on the Nocturne. His short black hair was tousled, but not with the carelessness of a man who let the wind decide his appearance. It looked like it had been combed once and then abandoned to its own devices, settling into a state that was neither strictly formal nor truly unruly. Something about him shimmered at the edges—a faint, almost imperceptible haze, the way heat rises off summer cobblestones. A glamour, hiding his true self beneath the skin he chose to show the world.

Then, there were his eyes. A dull gold, like a coin worn smooth by time. They flicked over her, unreadable and watchful.

An Echelon-rank—she was certain of it. He carried himself like someone who didn’t need to remind others of his place—who knew, without question, that he belonged wherever he chose to stand.

He also looked somewhat . . . familiar. Didn’t she see him earlier, standing beside Agmon Alderrath?

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you follow me all the way from The Ivory Club?”

He offered a languid smile. “You made quite the entrance. How could I possibly resist?”

She took a step back. He didn’t radiate the same predatory energy as the pack of young demons from earlier, but if he kept company with Agmon Alderrath, he wasn’t someone she could trust.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mister—” She paused, her eyes meeting his again. “How may I address you?”

“I am Varil Arkenoth,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Aura Cassia.”

Varil Arkenoth. The name clicked into place, and the world tilted slightly.

The Varil Arkenoth? The Reluctant Heir? The Idle Prince who’d spurned his seat on the Regency Council and left his father, the Daemar, to shoulder the weight of their house alone?

The gossip pages painted him as a disappointment—‘cunning when it suits him, absent when it matters.’ They made him out to be a recluse who shunned the excesses of demon society, rarely appearing at the endless soirées and highborn gatherings that lit up Angelene’s Demon District each evening. They said, unlike his peers, he didn’t bask in frivolity or political attention. He simply stayed away, leaving them all to speculate.

“So,” she said, her voice tight. “The Idle Prince does leave his castle.”

His mouth quirked, a flash of dry amusement in his ancient-coin eyes. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin the mystique.”

She didn’t know what to believe. He could have walked on, but he’d scattered her harassers with a single look that was neither absent nor idle. Even now, the weight of his gaze made every hair on her arms rise.

“Would you care for some tea?” He glanced at her clenched hands, and one dark brow lifted. “Or something stronger, perhaps?”

Varil Arkenoth had just asked her to tea, or something stronger. Her mind couldn’t compute the invitation. She flexed her wrist. His grip hadn’t at all been rough, but she needed time to think, to regain her footing in a conversation that already felt dangerously off balance.

Cassia slipped her hand into her coat pocket, one foot angling toward the direction of the train station. If she hurried, she could catch the eight o’clock train to go home to Little Mineola. “I should be going.”

He didn’t take his eyes off her. “Are you not the least bit interested in what I have to say?”

His deep, rich voice made her want to lean in and step back at the same time. “What could you possibly say that would interest me?”

“I have a proposition that could benefit us both.”

A proposition?

Her pulse gave a slow, wary beat. “I have been warned,” she said carefully, “never to bargain with a demon.”

Amusement flickered across his face, and for a moment, she thought he might actually smile. He tilted his head, raven-dark locks catching the streetlight, glinting almost copper at the edges.

“You’d be missing plenty of opportunities if you heeded that warning.”