“I’m not forcing you to do any such thing. But since I’m here now, it would be polite if you asked me to come inside.”
Kane took a very long drink, as if he’d decided he couldn’t bear to deal with her sober. His tone was dry as he said, “I suppose you’d better.”
Zaria took hesitant steps to the doorway as he moved aside, beckoning her into the entryway. Somehow the place managed to be veryKane. There wasn’t a lick of color to be seen, and the furniture was arranged in a way that struck her as rather random. A painting portraying a wintry landscape hung above an unlit fireplace, and beside that was a pianoforte.
A pianoforte. In a converted factory a mere few blocks from the slum. It was shoved into the corner, shrouded by the darkness, which was why Zaria hadn’t noticed it at first. Now, though, she couldn’t seem to look away. Only rich folk had such things.
“Where did you get this?” she asked softly, running a hand across the keys. They were a fine ivory, not a trace of dust to be found on their smooth surface. It wasn’t just for show, then. Someone cared about the instrument very much.
Kane must have known what she was referring to without looking. “No idea. Ward had it here before Fletcher and I moved in.”
So Fletcher lived here, too. Interesting. “Do you play?”
Kane paused a beat too long. “No.”
“Oh.” Zaria frowned. “Does Fletcher?”
“No. Don’t touch it.”
She snatched her hand away, more out of shock than anything else. He had to be lying, but why?
“A drink?” he asked, turning away.
“I didn’t come here for a drink. I came here for Cecile.”
Kane might have sneered, though it was difficult to tell until a second candle flared to life before him. “Well then,” he said, “you ought to have come at the time I specified.Iam having a drink. Whether you decide to join me or not is up to you. You may wish you had, however, when you see where we’re meeting your mystery woman.”
Zaria watched as he folded into a nearby armchair, long legs stretched out before him. Scowling, she took a step farther inside, still refusing to take off her coat. Doing so felt like capitulation somehow. “And where is that?”
“Someplace no one would expect to find us.”
Zaria waited.
“Church,” Kane clarified eventually, lips inches from the rim of his glass. “I have the impression it’s not a place you frequent, either.”
“And how would you know?” Zaria said, hating the way he addressed her while staring at the wall on the other side of the room. She stalked into his line of sight.
Kane regarded her from beneath half-lidded eyes. “You strike me as someone angry at God, Miss Mendoza.”
“Takes a heathen to know one, I expect.”
“Hmm.” A noncommittal sound in the back of his throat.
Zaria felt her mouth twist into reluctant amusement. Here shewas, standing in Kane’s home, watching him sip whiskey with that formidable expression. He must have sensed the press of her attention, because the next moment his smile returned with a disarming vengeance.
She’d never felt closer to hell.
“Aren’t you?” she asked softly, though she hadn’t meant to humor him. “Angry sometimes, I mean?”
Kane’s eyes looked blacker than ever. “To be angry at God, I would have had to expect something from him in the first place.”
Now that—that, Zaria understood. She wasn’t about to say as much, though. She didn’t want Kane to know her. How she felt about the divine. How heretical thoughts scurried across the surface of her mind whether she invited them or not. She was already damned, was she not? If magic was unnatural, then surely she was beyond saving.
“I have always thought it best,” she said haltingly, “not to have expectations of anyone save yourself.”
Kane tilted his glass in her direction. “I would agree.”
He didn’t seem inclined to expand on that, and Zaria suddenly didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t want to sit down—that, too, felt like giving in—but she also didn’t want to hover in the middle of the room. Heart thrumming in her chest, she made a slow circle around the perimeter, coming to a halt at the end of the sofa. “I’ve changed my mind about the drink.”
