Bronze Gods Page 5

Somber for once, Mikani replied, “For love. Why else? And I suspect she died for it as well.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE NIGHT SMELLED OF DAMP WOOD AND DISTANT SMOKE. Earlier that evening, a conversation with Aurelia’s mother had unsettled her enough that instead of seeking her bed afterward, she’d wandered into the garden maze behind the Acheron Club. From beyond the stone walls that encircled the property came sounds of passersby, those with lives less complicated than her own. There was an inviolable air about Aurelia as she paced; she’d once been told she resembled a nun at prayer, but the likeness was superficial. Aurelia Wright believed only in herself.

  After all, when you’re sent into exile, you have only yourself.

  She certainly couldn’t depend on her family. Her beautiful, cool, remote mother, who didn’t understand fear of madness, probably never had a nightmare. I wish you would see someone. So easy, so predictable that counsel, but, of course, Aurelia was no longer even permitted within the confines of the main house. For the crime of working at what she loved, she had been banished from the complex, forbidden to see her relatives or use the family name. Her mother had broken the rules of exile by arranging that furtive dinner, but Aurelia came away feeling as though she’d disappointed her mother yet again.

  By refusing to see a specialist and declining to come home.

  “I don’t want to know if there’s something wrong with me,” she’d protested. “If I’m mad.”

  Longevity took some people that way. Despite the gift nature had given their bodies, their minds were not equipped to deal with the sheer volume of memories. Years, after a certain time, became burdensome. Aurelia feared to know if her mind had begun to give way beneath the weight, for there was no cure; there were probably other explanations for the occasional bad dream and the sense of foreboding that had plagued her recently. As she wound through the twists and turns of the maze, she wished she could be sure she was imagining the sense that someone was watching her.

  Not at the moment, however. Her father’s club was safe; the Acheron Club was a private establishment that catered exclusively to gentlemen. Food and service, cards and companionship—it was an escape from their wives, daughters, and responsibilities, where they could smoke and act as if they hadn’t a care in the world. It cost more than most men would earn in a year to buy a membership, and the manager, Hargrave, only sold so many new vouchers. It was a way of keeping the riffraff out.

  She hadn’t wanted to live here initially, but like most of her father’s arguments, his reasons were too compelling to ignore. He’d whispered to her of kidnappings and lack of privacy and reminded her that in a normal building, people would notice too much about her and begin to talk. It would attract attention he knew damned well she didn’t want. In the end, she caved, though after her official exile, she’d had little choice. His offer of rooms had presented a safe solution to her dilemma, and she did love the maze. The hemlock hedges had offered solace more than once, a place to pace away her cares.

  Just then, she had a surfeit of them, between the stumbling show, Leonidas’s increasing paranoia, the sense that she was being watched, and pervasive loneliness. Nobody had ever warned her that pursuing her dreams could cost her everything. At least, not until it was too late.

  There came a noise nearby, or something less than sound—more an impression. A frisson along her spine whispered that someone else shared her space. Chills rose on her arms, for she’d had that impression more than once, coming home late from the theater. That feeling had never arisen here. She’d told herself it was nothing, an overactive imagination, but it hadn’t stopped her from glancing over her shoulders, listening for an echo of a careless footfall, the movement of a shadow that shouldn’t exist.

  Tonight had been no exception.

  Now, apparently, the danger or delusion had followed her home. Heart thudding in her ears, she called out, “Is anyone there?”

  “Such a question is often offered. Human nature, I believe.” It was a man’s voice, soft and sibilant, as if sand slid against silk.

  Aurelia shuddered. There was art in his voice, flavored with an accent she found hard to place. Now she recalled myths of mazes, maidens, and the dark creatures to which they were sacrificed. If she possessed a grain of good sense, she would walk back the way she’d come, avoiding the owner of this voice at all costs.

  But he couldn’t be the silent stalker she had sensed before; otherwise, why announce his presence when he had so successfully eluded detection ere now?

  “I was not calling out to God,” she said quietly, moving in what she judged to be his general direction. “But to you, whoever you are.”

  “Alas, I cannot claim a divine aspect. I am but a traveler, come to the end of my journey, perhaps. Such is writ where I cannot read it.”

  With the slow grace of opiate dreams, the man stepped into sight. Above, the moon hid her face behind a wall of clouds, and the stars were no more than tiny dots of light, seen through a wispy veil. Not only a traveler, said her quiet self. Though that is true, as far as he has spoken. It did not reassure her, for there were many ways to lie, and she was familiar with most of them.

  With a long, narrow face, he was not handsome, and something in his bone structure suggested that the veneer of civilization ran thin. Impeccably groomed raven hair and a trimmed goatee softened some of the sharpness though he still possessed shades of the potentate. Tall but not gaunt, the stranger emanated power from the tailored cut of his coat to his manicured hands.

  “Either your feet have trod this path before, or you had need of refuge,” she returned, concluding her study.

  “Either, or,” he agreed. Careless and languid, he stopped three paces distant, giving her a smile, ivory against olive skin. “Fortune has smiled upon me that I behold such beauty. And how shall I address you?”

  The formality of his manner told Aurelia he was very old indeed, even if his face did not agree with his eyes. An ancient part of her soul thrilled to life, recognizing his fey strength. He might be full Ferisher, the way she felt in his presence. But no, they were gone. Those who had not interbred with the immigrant population had passed from sight and were now lost spirits, unable to touch the world that once belonged to them unless they were called through various rituals.

  He drinks the light. Her nerves jangled as if she stood on the edge of a great precipice. And he speaks in riddles, frosted with flattery.

  “In the dark, I daresay you have little idea whether I might break mirrors with my face. But I will forgive your lapse this once. I am Aurelia.”

  “I have sharper sight than most. And I should stand by my words against any challenger.” His gaze slid from her face as if reluctant.

  “I dislike being praised for a merit which was none of my doing.” Her smile was a bright, fleeting thing.

  “Call me Theron, should you choose to address me. What do you name this place, then?” His attention settled back on her, light as a shadow, and as revealing.

  “This is the Acheron Club. Do you realize you’re trespassing?”

  “Ah.” His gaze rested on her still, her pallor reflected back to her in his eyes, and he ignored the question. “Do you often wander this maze, Aurelia?”

  She arched a brow. “That answer depends on why you ask me.”

  “I ask that I might know.” Apparently sensing her growing impatience, he added, “If you are here often, you might direct me to the exit.”

  “You found me, easily enough,” she murmured, “and moments ago, you boasted excellent sight. Thus, I doubt you need rescuing. But I have no reluctance to play the part since you seem to want it so.”

  With that, she took his arm and began to walk, negotiating the first turn. Aurelia was aware she had not answered his question any more than he’d answered hers; such dissembling annoyed her, but she was not her father’s child for nothing; nor had she come away empty-handed in guile.

  “You shall be rewarded for your kindness.” He matched her pace easily. S
low as his movements seemed, each step devoured distance, her hand resting in the crook of his arm. “Too long have I spent already wandering, after all.” His smile was tinged with rue.

  Aurelia contemplated his words as they walked, paring them away to the smallest kernels of truth. Thus, in silence, they completed the rest of the turns that carried them beyond the hemlock hedge. Once they reached the stone path of the garden, Aurelia paused, looking up into his face, and she gave him an uncharacteristically gentle smile.

  “You look most weary,” she said. “And having wandered, are no doubt happy to find yourself home again.” The words were instinct, no more, based on the intuition that familiarity led him here. “That being so, I offer you the hospitality of the club, Theron.”

  “Home. No.” As he turned to her, the gaslight danced in his eyes, granting an infernal aspect. “But I gratefully accept your invitation.”

  A few words with Hargrave granted temporary access to the club. Her companion would not be permitted inside any of the members-only areas, but even though she had yielded all claims to the family name, she was still her father’s daughter, and it counted for something here. Perhaps, like Leonidas, she had grown paranoid, but with courtly manners, she’d led this stranger into the light in hopes of learning whether he harbored ill intentions. The longer they spoke, the more she could gain a sense of whether he prevaricated.

  You see enemies everywhere, her mother’s voice said.

  While that might be true, she had managed to survive for years where other exiles died once they were ousted from the safety of their nests. Granted, the club provided more security than most could manage outside a House compound, but she didn’t remain here all the time. And while traveling back and forth from the theater, there was no doubt she was at risk. Possibly from someone like this, she thought, glancing at Theron.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Rather.”

  She led the way into the public dining room, preferring to discover his reasons for lurking about the maze under the safe observation of multiple witnesses. Aurelia swung open the heavy door. A dearth of windows, wood paneling, and muted lights in brass fixtures encouraged the semblance of privacy. Each table was edged three ways by a wooden screen, and at the center of the room, a stylized stone fountain burbled away, drowning conversations to all but its principals. A brown-and-gold carpet softened their steps as they followed the host to the table. Near a solid wall, the booth she chose was quieter than most, set with a white rose. A few members noted her entrance, but they had been advised by her father not to interact with her.

  Treat her as if she’s not there.

  It was his version of enforcing her exile. Both he and her mother hoped she would change her mind, return to the fold, and resume her rightful place in the natural order. But she’d tasted freedom, so returning to a gilded cage was no longer possible. At first, the silence and ostracism stung, but she’d formed other friendships that weren’t reliant on prestige or stature.

  “Agreeable,” Theron said. “What do you recommend?”

  Without glancing at the menu, she signaled the waiter. “For two: spinach salad with the vinaigrette to start. To follow, the lemon herb chicken with asparagus. Turkish coffee to finish.” Then she turned to Theron. “Whatever you prefer in the way of wine. The cellar is excellent.”‘

  “Chardonnay. I believe Thorgrim still has the best vineyards on the isles.”

  “I couldn’t say. I’ve long since given up pretensions as to superiority. I only know what I like.”

  “Then order it.”

  Smiling, she did.

  They made desultory conversation while she attempted to read him, mine his secrets, but he held them close and tight. That indicated a disciplined mind. From the intensity of his gaze, Aurelia rather thought he was taking her measure as well; though for what purpose, she had no idea. Idly, she wondered if Theron had been engaged by her father to pose as a suitor when he was, in fact, a paid minder. There might be some new threat of which she was unaware; from time to time, people sought to use her as leverage in negotiations. Her exile didn’t mean he had stopped loving her.

  Before she could delicately craft a question, the waiter returned. She glimpsed herself in the raised dome of the silver platter in his hands. Her own face seemed paler than usual beneath the brass fixtures; she was a creature of plain lines and stark hue. Aurelia glanced away, not caring to consider how many years were not written in natural passage on her skin. Theron watched with eyes dark as sloe, hooded and slightly foreboding. Possibly, as in the old stories, she should not have invited him in, but she preferred to keep potential enemies close.

  The salad was crisp and tangy, the chicken succulent. After the servers arranged the meal before them, artfully displayed on white china, quiet descended on the table. As they ate, the only sounds were the distant fountain and unintelligible murmurs from other tables. And when Aurelia added the cream to her cup, she smiled, providing the signal that she was ready to resume the conversation.

  “Now then, why don’t you tell me what you were doing in the maze?”

  “So direct.” His smile gained layers, amusement and something else, a darkness.

  “It would be unwise to underestimate me,” she said quietly.

  “I have no wish to be your enemy, Miss Wright.”

  “Then what do you wish?”

  Theron tilted his body toward her, but the move felt calculated, choreographed to make her respond. To her annoyance, it worked. She wanted to lean toward him as well, and she sensed a whisper of glamour trickling from him.

  “You won’t beguile me into cooperating with whatever you want from me. If this is about my father, I’m no longer privy to his plans or schemes. I have no influence over his decisions in any sphere.”

  “It’s not about your father,” Theron said softly.

  Aurelia didn’t know whether she found that reassuring. “But you concede your presence here tonight was not by chance?”

  “Few things truly are. I came for my own ends, but I am delighted to meet you.”

  “For what reason?” she demanded.

  “You are, rather, a legend among some circles.” She sensed some prevarication in that reply, but it wasn’t entirely false. Maddening. “The girl who gave up her name and became the woman who will not bend? Impressive.”

  “There are others who’ve done as much. Why seek me out?” It was like bashing her head against a brick wall.

  “Who’s to say I have?”

  That silenced her a moment as she considered her next question. She felt sure he had an agenda but decided it was unlikely he’d disclose it on a first encounter. Intuition insisted he had a particular aim in mind, but Aurelia hoped she was too wary to permit herself to be used, however strong a man’s charisma. And forewarned was forearmed.

  “You’re not the first person to come in search of some nebulous favor. But you’ll gain nothing by associating with me.”

  “You presume that’s not my goal in its entirety.”

  “Getting to know me?” She laughed. “A thin achievement to be sure.”

  Theron only smiled, his eyes as dark and unreadable as the night sea.

  After he departed, she didn’t sleep well, haunted as ever by bad dreams. But for the first time since she could recall, Aurelia did not dream of drowning. Instead, she dreamt of burning and woke gasping for air, checking her flesh to ensure it wasn’t charred as it had been in the nightmare.

  • • •

  REHEARSAL WAS A disaster; the dancers were distracted by the ongoing investigation, and she capped the afternoon by arguing with Leonidas. He stormed out in a rage, not that he ever left the Royale. She worried about her old friend. His grief over his parents’ death had driven him deep inside himself, but now it was twisting him strange. He’d once been an open, friendly man of great personal warmth, but now . . . ? Aurelia wasn’t altogether certain what he was becoming.

  Finally, she shouted, “Stop! We�
��ll try again tomorrow. I hope you’ll all bring more focus and a better frame of mind.”

  Depressed, she returned to the club, and the sense that someone dogged her footsteps returned in force. The whole way, she kept an eye over one shoulder, and she didn’t relax until she stepped inside the foyer to be greeted by Hargrave.

  In waning daylight, she passed through to the conservatory to stand before the stained-glass windows, blazing light from the setting sun. Twilight crept up on her, bearing purples as a gift. She gazed down at the city, remote from this vantage, until the sky darkened entirely, and lights glimmered to life like fireflies. The dim glow beyond gave the stained glass an empyreal glow, coronas of crimson and purple.

  This room was Aurelia’s undisputed domain; her father had warned the other members to stay away, and she appreciated it. Otherwise, her life must be contained within the two rooms she kept above, and there wasn’t enough space for what she loved. She stretched and turned on her toes in a pirouette. There was only the distant murmur of the most determined gamblers in another part of the club. Aurelia moved past the sliding stage that pulled from the wall. Dominated by a grand fortepiano, along one wall stood a glass case containing various reed and wind instruments. Her skill with such was mediocre. Though she loved music, she wasn’t gifted at its creation.

  Flexing her feet, she glanced about, then her gaze settled on the Victrola beneath the stained-glass arch. Dancing always helped when she was in a mood, so she set the needle on the phonograph. The resultant sound was sweet, echoing off the stone for a richer resonance, a layered harmony of lament. Aurelia stretched, then she began.

  Toes pointed, arms arched, she flowed into the forms, letting instinct drive her movements: plie, pirouette, arabesque, fouette, glissade, jete, and again. She could hear her instructor’s accented voice calling out the steps. She melted into the music, tears shimmering in her eyes as she danced.

  Sometimes, freedom felt very much like an anchor.