Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Harriet
“What’s up with the He-Man hand on my shoulder?” I say once we’re out of earshot. “I’m not territory for you to mark like some beast.”
“That is precisely what you are,” he says.
“I agreed to work for you. That doesn’t make me yours.”
Alexandru’s eyes glitter like black ice. “You are very much mine, Ms. Renfield. If that man were to so much as breathe at you wrong, he would be made to regret it—slowly and without mercy.”
“I mean, breathe at me wrong?”
Alexandru lowers his voice to an impossibly low register. “Deep down, he understands that now, though perhaps not the particulars.”
I swallow against the dryness in my mouth. “Newsflash: I can take care of myself.”
“Debatable, Ms. Renfield.”
We climb to the second level of the Glassworks Galleria complex. Alexandru strolls like a country lord surveying his lands. Heads swivel in his wake.
“Mr. Kip Kidderson is chaos-kissed,” he says. “The kind to start a fire just to watch the people scatter. He delighted in those accidents.”
“Really? Wow. Did you get any sense of guilt off of him?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean much. Some people cause trouble without guilt, and some people kill without guilt.”
“I suppose. And I didn’t appreciate how he sent Lisa away. I, for one, wanted to hear her scientific explanation.”
“Kip did not like that,” Alexandru agrees. “As for Harlan Delmere. He could kill. He has it in him.”
“You can tell that with a person?”
“I’ve known men like Harlan. I know what he is.”
“Interesting. And he was definitely invested in burying the curtain incident. Wow, could he be doing all of this? Once we get those guest lists from Sloane, maybe we’ll find that Harlan was at all of the accident weddings. He was definitely there when the deputy mayor died.”
Alexandru nods thoughtfully, pausing near a harpist.
“And that’s an interesting tidbit about Whitney, right?” I say. “I wish she were here. As a wedding planner, you’d think she’d want to keep her finger on the pulse.” I wince. “So to speak. Not literally.”
He flicks his gaze at me. “Don’t worry, I won’t go feral at the thought of blood,” he says. “For several days at least.”
I gaze up at him, so cool and composed. “I think you’re messing with me. I don’t think you’d go feral. I don’t think that’s your style.”
“But then, you don’t really know me, do you?”
It’s true—I don’t really know him. He’s a monster. He doesn’t think like a human. He might even see the world differently—on a visual level—like when you see a picture of how your cat perceives the world and it’s a lot of gray blobs.
And there’s also his sexytimes insinuations: Am I able to use my superior senses to give a woman the most exquisite, most soul-shattering pleasure she’s ever known?
It’s disturbingly easy to imagine those dark, liquid eyes locked on a lover’s, hands skimming over skin, mapping each shiver, using his animal senses to know where to linger, where to press harder, how to push her over the edge...
I shake the picture from my mind as we pass a confectioner’s display full of dessert samples.
If only they were offering brain bleach.
“This outing has been helpful. We learned of two new accidents to investigate!”
We turn a corner and find Sloane stationed behind a pale oak table lined with bespoke invitations and paper samples. Her hair is in a roll, like she just stepped off the set of Downton Abbey.
“Well, well,” she says. “Hello, Alexandru. You’re still humoring our poor Harriet and her theories, I see.” Her gaze drifts to me, assessing and amused.
I smile, remembering what Alexandru said about Sloane being curious about our investigation. It’s the high school reporter in her. “We’ve discovered some very important information, actually,” I say with a glance up at Alexandru. “A few bombshells, in fact.”
“That’s nice.” Sloane folds her hands on the table like a patient hostess. “But if you’re still hoping for those guest lists, my answer hasn’t changed.”
A hand on my arm. Alexandru. “If you’ll excuse us, Sloane,” he says.
Sloane’s eyes laser beam to where he touches me.
I look at her, innocently enough.
“What’s up?” I ask as he guides me across the room.
“She’s here.”
“Who?” But then I see her. Whitney is teaching some kind of mini workshop about tying cloth bows around little boxes to a group of women sitting at a long table.
She comes over when she sees us. “You’re Granabelle’s granddaughter, right? Would you like to try your hand at the fine art of bridesmaid giftwrap?”
“No, we’re just wandering around,” I say, introducing Alexandru.
“The prince!” she exclaims.
Inwardly, I roll my eyes. The Ashwood grapevine strikes again.
“Let me give you my card,” Whitney says conspiratorially.
“We’re not here planning a wedding or anything,” I say.
“I understand.” She winks and tucks her card into my hand. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
A woman comes up to show her an elaborately tied bow.
“If you’ll excuse me.” She leads the woman back to the table, making delighted noises of admiration.
“You think she has it in her?” I ask Alexandru.
Alexandru looks thoughtful. “Not the way Harlan does, but all humans have it in them.”
His gaze slides to mine, and I know he’s thinking about the neck stab.