CHAPTER 1 – SIREN
Standing on the high stone veranda, Layla Price stared out over the evening gardens of the Red Letter Hotel Paris. Winter had arrived at the Palace of Versailles in the Twilight Realm, the leaves fallen from the maples, the topiary’s animalistic charm gone to sticks. Dressed in a 1940’s white silk evening gown with an elegant train, the starkness of Layla’s ensemble echoed the season. At the end of November, there was a cold bite in the evening wind. Layla stood on the sprawling veranda in her thin silk because a party raged behind her, one she was supposed to be attending.
But the cold was preferable to what she’d been facing inside.
Through the vaulted French doors of the glass atrium behind her, Layla could feel a press of magic flooding her in disrupting currents. Clutching a chardonnay, she shivered at the cacophony of power issuing from the atrium. Magical scents heaved around her on the veranda; a wall of fragrance like walking into Macy’s at Christmastime. As a Desert Dragon, her inner heat warmed her silk gown and the strings of silver beads that spanned her back; her shivers weren’t from the cold, but from the power roiling through the hall behind her.
The power of the Owners Board of the Red Letter Hotel.
Jangled, Layla felt assaulted by the combined magics of the Hotel Owners. She felt her own inner Dragon rise, coiling through her veins ready to lash out and strike that power back. As she faced the wind, taking deep breaths to get her shit together, she heard a smooth step behind her. Glancing back, Layla saw it was Reginald Durant, Partner to her Courtesan-in-Training since Samhain.
Royal North Sea Siren and Head Courtier of the Paris Hotel.
Layla set her jaw, ire spiking through her like bourbon set fire with a blowtorch. Reginald was a thorn in her side these past weeks, an iceberg that never cracked, ever since he’d insisted she train with him as a Courtesan or lose her job at the Red Letter Hotel Paris back in October. Like he’d stepped out of 1700’s France, he wore a coat and trousers of ice-blue silk, embroidered with ships and leviathans in gold thread. White stockings and black shoes with gold buckles complemented his ensemble, his white silk cravatte ending at a trim waistcoat that fit his lean dancer’s frame and sculpted shoulders perfectly.
Reginald’s eyes were a pale snow-blue as they met Layla’s in the last of the evening’s light. Wearing his customary white wig and face powder with cupid’s-bow rouge on his full lips, his bone structure was so defined and masculine as to be haughty as he stared Layla down.
“Layla Price. Come back inside, you’ll catch your death.”
“I’m a Dragon. We don’t get sick.” Layla set her jaw at his smooth baritone. Fire rising in her veins, she turned towards Reginald with poise just like he had been drilling into her these past weeks.
Though she downed her wine like a tavern wench, just to watch his eyes flash.
She enjoyed baiting him. Her relationship with Reginald had been like a bad arranged marriage all November, making Layla feel like she was in the worst version of thePrincess Diaries. Born centuries ago, Reginald had perfected his courtly manners in times when it had been an art, while Layla had grown up in the extremely casual atmosphere of Seattle. Even her best manners when she’d bartended for high-class establishments fell woefully short of his standards.
But strangely enough, though he’d insisted she be exclusive to him for the duration of her training, he hadn’t set a finger to her these past weeks, except to adjust her gown or escort her. It was confusing and frustrating, and some part of Layla was growing restless at living with such a devastatingly handsome yet cruelly stern man every day and night. It made her inner Dragon roil, flooding a charred bourbon-orange scent from her skin as Layla lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Are you defying me, Courtesan?” Reginald’s gaze was frosty as he stared her down, the sensation of a chill ocean easing from him as they faced each other in the twilight.
“I might be.” Layla grumped back, setting her wine glass aside on the stone railing of the veranda. “And I’m not a real Courtesan yet.”
“All too true. They are far more respectful than you are being right now.”
Reginald’s haughty gaze was dominant as he leaned into his power, until Layla could hear ocean surf in her ears. She was inundated with a chill, as if seawater had been poured through her. Sirens had mesmeric powers and Reginald used those magics now, punishing Layla for her impertinence.
Layla held herself back from razzing him more in her ire. She’d been disrespectful the first few days they’d been in each other’s company and he’d punished her for it – making her move into his apartments on the fourth floor of the Hotel to continue her training under his extremely watchful eye. Ever since, she’d been around him night and day except when he was hired for an Assignation. In addition to etiquette, her primary lessons these past weeks had been on stilling her temper – all while wanting to blow up at Reginald every day for trying to dominate her.
“You will remember your training, Courtesan.” Reginald spoke as his power surged, not about to let her win this battle. “If you value this Hotel and everything Adrian Rhakvir has tried to do for you these past months, you will stow your snide commentary and face your changing role at this establishment with grace and open eyes. For it is not just your own downfall you orchestrate if you perform badly as a Courtesan, especially tonight. Come. Attend me.”
With that, Reginald turned, snapping his fingers for Layla like a dog. Fury spiked inside her, blistering the chill air. But it was neither less nor more than Reginald’s other chastisements these past weeks, and tonight Layla set her teeth.
“No. I’m not going back inside.” She bit tersely, turning back to the night.
“No?” Reginald spoke, that one word pricking Layla’s spine like an icicle.
“No.” Layla repeated stubbornly. “The magic of the Owners is terrible, and I don’t have any resistance to it. I can feel them; their desires, their urges, their manipulations. It’s sick inside that hall. All my Dragon wants to do is bite and snarl and burn them all. Ever since Hunter destroyed my hamsa-cuff in October… I can’t keep anyone out anymore, especially not people who are this powerful. So you’re just going to have to go through the evening without me. I’m done.”
Layla shivered as the stars began to emerge, the last of the evening’s gloaming dying out over the gardens. As if recalling her destroyed hamsa-cuff, her left wrist prickled and Layla looked down, watching the hamsa-hand burn mark on her inner wrist flare. Vicious and red, it came out now when she was feeling intense emotions – though the mark no longer held the power to contain her magic with the cuff destroyed.
As her burn prickled, Layla felt Reginald move up behind her. She thought he would say something terse but instead he stepped close, smoothing a hand down her back. His fingers were warm, as if the Siren carried a deep heat inside. Touching the beaded strings of the gown, his fingertips caressed Layla’s back, and the sound of an ocean eased into her, no longer pummeling but soothing. His lips brushed her hair, that small touch making things low in Layla’s body tighten deliciously. Setting his lips to her bare shoulder, he kissed her gently.
“I don’t blame you for not wanting to go back in there. The Hotel Owners are a cruel bunch.”
Layla blinked, stunned at his sudden change. She glanced over and for a moment, their lips were only a breath away. It was the closest she had ever been to him, and she blinked her jade-green and gold eyes, meeting his – a stormy pearl-grey now as if they carried deep emotion behind his glacial austerity.
Easing back with a sigh, Reginald reached up, removing his white 1700’s wig. His actual hair was a bright flaxen gold and bound in a tight club, the strands fine as silk. Setting the wig on the stone rail of the veranda, he moved to a fountain’s basin nearby and slipped his hands in, splashing his face with water. Removing a silk handkerchief from his vest, he dried his face – taking off all his makeup and rouge with it.
Reginald was stunning without his makeup. The Siren’s lips were full, his cheekbones so high they could have cut glass as he narrowed his blue eyes at the night. Layla watched him palm his hands back over his beautiful hair, his straight golden brows scowling. At last, he turned to meet her gaze, his eyes more compassionate than usual, though still stern.
