Chapter Ten
Calliope faced a rather disturbing dilemma.
Two, if she counted the door she stood before.
Fury’s. The word loomed above her in bold, slashing strokes, as though the very paint had been laid down with a snarl. Stars, it was only a door, only a building, and yet the word alone had been enough to stir up dilemma one—the Maxen-shaped one.
The mess in her shop had been cleared, floors scrubbed clean, and the new door practically glowed in its newness. But that wasn’t the dilemma. The dilemma wasn’t even rational. It was that . . .
Urhg.
She had no reason to stay next door.
No excuse to stick to Maxen Fury’s side.
Which meant, of course, she would be alone tonight.
Upstairs. In the dark. In the same place she’d been when a stranger had broken in.
Since using his bed again was out of the question, she told herself she would be fine.
The intruder had been caught. There were new locks now, reinforced windows, and she still had Prince.
But there was one thought she hadn’t dared let herself think until now.
What if the person behind the intruder was Duvessa?
The moment she allowed the question to surface, the possibility latched on.
Cold. Relentless. Petrifying. She hadn’t run all this way only for her past to follow.
Quite frankly, if she were being absolutely honest with herself, she didn’t believe she’d gained enough of a foothold, enough confidence, to stand her ground against her stepmother.
Which in itself was rather disappointing.
And then had come the summons. Delivered by a boy no older than twelve, a folded note with no signature.
Miss Turner, please meet me at Fury’s at seven o’clock.
The request still made her skin crawl.
So ominous.
And Fury’s?
This establishment must belong to Maxen or one of his brothers.
However, this missive could not be from any of them.
No, Maxen and his brood weren’t the type to send over notes.
They didn’t summon. They collected. There was only one man who might send such a thing, and who also had a similar scrawl.
Mr. Rollings.
Fie. What was she to do? Her heart told her not to go. Her brain shouted the same. After all, nothing good had come of the last time she’d followed such a request. However . . .
She wanted answers.
Which was why Calliope had once again ventured out dressed as a lad—the same garments she’d worn the night she’d fled the scene of Mr. Rollings’s .
. . misfortune. Not smart. Not safe. But not entirely reckless either.
After all, it was early evening, and it was public.
People were inside. Light from candles glowed from the windows.
She harbored no illusions that she passed for a boy, but the clothing was serviceable, unencumbered.
It allowed her to move quickly, to melt into the edges of the street rather than announce herself as a woman strolling around in the dark.
She squared her shoulders, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
The smell pressed against her first. Not of drink or smoke, but of absence—like her father’s study after he passed away, when his presence could no longer be found, yet the scent of him still faintly clung to his chair. The memory of herself curled in that very chair flashed in her mind.
How odd that it should resurface here.
Her gaze swept the room.
The tavern was all but empty—except for four men.
One behind the bar, drying a glass with a rag, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
A second had dragged a chair close to the counter and sprawled there as if the spot belonged to him, legs stretched out and crossed at his ankles.
A third slouched in a far corner, his coat open, daggers visible along the inside cut. The fourth man across from him . . .
All had grim faces. Unsmiling. Watchful.
And all their focus turned to her the moment she entered.
A chill seized her.
Every single instinct demanded she turn and run. Who was she to deny that warning? Calliope spun toward the door. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal, dreadful mistake—
“Well, good day, little mouse.”
The voice curled around her nerves like a snare of thorns.
She froze. Mouse?
Slowly, Calliope turned. Was this the man from last night? Maxen’s man? The one who carelessly used the word spy?
He grinned at her from ear to ear, pushing to his feet from his spot at the table, a coin moving over his knuckles. “What brings you to our humble lair this time of night?”
Her gaze couldn’t help but jump between that smile, the scar that slashed his brow, and the wicked flash in his eyes.
Now that she took in him, his companions, the place itself, the tavern bore the unmistakable feel of a lair.
The space reminded Calliope of a bit of the attic where she spent much of her time as a girl.
Although that place was used to lock her away at times, that cramped room had become a refuge of sorts, even when the door locked shut.
“I am meeting someone.”
His smile turned wolfish. “Here?”
Her mouth dried. Where are you. Mr. Rollings? “Yes, here.”
The man arched a brow. “Is that so? Who would you be meeting, then, little mouse?”
She lifted her chin, challenging, “Is that any of your business, sir?”
“Of course. This is not just any tavern where people can meet.”
Right. This was a lair. “Is this tavern open to business?”
“Open, yes, to people who have business with us. Do you have business with us, little mouse?”
“I am not a mouse.” And she didn’t have business with anyone present.
But Mr. Rollings might? But why lure her here?
Unless he wanted her to walk into this situation .
. . which would be beyond disturbing. Stars, she should feel fear, concern, downright panic, but instead, all she felt was that same crackle beneath her skin she’d felt while slipping out of her old house without being caught.
No. This was most certainly not the work of Duvessa. But that begged the question. Who?
Her gaze flicked between the men staring at her.
Unmoving.
Expressionless.
Like gargoyles carved from stone. Well, except for Mr. Grin over here.
“See something interesting?” Mr. Grin asked.
“Friends of yours?” she countered, gaze drifted over the other men present again.
A chuckle. “Something like that.”
On second glance, they all did look similar. Familiar.
All dressed in black.
All with dark hair.
All with eyes like ink—deep and shadowed and far too knowing.
Like they could be—
Furys.
Her breath locked.
They had to be. The resemblance was so uncanny she didn’t know why she didn’t notice the similarities from the start. They each resembled him in one form or another. There was a reflection of Maxen in each man.
Fury’s.
Indeed.
A family tavern.
She swept the place with a renewed understanding. Cold. No fire crackled to heat up the room. No other people from about town. No liveliness here. Maxen’s quarters came to mind.
Another lair, she supposed.
And while nothing about this place felt safe, nothing about their presence felt threatening either.
“You’re Maxen’s brothers.”
He laughed. “That we are, little mouse.”
“Did you send me a note to meet here?” she asked the man.
“Little mouse, I never send notes.” He cocked his head. “With or without a note, you shouldn’t come alone to a place like this.”
Calliope jutted out her chin defiantly. “I can handle myself.” She could run really, really fast.
“Is that so?” He raked his gaze over her too knowingly.
“I’m sure whoever asked to meet here has their reasons. However, I hate to intrude on your lair—”
“You’re not.”
Hah. “So I’ll be on my way.”
“But you just got here.” His voice dropped to a purr.
Calliope’s hand twitched near her side. She’d once again forgotten to add her pistol to her outfit. “That doesn’t mean I can’t leave.”
The man’s smile turned into a smirk, and he shared a look with the man at the bar. “Did you really get a note to meet you here or were you just curious?”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Interesting that this is the first thing your pretty little head jumps to.”
Urgh! What an annoying man. “You accused me of that last night, too.”
He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Did I?”
She narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. “And I’m not in the habit of wandering into strange places out of curiosity.”
“Well, from where I stand, you are either fiercely brave or wildly foolish.”
“I assure you, I am both.”
At that, one of the other men—one still seated lazily—let out a dry chuckle. Well, just a short one, but the sound scraped down her nerves like a match struck too close to her skin. How diabolical!
“That you may just be,” the man behind the bar said flatly.
“You said you didn’t send a note,” Calliope pointed out to man before her. “What about one of them?”
“They didn’t either,” came the matter-of-fact response. “No one in their right mind would ask you to meet them here.”
Not even Mr. Rollings?
But she couldn’t ask that, and that in itself made her pause.
Mr. Rollings would never ask her to meet here, would he?
He’d have come to her, or given how his interaction with her landlord had transpired, meet her somewhere else.
Given their relationship, despite that one request to meet outside, she didn’t think he would purposefully place her under the attention from these men.
She knew it for certain then.
This was the doing of someone else. But why her? She’d done nothing wrong. She only had one enemy—family. This must have something to do with Maxen. But what, and how, she couldn’t begin to imagine.
Something was most decidedly afoot.
A thought struck her.
He didn’t know she was here.
And for the first time since stepping through that door, Calliope felt something entirely different curl through her belly.
Anticipation.