Bronze Gods Read online

  Apparently on his home ground, he unbent a bit, and as she stopped beside the table, set with china, crystal, and white roses, her sense of the surreal intensified. All about her, the courtyard gleamed with the shimmering lights, shadows beyond. It was a perfect foil, his darkness contrasting with the white silk and linen he wore. She took a deep breath, rich with exotic fragrance, and waited for him to speak.

  “Good evening, Aurelia. Come . . . sit.” His eyes lingered on her face, on the way her dress clung and fell. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Wine?” He lifted the bottle as he spoke, something that drank the light and kissed it with color.

  “Please,” she murmured, extending her hand for the glass. “It’s beautiful out here. I’m surprised you ever come into the city.”

  “I have not, in many years.” Theron poured for her, then himself. “I have all I need, and only rare circumstances bring me forth. The peace keeps me here.”

  So that makes me . . . a rare circumstance? Or did he meet me by chance on the way to deal with some business at the club? She hadn’t given up on winkling out his secrets, but his attraction had other layers as well now.

  “You never told me why you came to the club that night.”

  He smiled. “I did not.”

  I’ll keep trying.

  Aurelia lifted her glass and tasted the wine. “The quiet here unnerves me. I’ve been so long surrounded by humanity that I’ve grown accustomed to its noises. Omnibuses and the chug of carriages . . . sometimes, I open my window and just listen. The city seems to breathe, as if it were a creature with a heartbeat and a mind of its own.”

  “She is. A living thing, that is. Untamed, untapped, no matter what some might think. But be that as it may, I cannot bear living within it.”

  Her father, the Architect, pulled many strings in Dorstaad. She had no such ambitions, which created some of the conflict. Her sire wanted someone to take over his empire, once he was no longer fit to run it. And she’d only ever wanted to dance. Poor little rich girl, she thought with silent self-mockery. But her father had been generous in the end, leaving her an independence that kept her from abject poverty, and he’d provided rooms at the club, too. More than many would’ve done, given her complete defiance. She had not seen him or spoken to him—or to anyone in the family but her mother—in almost forty years.

  “The city affects some people that way,” she said.

  “So I have noticed. Others, it drives to madness, it would seem.”

  She wondered if he’d noticed something about her, if the age decay she feared had grown perceptible to others. To cover her concern, she sipped at her wine.

  Theron indicated the romantic table for two. “Shall we eat?”

  They started with cheese and fruit, both commonplace and rarities brought from the north in the Winter Isle, followed by salmon and bread. Simple fare prepared with delicate care and accompanied by sauces sweet and sharp. By the time she tasted everything, she felt satiated, a little dreamy from the wine. With a dark and slivered glance, he caught her licking her fingers, and she offered a guilty grin.

  “That was wonderful,” she said.

  He nodded. Folding the napkin, time and again, he finally deposited it on the table, neatly squared. “It’s been a long time since I cooked for anyone else.”

  Astonishment registered first, melting into pleasure. “Thank you. No one’s ever cooked for me who was not paid to do so.”

  “It’s an old habit. To trust none with my meals.”

  “Is that because you have enemies who wish you ill?” She could easily picture him engaged in labyrinthine intrigues that resulted in an adversary poisoning his soup.

  “Doesn’t everyone? Some people make insipid foes, as they can’t be bothered to take action. They content themselves with wishing ill rather than working toward it.”

  “You sound as if you admire the schemers.”

  “Do I?” His habit of answering with a question made it impossible to read him. There was no statement in an inquiry; therefore, her senses quivered with confusion.

  That might also be because of the moonlit garden and the man currently offering his hand. Helping her to her feet, Theron slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, warm and muscular beneath the well-worn linen. She felt honored that he had discarded formality, showing her a more private version of himself. There might be calculation in the gesture, but it was effective nonetheless.

  With the euphoric glow of the wine, Aurelia felt oddly content inside his private paradise. Her heels clicked in a cadence that complemented the other nocturnal noise, the song of their passage. Tropical hints reached her, clearly not native to the isle, but somehow, he coaxed their cooperation on an alien shore. The magical resonance she’d sensed earlier echoed stronger here, convincing her such a place wasn’t natural. Tipping her head back as they walked, she breathed the perfumed air, bougainvillea and climbing roses, jasmine and orchids that twined about the trees.

  “You must be very old,” she said quietly.

  “That is . . . offensive.” He was smiling.

  “Is it?

  You’re not the only one who can do that.

  “Among those like us, perhaps not. What are you asking, Aurelia?”

  “How do you create such a place?”

  He glanced around, inhaling the perfumed air. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? My greatest and most enduring work. What would you say if I told you that once, our ancestors had the ability to command the land itself? Those with the most power could rearrange the world to suit their tastes and whims?”

  “That sounds like legends of the old Courts.”

  “Some of them, my dear Aurelia, are true.”

  He believes what he’s saying. It’s not a lie. Shock reverberated through her, but she managed not to reveal it. “Are you claiming to be a pureblood?”

  Bronze gods, he’d be thousands of years old, and assuredly, not even a little human. His mind would be utterly alien, his goals incomprehensible. She should flee, presented with this as even a remote possibility. Provided that she believed him. It seemed a worthy gambit, a move guaranteed to fascinate her.

  “I’m not claiming anything. I’m merely entertaining a beautiful woman.”

  “You’re so clever. Or maddening. I haven’t decided which yet.”

  “Can’t I be both? Maddeningly clever, perhaps.”

  She gazed up at him, furrowing her brow. “Your lineage aside, do you allege you possess the capacity to shape this patch of ground to your will? And mark me, I’ll have a plain yes or no from you, or we are finished, now and forever.”

  “An ultimatum already?” He inclined his head then, sweeping a gesture to indicate the lush beauty around them. “Yes, Aurelia. This garden grows to please me because I will it so and because I tend it.”

  Truth.

  He went on, “My power wanes outside these walls, however, and I prefer to remain where I’m at my strongest.”

  “Will you ever tell me what drew you out?”

  “In time. When I know you well enough to trust that you’ll believe me.”

  That sounded as if he had a tale, and Aurelia had never been able to resist one. “Very well. I can be patient. I’ll bide my time.”

  She leaned over to bury her nose in a pale flower with darkness at its center. Like a rose, it bore thorns, but it also had delicately flared petals, and the most luxurious scent she’d ever experienced. “I’ve never seen this one before. What is it?”

  “The Sangreal. She took some time.” His tone was soft, fond, even.

  Theron stepped closer, running a fingertip along the bloom as one might caress a lover. He released the silken petal with quiet reluctance, and everything about the touch and his manner told her this flower mattered to him. It might even be the key to his heart, should he possess such a thing.

  “You created it? It doesn’t smell entirely like a rose . . .” Aurelia trailed off, thinking. “Almost a cross wi
th jasmine or honeysuckle. Or both.”

  “Both. I needed to strengthen the fragrance.” He stood, looking at the bush. “This was my last strain.” He swept his arm in a gesture that encompassed the entire garden. “But far from my only attempt. Half these came from my hand.”

  “They’re not all magical?” she teased. “Impossible flowers sprung from nowhere?”

  “No. Some came from decades of dedication, and they could grow in any hothouse, given proper conditions and care.”

  “That’s incredible. You have a gift.” Longingly, her gaze lingered on the Sangreal, then she turned. “I won’t interrogate you more tonight though I don’t promise to stop trying to learn what you want from me.”

  The garden parted before them, relinquishing them to an open space at its heart. There, the stars glittered, and the crescent moon shone brighter than Aurelia had ever seen. Reflections danced in the fountain, formed from stones and overgrown with moss. Rising well past eye level, a lily pond inhabited by gold and silver fish surrounded it. Next to it stood a small gazebo built in the same unfamiliar style as the rest of his home: elegant curved arches and filigree, topped with a tapering half dome.

  With a ghost of a smile lingering, he guided her toward the structure. At the entrance, Aurelia stopped, one foot on the step. The magic was heady, dizzying, and the vista offered a beauty so pure as to hurt the heart. A fierce ache welled up until she didn’t know where to look, wanting to absorb everything at once.

  “Here is the soul of this place,” she whispered, tipping her head up.

  “So it is.” He met her gaze, the small line between his brows bespeaking uncertainty. For a blown-glass moment, they gazed at one another. Then he shifted; at some unseen signal from him, music wafted through the tangle of plants around them. “Would you dance, Aurelia?” His words blended with the music, his offered hands dark against the ivory of his shirt.

  Her breath hitched. Some of her confusion manifested in the lopsided smile she gave him, but she put her hands in his with enough conviction to offset it.

  “I’d love to,” she said, low.

  When he led her into the gazebo, she felt as if they had withdrawn from the world into a quiet place where only the two of them existed. She waited for his lead.

  He sought her eyes, and whatever he saw made him smile. Then he led her into what might have passed for a waltz if they were elsewhere and dancing to a different melody. As the music flowed, it called for a closer hold; the slow slide and brush of hip and arm as they spun in languid motions.

  She followed, anticipating his turns an instant before he made them. As they circled the floor, her head fell back. The world whirled over his shoulder, less from motion or wine; she was quite simply drunk with him. Inhaling deeply through her nose, Aurelia devoured him with a look while the rest of her arched and yielded, twisted and spun in steps so fleeting that she lost the thread of them, her body entirely given to his guidance.

  They moved together with a single will, all but merged, until the music peaked and drifted into silence. Holding her close after a last turn, he gazed down at her, his smile long gone, replaced with hunger. Aurelia trembled, her breath coming fast, and for an infinite moment, she met his look. Her short nails curled into the nape of his neck.

  If this place is his creation, if his power is strongest here, how do I know this is truly what I want?

  She had no qualms about choosing a lover, but it must be her own decision. The knives of desire in her belly swelled into a red-hot poker as she tore herself away.

  “I have to go. But thank you. It was a lovely evening.”

  Disappointment warred with shock in his expression. He didn’t expect me to resist. What does he have in mind for me, I wonder? The attempt to fuddle her with a strong glamour only made him more interesting to her; nobody had so persistently attempted to draw her into his schemes for the longest time.

  “I’ll call the coach for you. But understand that this isn’t the end for us, Aurelia.”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “It’s only the beginning. Chase me if you like. Perhaps, if you remain interesting, I’ll even let you catch me.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE NEXT MORNING, MIKANI MET RITSUKO IN THE FOYER OF the CID building. He had been so eager to see her that he forgot to stop for his usual coffee. Hope Electra doesn’t think I’m dead. They both started talking at once, until she held up a hand, demanding silence. That was so unlike her that he actually quieted.

  “Mine’s better, I promise. Come with me.”

  Bemused, he followed her down to the evidence room, where she asked the clerk to produce item 157. The man complied with laconic efficiency, and Ritsuko handed him a clockwork device. It’s . . . What is this? After a rudimentary examination while she bounced on her toes like a child, he turned to her, astonishment warring with mild outrage.

  “You should’ve located me yesterday, Ritsuko.”

  Her smile faltered. “But . . . you were following another lead; and then it was time to go home. I logged it.”

  “If I’d found this, I wouldn’t have rested until you knew about it.”

  “I just . . . I was only thinking about getting it here before Toombs’s mother changed her mind and decided I needed to fill out forms in triplicate. I was afraid she’d get rid of it if I hesitated and she realized just how crucial it was and the severity of the related crime.”

  “I understand. But you still should’ve come looking for me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. No excuses. He could tell by her expression that she felt awful, but there was something else, too.

  Though he didn’t often do this to his partner, he let slip enough to read her, echoes and impressions. He saw the moment where they spun in an awkward dance in his hallway, the night they spent drinking, when she had her hands in his hair. That’s why? She was afraid of intruding on my off-duty hours, afraid it would be unwelcome?

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  Now that he understood, he decided to move on. Best not to make her explain further. “I can understand why you thought I needed a rest. It’s been grueling.”

  Ritsuko nodded and turned to the clerk. “I’m taking this upstairs to show to Commander Gunwood.”

  The man pushed a form toward her. “Fill this out, please, and sign the ledger.”

  Mikani’s partner did so, then she beckoned for him to follow, as he was still holding the device. Mikani was glad that at least she hadn’t presented evidence without him. It should be a team effort when they told their boss they’d narrowed it down to one likely suspect, and they’d need the whole city to tighten the net, use all available resources to restrict Toombs’s movements. From this point, it shouldn’t be long.

  As soon as they stepped into the duty room, Commander Gunwood bellowed, “Mikani! Ritsuko! My office. Now.”

  It was early enough that there were other officers on shift, some at their desks, others preparing to head out to follow their own leads. All of them mumbled an encouraging word as they passed. Mikani pressed his partner’s shoulder gently with a free hand, then strolled into the old man’s office. His attitude was sure to draw ire, as it always did. He liked it better that way because he really didn’t like it when anyone went after Ritsuko. It had started when they’d first met, and he had gleaned in her what most others failed to see: spirit, courage, and a drive to do the right thing. In their three years together, the urge to defend her had deepened even as it grew fiercer. It felt like a waking beast, full of protective rage, and he couldn’t always control it.

  “You’re looking well,” he said, knowing that would make things worse. The old man was rumpled, cranky, exhausted, and in all ways aggravated.

  “You think this is funny, Mikani?”

  Gunwood didn’t invite them to take a seat. To be called on the carpet properly, you had to stand like a child before the headmaster, waiting to feel the crack of the birch rod. Ritsuko was very still and quiet beside him; and her fear was so thick he cou
ld taste it, a sour, acrid note coating his tongue. Not fear of physical harm, more insubstantial. Based on what he knew of her, he guessed she was afraid of losing the job she loved.

  “One dead girl. One very powerful House.” Gunwood slammed a fist onto his desk to emphasize his displeasure. “I expected you two to have this mess cleaned up five days ago. Care to explain what’s taking so long?”

  Mikani was about to make a joke that would probably get him suspended, when Ritsuko said, “There is no justification, sir. But we do have some compelling new evidence if you’ll indulge me for a moment.”

  “Just one.”

  She nodded at Mikani, indicating he should demonstrate the device. Gunwood was already growling, “I don’t have time for toys”—when Ritsuko produced a sketch of the crime scene. Wordlessly, she laid it on the commander’s desk beside the model.

  “It’s a match,” the old man said.

  Ritsuko inclined her head. “Precisely. Built by Gregory Toombs, once an engineering student, now an actor, and he’s known to have taken an interest in the victim.”

  “What are you doing to hunt this maniac down?”

  “Everything,” Mikani answered. “Or rather, we would be if we weren’t having this charming interlude with you.”

  Gunwood narrowed his eyes. “One of these days, someone will shoot you, and you won’t be wearing the right vest.”

  “Please don’t kill my partner, sir. Though he can be difficult, I’m used to him . . . and it would be a bother to train someone new.”

  Though her tone was light, his earlier reading lingered between them. Her true feelings washed over him, an astonishing amount of pain at the idea of harm coming to him. Mikani didn’t know what to do with that truth, so he pocketed it to be digested later. But he aimed a quiet look at Ritsuko, thinking he’d gladly cut out a few hearts on her behalf as well.

  “Since you didn’t arrive empty-handed, I’ll skip the rest of the lecture. You know how crucial it is that we locate this monster.” Gunwood sighed, looking more weary than irate. “If you don’t, it’ll be your career and mine. Oleg Aevar has been leaning on my superiors, asking for all our heads on a pike if we don’t deliver. You have forty-eight hours to bring me a suspect in chains.”