“Because that sounds healthier,” Devin responded drolly.
“Just count yourself lucky you can,” Jack droned, his tone bleak. He stomped off, having neglected to talk about whatever he intended to discuss. He’d rant about it later, but for now, Devin wanted to be left in peace.
Devin had gotten very good at brooding alone. He had little to care for, aside from his club, in which he did take a certain amount of pride, but which did not fill any of the holes blown through his chest at the loss and neglect and abuse.
Oh well. Once Graves was properly rotting in the dirt, then maybe Devin would find some peace. And if not, then he’d be able to put all his energy into hating himself.
His eyes drifted closed.
And he saw her. At first it was fleeting. Just a passing thought of Miranda in her disguise, her olive skin barely covered by that red dress that flaunted all the right curves, leaving just enough to imagination. And he’d never been said to lack imagination. Decorum and respect, yes but his imagination was well up to the task of completing a flattering image of Miranda. Devin gladly embraced his dream, much more favorable than his nightmares, and allowed himself indulgences he wouldn’t take while awake.
Chapter Four
Devindebatedwhetherheshould attempt this mission sober. He may need his wits about him and, though he was loath to admit it, might need the help of his aura sight. He had not been to the Night Court since he was a child, hand in hand with his mother, cowering to sneers and whispers. Auras lashing out at the sight of him with inky blots of disdain or disgusted muddy green, or sharp, white hot arcs of contempt. His own family had refused to see them, despite his mother’s pleas. Her pulses of mauve shame and pale yellow fear had made him feel helpless, scared when he should have felt welcome.
He was not entirely sure how they would receive him now that he was grown. Kylin, his cousin, was the only person to reach out when Devin’s mother passed. Not even her own sister had bothered to check in. Kylin had held an ulterior motive, of course, hoping to secure business for his trade when Devin’s club had been starting out, but he had not been openly dismissive or cruel. His condolences had sounded genuine, atleast. Their relationship was best described as acquaintances who tolerated each other peacefully.
Devin took a drink.
Fuck it.
It would be hard enough ignoring the glances and whispers when he returned to the Night Court, he wasn’t keen to brush the colors of their disdain across his eyes as well. Maybe the sight would be manageable if he had ever bothered to put in the effort of practice, but as it stood, auras were more of an onslaught than an advantage.
He dressed simply, black shirt and vest. Human fashion called for cumbersome coats and cravats, but he wanted freedom of movement. Three concealed knives, in case he was searched or lost one in a fight.
Outside was a cool night. Windy, but in a refreshing way. He was about to sigh and huff about how of course a ‘Lady’ would be running late.What did a noble daughter care for times and schedules? Just leave him out in the—
A lithe figure appeared beside him, nearly scaring the life from him. Her steps had been nonexistent, her presence like a shadow. She stood before him decked in black with curves cut perfectly against the brilliant moonlight.
Miranda.
This must have been her guardian uniform. Black from head to foot and no skirts, just blessedly form-fitting leather.
It was still the fashion for women to wear big, wide skirts and hide their figures save a few tantalizing peeks to better encourage trapping husbands. Even the women Watchmen, who wore identical uniforms to the men, were layered with branded coats and duty gear. Women in the Fells still wore dresses, though not as voluminous as the ones he saw in the Garrison. He’d never actually seen a guardian in uniform until thismoment. Nothing about the shape of her thighs or curve of her hips was left to baser imagination. She would be a distraction.
Her golden curls were swept up in a bun at the base of her neck, loose strands catching in the breeze. She wore boots that hugged her calves and were practical with thick, flat soles. And that smirk on her face was almost sobering.
“Eyes up here, sailor,” she scolded, albeit with a touch of humor. He was tempted to retort with something witty, but he kept his mouth shut. A witty response would delve much too close to bantering. Which bordered on flirtation. Flirtation was more fun when it was ill-received. And infinitely safer. His little overstep earlier proved that she was not as immune to flirting as she wanted to believe. He would need to behave tonight.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning away from her, so he didn’t risk seeing every sway of her hips or the perfect shape of her thighs silhouetted against the lamplight. He had called a carriage for them, one of his plain coaches from the club. They wouldn’t be able to enter the Night Court with it, but it would get them close enough.
The carriage sway was gentle and hypnotizing, the driver easily steering the horses through mostly empty streets. Devin knew why he was on edge, but Miranda sat just as rigid. Like she had a sword for a spine, though he noticed no weapons.
“Did you bring any sort of defense with you?” He ventured, as a weighty silence had descended between them. It would have been smarter to remain silent. Silence was better than the alternative, where her gaze burned and her tongue lashed and he felt alive for a few moments. But smart had never stopped him from keeping his mouth shut.
Her head turned slowly, eyes direct with confidence. There was a rigidity to her movements and a serene, controlled sort of power. Perhaps he’d been mistaken to think her stiffness meantnerves. She looked calm enough to cut the heart from his chest in front of his weeping family.
“I didn’t think I’d be allowed a full sword. But I brought some security. Just in case.”
Where? The fit of her uniform left little room for much else. He didn’t see how she’d conceal a nail file, let alone a weapon of any consequence. The little devil of a voice in him suggested he search her and find out. He shifted, trying to be a gentlemen—for the moment.
“You suggested this might be dangerous,” she continued, “So I came prepared.” Her head tilted as she took in his appearance. “Are you concealing anything?”
“Care to check for yourself?” He quipped, unable to keep the suggestion from his voice or the glint from his eyes. Damn, he had slipped much too easily.
She was unamused, but not angry. Her lips were a patronizing smirk as she gazed out the window. “Keep dreaming.”
“Oh, I have, Miss Wilde, and I’m woefully sorry that I hadn’t yet seen this ensemble,” he gestured with his chin. “Much less left to the imagination, though I think I filled in the details adequately enough for my purposes.” His voice lowered with his intent and he was well rewarded when her smile vanished and steam practically puffed from her nose.
