The man shrugged, and they parted.
Temple had noticed the exchange.The fires of hell had coalesced in his eyes, and his gaze had one focus—the other man.“Who is he?”
“I’ve no idea.I’d hoped you would know.”
“Do not talk to him.”
“I’m afraid I should.”She almost didn’t part of Temple.He grasped her wrist to keep her from joining the others in the pattern of the dance.But one look from her, eyebrows raised, and he released her.
She met the other man with curiosity.“Who are you?”
“A friend of your cousin’s.”
Not good.Her pulse picked up speed, beating a wicked rhythm at her wrist.No, no no.She pressed back the panic.She could deal with this.She had to.For Temple.“And how is he?”
“He is well.We thought you ill.Glad to see you’ve recovered.”
“As I am glad to have recovered.”
They parted.
“Temple,” she whispered as she came back together with her husband.“Breathe.”
He snorted fire.More or less.
And she returned to Apollo’s friend.
He dragged his gaze down her body then up again.“You are not the long-toothed spinster Apollo described.”
“I’m not a spinster at all anymore.”
“Yes.”The man’s gaze flashed to Temple.“You’ve rather come down in the world, haven’t you?Dirtying your skirts with alchemist soot.”
“I feel I’ve risen.Considerably.The company is much improved.”
“Hmm.I suppose you could say you’ve eclipsed your former position.Your husband is the king’s lapdog.After all.But then… that would make you the lapdog’s bitch.”
Gasps on either side of them, the nearest dancer’s face pale with shock.
“Did I say something wrong?”The man held back a chuckle.
And Diana held back her fist.
The music faded around her, the dancers stopped, and power flickered in her palm.She could create glamours and destroy them.Could she rip his away?If she could see the false lines of them like Temple could, perhaps.“You no doubt wear a glamour, sir.”
He bowed.“Naturally.”
“You are beautiful to look upon.You clearly need the illusion to distract from the utter pile of horseshit hiding behind it.”
“Pardon me?Are you calling me?—”
“A pile of refuse,” Temple grumbled from behind her.“A putrid one.”She could feel his heat at her back.Her ring glowed so hot on her finger it might bubble her skin, burn it away.
She snaked her hand behind her back to press her palm against his belly.Taut, hard, dangerous.Apollo’s friend would not last one punch when Temple’s fist was a blacksmith’s hammer.But before he could take a swing, chaos broke out at the back of the ballroom, near double doors that seemed to lead outside.A man’s low rumble, a woman’s yelp, the sounds of scuffle, then silence.Until a slow clap sounded like the percussion of a funeral march.The crowd parted.
And Apollo appeared.Not alone.He held Sybil by the arm, and he pointed a golden dagger at her neck.
