Jenn Bennett - Grim Shadows

“That’s one way to look at it.” A gentle smile curved his mouth.

Well. Couldn’t hold his hand forever. But as she withdrew, he held on to her, just as he had when they first met in the train station. This time she didn’t fight it.

“I’ve often worried that I might never be able to touch a woman again without her having to swallow disgust in order to tolerate it.”

“I suppose that would depend on the woman.” A practical observation, or that was her intention, but the way his head tilted, just a bit—the slightest of movements—she knew he’d read more into it. Perhaps she didn’t mind that he did. She certainly liked the sturdy feel of his hand holding hers. Some stranger living inside her head wistfully imagined that very hand running up her glove to her bare arm. Just a test, to see if she could “tolerate” it, as he’d said. Just the thought made her stomach flutter nervously.

“You don’t think it’s grotesque?” he asked.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m an admirer of the grotesque and grim.”

Lowe squinted one eye. “Are you flirting with me, Hadley Bacall?”

“I really wouldn’t know where to start,” she replied honestly.

A nearby couple shuffled past them to the other side of the pool. Lowe tugged her out of their earshot, into an awning’s shadow. His head dipped lower, his face an inch away from hers again—only this time, she wasn’t sure what intimidated her more: the angry Lowe, or the Lowe that looked as if he might ravish her right there in the dark of the courtyard. “What’s the verdict? Do you trust me now?”

“Maybe.”

“Only maybe?”

“Temporarily. Until the next lie.”

“Maybe I won’t tell another lie tonight. Maybe I’ll be so virtuous, you’ll nominate me for sainthood.”

“Refraining from deception for one night is hardly virtue.”

“Mm-hmm. Expert on virtue, are you?”

“Expert on several things, but virtue isn’t one.”

“Happy to hear it,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. “You know, I always thought the wicked deserved their own sort of canonization. It’s tough being immoral. Requires skill and perseverance.”

“And a certain amount of natural talent, I’d think.”

“Most definitely. I like to believe I was born bad. Shifts the burden of blame to my bloodline.”

She chuckled softly.

“Fan,” he murmured in Swedish. “You should do that more often.”

The scent of laundry starch wafted when he lifted his good hand to her, slowly. The tips of his fingers traced the petals of the lily at her ear, sending a cascade of tremors through her hair, across her scalp, down her neck. It lit up her nerves and cells and spread like wildfire.

Pleasure.

She barely recognized the feeling. All her muscles tightened to hold back a shudder. Good God, it wasn’t even a real touch and she was drowning in it. Perhaps it was halfway real, because she realized he was still holding her hand. Or she was holding his. Someone was gripping harder. It might’ve been her.

His head dipped lower. He inhaled the blossom and whispered, “Intoxicating.”

He was so close. Close enough for her to catch a faint note of vanilla in his pomade. Close enough to shield her bare arms from the cool night air. Close enough that the lapel of his jacket brushed against her nipples.

Her breath caught as another wave of tremulous pleasure waterfalled over her skin, and she was drowning again. So very near. She wanted to lean her cheek against his. Wanted his mouth on—

A nearby booming voice tore into her thoughts.

“Dinner is served in ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”

WITH A START, HADLEY dropped Lowe’s hand and looked around. Across the courtyard, a servant held a door open and beckoned the stragglers.

The loss of Lowe’s warmth was acute and nearly painful to her confused body. Her mind slogged to catch up. “We should . . . dinner,” Hadley said dumbly.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.”

“I was supposed to be helping Father with . . .” Helping with what? Why wasn’t her brain working properly?

“Introductions,” he offered helpfully.

“Right.” Introductions. Yes. Something to focus on. Good.

They shuffled inside the hall, a short distance that seemed to take years to traverse. In a daze, she managed to introduce him to a few board members and one of the other curators before they were forced to hunt for their place cards and sit down for dinner. Oliver was seated to her left and Lowe was across from her, next to her father. She guiltily kept her eyes on the silver and china, as if nearby diners could guess what had recently transpired in the courtyard.

“Say, are you all right?” Oliver murmured, not once, but twice. Yes, yes. Fine. Was he still asking? The tone of his voice sounded like her father’s nagging.

The soup arrived, but she was still in a trance. And when she dared look at Lowe, his waiting, heavy stare sent her heart racing again.

When the fish course was being cleared, her father patted along his place setting, and his beleaguered assistant emerged from the shadows to help. Father then dinged his spoon on his water glass until conversation sputtered to a halt. “Many thanks to the Widow Flood for opening up her lovely home for us this evening,” he announced. Cheers and hurrahs circled the tables. “This night is always a special time for us each year, not just because many of you are graciously opening your pocketbooks for your annual tax break—I mean donation to our fine museum.”

Laughter echoed off the marble walls.

“But it’s also a time for us to see old friends. To reflect on what we’ve accomplished this year, and to share our hopes for the coming one. And as you all know, my health is not what it once was. Now, now. Don’t pity me. I’m not at death’s door yet. But I am old and tired, and I have given the antiquities department twenty-five good years. It’s time to let someone younger and brighter have a crack at it.”

Hadley’s pulse doubled. The haze lifted from her brain. Was her father announcing his replacement tonight, right here, in front of the board of trustees and the director? She’d expected him to wait until next month’s board meeting, but he was doing it now.

Oh, God. A speech would be expected. Nothing long, but she wasn’t prepared to say anything in front of these people. It was a bittersweet surprise, but a thrilling one. All she had to do was say a few words and be gracious, and perhaps try not to gloat at George, who was whispering something to one of the patron’s wives down the table.

Hadley glanced at Lowe and felt her cheeks heat. Why she wanted his respect, she couldn’t say. Silly, really, but she was glad he was here to see this. All her hard work would finally be recognized.

Her father coughed before continuing. “As all of you know by now, Mr. Lowe Magnusson has just returned from a well-publicized excavation in Philae.” Hold on. Why was he talking about Lowe? “He has graciously offered to give the museum an exclusive opportunity to bid on the Philae finds.”

Hadley’s pulse swished in her temples. She couldn’t concentrate on her father’s words. Degree. University of California, Berkeley. With honors. Rising star in his field. She stared at Lowe. He looked as confused as she felt. Her breath came too fast.

“. . . and so it is with great enthusiasm that I nominate Mr. Magnusson as a candidate for primary consideration to continue my legacy.”

A round of polite applause roared in her ears. Lowe was saying something in reply, how it was unexpected and an honor to even be considered, and something else she couldn’t catch.

Considered for her job. She was her father’s legacy. Heir apparent. She had studied for it. Worked for it. And she damn well deserved it. More than any man sitting at this table. A thousand times more than Lowe Magnusson.

He briefly shook his head at her, claiming innocence. Bravo. What a performance. Quietly charm the girl in the garden—an easy task, because she was so starved for company that any scrap of affection thrown her way would do—then sit back and claim your crown.

What a fool she was.

Rage and hurt called the Mori, who rose up from the floor. Dark limbs, blinking eyes, grotesque features. Monsters, fueled by her pain. Dead things pulled from the Spirit World. Things she didn’t understand and could barely control, but they coalesced into a writhing mass of gloom and shifting shadow, crawling up the marble walls and columns. Sniffing out opportunity as they tugged images from her mind.

Command us, they whispered inside her head. Dark avengers, ready and willing to do her bidding. To avenge her through abhorrent deeds. Through fright. Injury.

And death.

Her negative emotions were like carrion. Drawn to them, the specters scavenged her mind, always hungry. And they were hers to command.

Him, she thought, as angry tears flooded her eyes. No, both of them. Her father for his betrayal. And Lowe for carrying it out and lying to her face. Both of them.

The museum director was standing, raising a toast, while her specters slithered across the ceiling like a cloud of black exhaust toward their goal: a massive crystal chandelier dangling high above the table.

A rumble shook the ceiling.

The guests stilled, poised with glasses in hand.

Until his blindness, her father could see the specters. But now the great Dr. Bacall was as oblivious as the rest of the guests, who assigned an easy logical excuse to the unnatural act—

“Earthquake?”

Once the word flew out of someone’s mouth, fear dominoed down the table.