Brimstone Bride. Barbara J. Hancock
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as a retreat to rest and recuperate. Her voice hadn’t been the same since the opera house fire that had almost claimed her life. Doctors said she would recover. That she only needed time. Yet it seemed ages since she’d been able to sing.
She admitted to no one that it seemed ages since she’d wanted to sing.
She’d left her toddling son with his daemon nanny, Sybil, and his hellhound, Grim. Surely, they could protect him even better than her until she could arrange their freedom. One more task for the Order.
But wasn’t it always one more, one more, one more?
She stepped into a coffee shop for an espresso after her flight. While she ordered, she noticed a thick-browed man in a nearby queue. He hadn’t been on her plane, but he had been at the Shreveport airport. She was certain she’d seen him there. He wore a simple suit with a boxy cut and he was bald, stocky, his face smooth and plain, but he didn’t move like a casual traveler.
Maybe he was an off duty soldier.
Maybe he was a ninja in disguise.
But Victoria suspected an even more nefarious origin.
She sipped her small, rich coffee. She even managed a smile for the barista who had boldly scrawled bella on her cup instead of Vic. His dark eyes flashed above a bright smile, but he didn’t distract her from the suspicious-looking man who now placed his order at the register beside her.
She didn’t catch the man’s name. She didn’t have to. Now that he was closer, she could see the movement of his muscles beneath his suit jacket. Its loose cut couldn’t hide his extreme physicality.
Suddenly, the man looked up and met her gaze. He took his coffee from the barista, ignoring the tip jar with its yellow smiley face sticker. She glanced away. Why should she give him an intimate glimpse of her fear?
He had to be a monk from the Order of Samuel. His smirk and the black gleam of his large pupils seemed too knowing. The monks were following her to make sure she complied.
Victoria abandoned her steaming cup in the waste bin, no longer needing the caffeine. She was wide-awake. The whole shop full of weary travelers must see her heart beating in her chest. The Order didn’t have to follow or threaten her further to make sure the job got done.
One threat toward Michael was enough.
Yet the look in the monk’s eyes did quicken her steps. She hurried outside to the waiting row of taxis, and took the dark gaze with her. His eyes had held no sympathy, only the fire of fanaticism. That hateful glow had haunted her life. She refused to let it haunt Michael’s as well.
* * *
The Turov mansion was a California Craftsman castle with hints of Imperial St. Petersburg in its columns and arches. The cab approached down a long, winding drive. Rather than the expected cedar shakes, the house was constructed of rough gray brick, its roof gleaming slate instead of Spanish tile. Several turrets were capped in domes of copper that glimmered gold in the sunset. The material was echoed in hammered metal on the mansion’s gutters and window frames. She had time to appreciate the gleam as the car neared the entrance where the driveway ended in a circular loop. There was something that touched her about its design. It was art, not merely architecture. There was personality evident in every curve, passion in every turret.
But the hundreds of shadowed windows seemed to warn that the walls might shelter a difficult personality and a dark passion.
When she saw the main house, her first thought was forever. She’d traveled the world. She’d walked on ancient cobblestones. She’d sung on stages much older than she was. Nightingale Vineyards hadn’t been here forever, but it seemed to proclaim that it would be. Maybe she was attributing Russian determination to its every brick, every line, because she knew its owner’s heritage. It was natural to assume the house was a reflection of the man.
Since the house intimidated as much as it piqued her curiosity, she looked away.
The inhabited portion of the estate was surrounded by landscaped gardens that eventually gave way to rolling hills of endless cultivated greenery. The grapevines stretched as far as Victoria could see. The magazine hadn’t captured the truth of the expanse. The setting sun bathed the vines in a warm russet haze.
The scent of roses enveloped her when she stepped from the car. Loamy earth, green vines and roses. She breathed deeply, reluctantly soothed. She’d paid the driver before she exited the vehicle. There were no bags beyond the purse she carried herself. The cab drove away and the night deepened as she paused. The garden beckoned, but the house waited, with only the windows on the ground level aglow. She would have to go in. She had to do what she’d come to do.
All around her, the vineyard grew. She swore she could almost feel the pervasive, steady creep of its tendrils. So alive. It was early in the growing season, but soon grapes would be plumping in heavy bunches. What was it like to choose a place, set down roots and thrive? No running. No hiding. It was all so beautiful and real. She could never give this to Michael, but she longed for it. The permanence.
For a while, she was alone beneath a sky gone violet and beginning to wink with waking stars.
And then she wasn’t.
She tried to ignore the sudden pull of Brimstone, holding herself in place because if she didn’t she would immediately move to its source. And its source was her enemy in spite of his allure.
Adam Turov.
It had to be.
“I can do this,” Victoria whispered under her breath, the hoarse sound of her voice still a surprise, though the fire had been over two years ago. She shouldered her handbag and moved toward the portico over the front entrance.
“There’s no turning back once you step through that door,” a voice said from the shadows.
The glow from the windows did little to illuminate her welcoming committee. He didn’t require illumination. She knew who and what he was before he came closer. As he approached, she instinctively inched away and looked over her shoulder.
The Order of Samuel had used her affinity to hunt daemons. She’d been a reluctant bloodhound since she was a young girl. She still was. It hadn’t ended. The man at the airport was stalking her. He might be out of sight, but he wasn’t out of mind. She reminded herself that this time she was here willingly. Her job was to uncover Turov’s secrets and help the Order shut him down.
For Michael.
She forced herself to halt her retreat.
Adam Turov stepped into the light near the front door and he surprised her. He seemed nearer to her age than she’d expected. But she knew he wasn’t. He was much, much older. Fear fluttered in her stomach and she tightened her impressively toned diaphragm against it. She was a welcome guest. A harmless opera singer looking for a restful vacation. She needed to act like he was her host, not her prey.
Her throat might not be up to par, but her core was as iron as ever. For Michael.
“Mr. Turov. It’s nice to meet you,” she said. She recognized him from the magazine she’d been shown. But that didn’t matter—she could feel the Brimstone in his blood. He had already found her because that Brimstone drew him to her like a moth to a flame. The thought was heady as well as frightening. He was tall, sinfully attractive and powerful. Her temperature had risen. His would run hotter than 98.6. Her cheeks flushed. The earthy spring air was cool against her skin. It was the Brimstone, but it was also the man and her deception. Her job had always been to create beautiful, dramatic fabrications onstage, but she wasn’t comfortable with lies offstage.
“Welcome to Sonoma. Are you ready to leave work and worry behind? I’ll show you to the cottage where you’ll be staying. You can freshen up and join us for a drink,” Turov said.
“Do you always personally greet your guests?” she asked.
He didn’t confirm his identity. He probably knew he didn’t need to. He was famous. One of the most eligible bachelors in California.