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“I know.”
“I still have not forgiven you for taking my kill.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“I know.”
“You are manipulative and ridiculous.”
“I have accepted both faults.”
“And if you steal another kill from me, I will decorate La Sirene with your entrails.”
His smile returns. “I'd hope so darling.”
The orchestra begins a new song with a lower, darker ambiance. Cellos only accompany the melody and it causes the hairs on the back of my nape to rise. Lazarus steps back and offers his hand properly this time, with no tricks, just a simple choice. I stare at his hand, at the rings catching the chandelier light. Then I lace my fingers within his. His expression changes so quickly I almost miss it. Wonder. Soft, foolish wonder. We move together beneath the chandeliers, surrounded by liars, thieves, lords, and monsters dressed in silk and for one dangerous moment, I forget to be angry.
Lazarus lowers his mouth near my ear once more. “Still do not miss me?”
I fight the smile threatening my lips. “No.”
His laugh is quiet. “Deceptive little thing.”
I look up at him.
“Fallere,” I remind him.
His grin turns devastating. “Precisely.”
23. Worship in A Ballroom- Lazarus
Dying to Love
My Olive dances around my ballroom like she has conquered gravity and merely allows it to exist out of politeness. I know this because I have spent every week watching her upon her stage at La Sirene and the last hour watching every man in my borrowed ballroom forget his own name. Good. Let them forget. Let them stare. Let them ache with the knowledge that they may witness her, admire her, even dream of her later in whatever dull little beds their wives pretend to share with them. But they will never know her. Not as I intend to know her.
Not as Edward already knows the careful corners of her mind. Not like Alcott understands the dangerous architecture of her curiosity. For I will learn the shape of her laughter, the weight of her silences, the colors she was denied, and every wicked little smile she tries so terribly hard to hide. I have never considered myself a man of long-term plans.
Death, after all, is a rude houseguest. It arrives early, tracks mud across the carpet, drinks the wine, and interrupts even the most promising evenings.
Yet, as Olive turns beneath the chandeliers, garnet silk catching the light like blood poured over flame, I find myself imagining something absurd. A future. Not a clean one. Not respectable. God, no. Something far better. Olive, Edward, Alcott, and I. Growing older in some grand, terrible house with too many locked rooms and not nearly enough moral supervision. Killing together when necessary. Thriving together when possible.
Edward would pretend to disapprove of everything and then make certain every window lock was secure. Alcott would fill the cellar with experiments, poisons, maps, and at least one device capable of removing a wall from existence. Olive would rule us all with a lifted brow. And I? I would set the world on fire in whatever shape pleased her most.
Parties and different empires- I would arrange them all before her like an offering on a silver tray if it meant seeing that beautiful, wicked smile curve across her mouth. I would give her every color she has missed, crimson. emerald and the pale silver before dawn. The soft blue of morning after a night without nightmares. I would drown her in color until the world apologized for ever taking it from her. At present, she is furious with me. Naturally. This only improves her beauty.
“I'd like to meet the real owner of this establishment,” she says as we move through the final turn of the dance.
Her voice is smooth. Too smooth, a blade beneath silk.
I smile at her. “You are looking at him.”
Her steps halt. The orchestra continues around us. Dancers part, flowing past like water around stone, but Olive stands still in the center of my ballroom and stares at me.
“You?” Her eyes are assessing.
“Me,” I state with outstretched arms.
“Lazarus,” she states, still eyeing me up and down.
“I find ownership such a rigid concept.”
