7. Dark Days Coming （Talia）

7

DARK DAYS COMING (TALIA)

I am a secret agent.

I am a smart, sexy secret agent who is totally ready for this.

I am a smart, sexy secret agent who is so totally ready to blindside Xavier Arrendell. Dazzle him. Completely bamboozle him.

I am—

I'm staring at myself in the mirror with my hair a frizzy mess around my face, my skirt seam ripped up one side, and my pantyhose completely ruined.

I'm supposed to meet Xavier to tell him we'll take the job, discuss details, and finalize the contract proposal in forty-five minutes.

And I look like I just tumbled out of an industrial dryer.

I've been a mess since last night.

Too many things whirling through my head.

Memories of the feral way Micah moved in the dark, like a snow leopard prowling through the trees, pure animal.

The shock at seeing Chief Bowden in the woods, helping the Jacobins hide their dirty laundry. Impossibly more sinister than the man who used to play Santa Claus for the kids a few Christmases ago.

It's changed everything, knowing that our seedy little underbelly involves more than bad whiskey that could fry your gut bacteria.

Then there's the skepticism at myself. I just took Micah's word for everything, his explanations about what I saw.

And the uneasy feeling that it really is believable.

Because there's something off about Xavier.

There's something off about Redhaven, too, and everyone who's lived here for more than a few years knows it. They've learned to live with it the way people near a factory learn to live with industrial smells and noise.

You know it's always there, but eventually you get desensitized. You stop asking questions if it doesn't affect you directly. You shrug when you read articles about groundwater getting tainted with cancer-causing chemicals.

Maybe we should wake up.

Maybe we should start asking more questions around here.

My only question now, though, is how I'm going to make myself presentable enough to get away with this fraud.

Originally, I had this idea of going in all sleek and sexy, rocking the femme fatale look. Xavier did look at me with—you know, the way men do—so I thought maybe if I made myself pretty it'd be easier to distract him and get him to slip up.

I'm bad at this, okay?

Right now, I'm less worried about making myself pretty and more concerned with looking human and professional.

I barely slept a wink last night.

That's why I wound up steaming my hair into a coppery-red Brillo cloud. Trying to tame it with a flat-iron just heat-crackled it into something that looks like the fiber stuffing inside a duvet, and then I went and made it worse by going out in the early morning dew to fetch the repaired truck from Mort's garage. With all this fumbling around, now my whole outfit sucks.

Yeah, I'm so not ready for this.

Not sure I'll ever be.

I sink down on my bed with a groan, fumbling for my phone and staring down at Micah's contact. He's listed under V for Vampire Man.

Seriously, I don't want to disappoint him.

But I'm clearly not cut out for this, and if I screw up, there's no denying the risks.

I could get him hurt or worse, if Xavier and the Jacobins figure out Micah's watching them so closely.

Hey, I send. I think I'm getting cold feet. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me?

I'm not expecting a quick answer.

He's probably on his way to work or there already—if he's not still out walking Rolf. So I'm surprised when my phone buzzes in my hand.

I yelp and almost drop it before I clutch it to my chest.

Calm down, girl .

Micah: Are you all right?

Just that.

No demand for explanations, no condemnation, no scorn. Just a simple question, and it's a question a lot of people wouldn't ask when they'd be razor-focused on their own selfish goals.

I tease my lower lip with my teeth as I text back.

No, I answer. My nerves are shot. I'm such a mess I can't get out the door. I look like a circus clown someone tossed in the dryer for three hours. I'm scared, Micah. So scared I'll screw this up and Xavier will figure it out, and then he'll come after you.

There's a long silence before my phone pings again.

Micah: That's why you're nervous? You're worried about me?

Yes! I answer hesitantly. Please don't hate me?

It's true.

So maybe I'm a little worried about what Xavier could do to me or my grandfather, but it's my job to take care of myself. Of us .

I'd panic, sure, but I could figure out what to do if it was just me and Grandpa at stake. But knowing there's so much more riding on this…

No, I won't stand it if my clumsiness gets Micah hurt when all he wants is justice for his brother, for so many victims.

I don't know the whole story there.

Still, the look on his face spoke volumes last night, when he told me his brother was dead.

It cut me to the bone.

A few moments later, he replies.

I'm not afraid of Xavier goddamned Arrendell. He won't hurt me. I won't let him hurt you. But if you're that afraid, no. I won't hate you if you back out. Don't push yourself too hard, Talia. It's okay. The choice is always yours.

I actually believe him.

I believe he won't hold a grudge if I quit. If I chicken out.

Trouble is, I'd hate myself plenty to make up for it.

I've spent my entire life trying to be more than the weak, sickly girl, haven't I?

Now, the second I'm put to the test, I want to hide?

Hell no.

It's not pushing, I answer, then take a selfie, cringing at the camera and wincing as I tap Send. But look at me. Like I said, circus clown. I'm in no shape to dazzle anyone, much less pull anything over on him.

Micah: Tell me one thing, woman.

I wait while he types with my breath stalled.

Micah: Why the hell are you trying to be anything besides your own gorgeous self?

I gasp.

The man knows how to hit hard, not mincing words. He's also annoyingly right.

…I guess I'm trying to be the type of girl Xavier would find appealing.

Micah: Talia Grey is appealing as hell. Just be comfortable. Be you. The more real you are, the more natural you'll be around him.

He's right again, but I'm stuck on one thing, trying not to grin like an idiot.

Talia Grey is appealing as hell.

I stare down at my phone, biting my lower lip so hard it hurts, but I hardly notice.

He can't mean that the way it sounds, can he?

Before I can figure out what to say back, he texts again.

Micah: Besides, you're less Ronald McDonald and more Raggedy Ann.

Oh, thanks. Such an upgrade, I text back, but I can't help laughing, the tension relaxing a little.

Micah just has this way.

Somehow, he makes me feel better with the smallest things, and I don't think he realizes it. He's such a quiet man, but he speaks with certainty—and when he really unsheathes himself, there's this steady, unwavering conviction in every word.

Micah: Raggedy Ann's cuter. You feel better now?

I am. I'm going to be a little late to meet Xavier, but I think I can get myself together and out the door.

Micah: No need. That's not why I was asking.

I smile, running my thumb along the edge of my phone. I know. But I want to do this anyway. I'll text you when I get there.

Micah: If I don't hear from you in three hours, I'm coming after you.

My eyes widen.

Three hours? What if I'm working there all day?

Micah: Check in. Let me know you're safe.

There it is again.

He's so adamant, despite the fact that he's a silent sentinel. It's all part of what makes him so—

So Micah.

I will, I promise. Then I put my phone down and try to make myself as presentable as possible.

It's easier to think with Micah's concern and protective fierceness buoying me. I take another quick shower, washing my hair again and scrubbing my botched makeup off, then towel dry my hair.

I redo my makeup—forgetting the foundation this time and just going for natural accents. A soft-pink lip gloss and subtle touches of rose along the creases of my eyelids, accented by a little liner and mascara, should do the trick.

Since there's no salvaging my skirt and I don't have another pair of pantyhose, I go for my nicest jeans and strappy sandals, paired with a loose, fluttery blouse in pale shell pink. Depending how I move it, I can skew it to one side and turn it into an off-the-shoulder blouse or rise up enough to become a crop top, even if it only shows an inch of flesh. I finish off the look with a patterned scarf in light-rose shades, knotted loosely against my neck so that the ends trail to one side and fall down my chest and back.

Casual. A little flirty, but not too much.

Stylish enough to pass for casual-professional chic even if it doesn't dress up enough for real business casual.

Since Xavier's giving me a tour today, I can say I dressed for the job. That house is fricking enormous, and I'd be ready to collapse trying to handle that hike in a pencil skirt and pumps.

I look cute, though.

And I kind of wish it wasn't Xavier I was getting dressed up for.

No.

No way.

I'm still riding that high, romanticizing Micah as my very own vampire man.

Really, I'm just a useful tool to him. An unlikely partner, if I'm being generous.

All of that growly business by text about protecting me, coming for me, that's just him guarding his investment in this weird little spy mission.

So I take a deep breath, check myself over one more time, and peek inside my folio to make sure I've got my work stuff before tumbling out of my room with my damp hair swaying against my shoulders. It'll finish drying on the walk up the hill.

I'm not risking the truck stalling out at the big house again, and the walk will help clear my head.

When I step into the kitchen, my grandfather's sitting at the kitchen table, lingering over an almost empty mug of tea. He glances up and offers me a smile.

"Heading up to the Arrendell place?"

"Mm-hmm." I bend and kiss his wrinkled cheek. "Going to take the tour, get some photos, discuss what Xavier needs, and start sketching."

I start to pull away, but he catches my wrist gently.

His fingers are long and tough despite the arthritis. His touch always makes me think of home when those hands have guided mine as he taught me over so many patient hours and months and years how to work miracles with wood.

They're careful, sensitive hands, full of love. But the way he holds my wrist so delicately captivates me as he looks at me with blue eyes full of that same love—and concern.

"Tally," he whispers. "You're not pushing yourself too hard?"

One reason I love Grandpa is that he always lets me set my own limits.

He always asks what I can handle, instead of telling me.

Smiling, I gently pull my wrist free so I can lean over him and hug him tight, resting my chin on his head.

"I'm not," I promise. "I'll let you know if I am or if I need help. We're going to have to hire some outsiders for this project anyway. It wouldn't be so bad to have a few apprentices around."

He curls his hand against my arm and leans against me, his bristly grey hair scratching my cheek.

"Think you're ready to teach some young'uns?" He chuckles. "You've got a good eye for it."

His praise brightens my spirits. By the time I snag a muffin and a bottled coffee from the fridge and head out, I'm feeling much lighter.

Also, far more ready to stare down Xavier Arrendell with a smile, never giving away that underneath the grin I'm actually Talia Grey, sexy spy girl extraordinaire.

I have a vivid imagination.

My brain dreams up several scenarios with Xavier as I make my way uphill, enjoying the brisk morning walk while nibbling my muffin.

Hopefully, this will just be a normal client consultation. I'll follow him through the house, take notes on everything, write down his ideas, take photos, and make a few sketches if anything strikes me on the spot.

It'll give me a chance to really see the place and keep an eye out for anything useful to Micah. I mean, I doubt Xavier leaves bricks of cocaine lying around, but there might be something.

Trays with leftover residue.

Paperwork related to illegal shipments.

Even something coded and scribbled in a calendar—or like a diazepam kit.

I Googled that last night, and I'm a little proud of myself for it. Diazepam treats a cocaine overdose, so if Xavier's got himself a habit, he'd probably keep some around just in case he went a little too wild and needed treatment without anyone else finding out.

Who knows, I might just turn out to be good at this spy thing.

I'm feeling awkward again when I climb the steps to the mansion and realize I've still got my crumpled muffin wrapper and an empty coffee bottle.

I hold them tightly as the valet from before greets me with a muted "Miss Grey" and opens the doors for me. I look around for a trash can, but there's nothing.

Jeeves lets out a patient sigh and holds out his hands for my trash.

"Sorry!" I mutter. I hand them over and follow the stone-faced man to Xavier's office.

The mansion's a little less intimidating the second time around, but I get that same feeling of unease when the valet brings me into Xavier's space. He's settled behind his desk, seemingly engrossed in a thick leatherbound hardcover book, but as I step inside he lifts his head with a charming, surface-level smile that doesn't reach his lidded green eyes.

"Talia Grey," he says.

I fight a shudder.

I haven't asked him to call me anything besides Miss Grey, and he makes my name sound oily and oddly possessive.

But I force a smile, trying to keep it natural, though I can't stop how my hands clench on the strap of my bag.

"Mr. Arrendell," I say. "Good morning. I hope I'm not late for our walk-through?"

"Not late enough to matter." He rises smoothly and sets the book down with a decisive thump , closing it without marking his page.

What kind of weirdo does that?

He rounds the desk, reaching for me with both hands—but I slip out of the way, trying to make it look like I'm just moving to keep from blocking the doorway as we step into the hall.

Xavier gives me a long look and smiles again, showing just a hint of teeth.

"You look eager today," he rumbles.

"I've never taken on a project this large before," I deflect. "I'm a bit excited, yes. I love to really flex my imagination."

"That's what I like to hear. I hope you'll give me the full benefit of your… creativity ."

It's an innocuous statement, yet the way he purrs the last word… Ick.

A lump rises in my throat, but I ignore it and keep smiling. "So where did you want to start?"

There's a long, lingering look, one that dips over my bare collarbones.

It's like he's actually touching me, and it feels unclean—but it also feels like he's testing me, too. Trying to see how easily he can make me react.

I fight to keep my bright smile even if it feels completely vapid now. I'd rather let him think I'm stupid than figure out how uncomfortable he truly makes me. I have a funny feeling knowing it would just make him do it more .

He seems to like getting me flustered.

And I remember Micah said it would be easier for Xavier not to suspect me if he thinks I'm a fluttery mess all the time, but I don't want to be that person right now.

I want to be someone Micah can rely on.

So I just look at Xavier, blinking like I have no idea why he's just staring at me and not saying anything, until he finally looks away with a grim smile.

"This way. We'll start with the first floor and work our way up." He glances down at my feet. "I hope those shoes are comfortable?"

"Very, thank you," I say brightly, moving to follow him at a slight distance as he leads me down the hall.

From that point on, it's all business.

I'm too blissfully absorbed in my notes to notice if Xavier gets creepy-eyed again, writing down details about the Ionic columns in the grand hall, how the first floor uses oak for doors and accents while the second, third, and fourth floors rely on mahogany and ash wood. He tells me parts of them were built over generations, noting the number of bedrooms and suites and how each room seems designed to let in gobs of natural light from the gaping windows.

I quickly sketch the black-and-white pattern of the floor tiles in the main hall, taking down notes on the colors of the walls, the draperies, dimensions. I snap photos like mad to supplement.

I'm listening to Xavier, too, as he tells me how the place always felt like the Winchester House, to him—a living beast that just grew over decades in this rambling sprawl.

I get the feeling.

I studied the Winchester House during my architectural courses. Sarah Winchester, heiress to a rifle fortune, went kind of house crazy because she thought the ghosts of everyone killed by their guns were after her for revenge.

So she just kept building to confuse the ghosts and made the place as unnavigable as possible. Staircases that ended on empty air, rooms with no doors, hallways to nowhere, winding passageways and switchbacks.

The end result was a living Escher painting, baffling and sometimes dangerous.

Now, the Arrendell house isn't that surreal and unstructured, but somehow, it's got a similar eerie vibe.

This odd, disjointed thing that doesn't quite fit together and doesn't feel like a home, but more like a museum where people live.

It just feels like a twisted collection of ghosts and dead dreams.

"I think," Xavier says as we stop on the very top floor, standing against the railing, looking down over the main hall with a close-up view of the giant crystal chandelier, "I would like this house to somehow feel smaller. Look at that." He gestures to a pair of wingback chairs in the corner of the main hall, ivory-upholstered and gold-accented. "From up here, those chairs look tiny, don't they?"

"Like they belong in a dollhouse," I agree, pausing my furious scribbling.

"The backs of those chairs stand head and shoulders above my height," he says. "This house was built to be imposing and grand, but all it does is make the people inside it feel small."

I stop, looking away from the chairs to Xavier.

There's kind of a Jekyll and Hyde thing with him sometimes.

Like there might actually be a human being buried deep under the smarmy rich creep. You see it in the little changes with how he talks, in his expressions. That change settles over him now as he looks thoughtfully over the enormous main hall.

There's something distant in his eyes, something haunted.

Like maybe not all of the ghosts in this house are dead.

"Is that what you want us to do?" I ask. "Make the house feel warmer? Less austere and cold?"

"I'm not sure if that's possible as long as a single Arrendell lives under this roof," he mutters. I think it's the first honest thing he's ever said in my presence. "However, if you could make it feel more like a home—a stylish one, admittedly—and less like a human display case, that would be appreciated."

"I can try," I say firmly. "Do you have any ideas for what you want to start with? Any particular styles you love?"

"I admit this isn't my area of expertise, so no. I'm open to suggestions." He glances at his watch, pulling the sleeve of his expensive suit back before sweeping a hand out, gesturing toward the stairs. Just like that, with an almost mocking bow, the smug asshole returns. "If you'll allow me—we're pressed for time. You should see the outbuildings."

Pressed for time? Why?

But I keep the question to myself as I follow him downstairs.

He leads me through a complex maze of corridors, sections that look mostly like servants' areas, the kind of behind-the-scenes halls that let them get around easily—until one opens to the midday sun and pathways leading out into expansive grounds.

Much larger than I expected, honestly.

The massive labyrinthine grounds feel like they must have their own dimension apart from Redhaven to be able to fit on the backside of the hill where the mansion perches.

Xavier shows me stables, gardeners' sheds, the pool and pool house, a hedge maze, storage buildings, and long fields for riding around and playing cricket.

I keep snapping photos, partly with an eye for work and partly looking for anything that could help Micah.

So far, I haven't spotted anything useful. But maybe Micah's experienced eye will catch something in the photos I overlooked as mundane.

What's definitely not mundane, though, is the sudden shift in tone as Xavier leads me between two hedgerows into a quiet clearing in the middle of a grove of willows. There's a flower-lined pond on one side and a small table in the center, draped in white fabric and set up for two.

A man in Arrendell livery stands at attention beside a cart piled high with covered dishes, right next to an ice bucket and a gleaming champagne bottle.

My brain stops cold.

I blink at the table, then at Xavier.

He smiles indulgently, like he's expecting me to be impressed.

"I thought we could discuss the contract and quotes over lunch," he says. "I had it prepared in advance."

"O-oh. Oh, wow. Very thoughtful."

That's why he was checking his watch?

So he could spring this on me?

I try not to frown.

Now this entire consultation feels like a ruse to get me into this date-like situation, but no. I can't flatter myself that way.

No one—not even an Arrendell—would go through this much trouble to get a girl like me in an uncomfortable situation for very little payout besides getting to watch me squirm. Right?

So I just brush it off with a smile.

"Thanks," I clip. "I had a light breakfast, so I'm starving."

He almost looks disappointed I'm not gushing all over him.

But he moves to pull my chair out.

Yes, it takes all my willpower to grit my teeth and keep smiling as I settle down and set my folio and bag against the chair.

I hate the creepy-crawly feeling that darts through me as he leans over, pushing my chair in.

His body heat, yikes.

I catch a whiff of an odd smell wafting off him—like burning rubber mixed with nail polish remover? If that's his aftershave, he should really look into changing it, and there goes my appetite, too.

So when the servant sets plates in front of us with everything from egg salad sandwiches to shrimp cocktails, custard cups, and some sort of savory thin-sliced beef dish drizzled in gravy, I'm ready to gag.

Across from me, Xavier looks at me mildly.

"Are you well, Talia? You look a little pale."

"I—oh. I sat down too fast, that's all. It's a side effect of my asthma, orthostatic hypotension. Sometimes if I move too fast, my blood pressure drops." I'm babbling now. There goes the cool, calm spy lady with her smile etched in stone. But I'd rather reveal that little vulnerability about myself than tell him that his body odor or cologne or whatever nauseated me that much. I force a shaky smile. "Just give me a second and it'll simmer down."

"Miss, this may help," the valet standing by says, pouring a glass of ice water before setting it close to my plates.

There's something almost knowing about the way he says it, deferential but understanding. I flash him a grateful smile and pick up the glass in both hands, taking a deep sip.

"Thank you," I say over the rim.

He's right, the cold water helps settle my nausea pretty fast.

Xavier looks weirdly displeased, and he flicks his fingers at the servant.

"You may go," he snaps.

The man bows briefly, and I don't think I'm imagining that he bows a little deeper to me than he does to Xavier before he excuses himself without a word, disappearing between the tall hedge paths.

Leaving me alone with Xavier Arrendell.

Crud.

I can't help looking for exits, trying to remember the way we came through.

The man just watches me, that cold, canny look back in his eyes. I feel like he's trying to figure out how to—how to break me?

I don't even know, but it's nothing good.

"Talia," he rumbles, getting his voice all over my name again like a stain. "Is something bothering you?"

"Mmm," I demur, stalling for a second with another sip of my water. "It really was just a little dizzy spell. It always passes quickly. I'm fine."

"Are you?" Steepling his fingers, Xavier props his elbows on the table and leans closer. The sunlight shines off his blond hair until he looks like Lucifer's son, striking and intimidating and damned. "You're certain that's all that's making you uncomfortable? Surely, you aren't intimidated by the Arrendell name. I promise you we're fool's gold. Worthless glitz and glamor."

I blink in surprise.

"I, no, not at all. Mr. Arrendell, forgive me, but do you hate your family?"

"Not hate, no." He smiles humorlessly. "At least, not my family itself. Our name, our legacy… I can't say I'm fond of those."

"Is that what you're trying to erase with this renovation?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "What the hell makes you think I'm trying to erase anything?"

Oh, crap.

Me and my big mouth, just tripping off my tongue.

Swallowing thickly, I look around, taking in the looming house, the trees, the hedges.

"Well, it's not hard to tell this house is a legacy. Many generations layered on top of each other. Everyone keeps adding to it, and while it all sort of fits, it doesn't fit together well . And it feels like instead of trying to make it fit, you just want to erase it all and start over from scratch. Wipe all the history and the personal touches that went into it."

Xavier remains silent.

His jade-green eyes are arctic, unchanging, and he looks at me for so long I start to squirm, looking away, biting my lip and lowering my eyes to my plate.

Just to give my restless hands something to do, I pluck at my scarf, picking at the knot and unwinding it from around my neck, then fretting it between my hands in my lap.

"…I'm sorry," I murmur into the silence. "That was presumptuous of me."

"No," he says softly. "That was dead accurate. Are you really paying that much attention to me, Talia?"

Panic knifes through me.

Does he realize I'm watching him, listening to every word, hoping for something Micah can use against him? Does he know I'm playing him—or trying to, at least?

When I peek up at him again, he's not looking me in the eye.

His gaze rolls over my shoulders, dipping down, and I know before he even says another word that I won't be eating anything . Not when pure revulsion fills up my stomach.

"Do you want to know more about me?" Xavier smiles slowly.

There's an unclean edge to those words.

An unwanted suggestion.

That's when I know I shouldn't stay here another minute.

"I wouldn't dream of violating your privacy, sir." I stand hastily, snatching up my folio and bag. "Gosh, I'm sorry! I just remembered I have another consultation in the next hour and you said you're pressed for time. So, how about I email you the quotes and potential sp-specifications once I've done a full workup? Thank you for your t-time, Mr. Arrendell. Honestly."

He only watches me with that predatory gaze as I turn and scurry toward the closest path. I don't even know if it leads out of this labyrinthine hellscape.

I don't care. I just want to be away from Xavier Arrendell.

When he speaks again, I almost flinch—but he's not speaking to me.

"Joseph!" he commands, imperious and sharp enough to cut, followed by a clap of his hands. "Show Miss Grey to the exit, please."

The man who'd served us materializes from the hedges nearly right in front of me.

I jump back with a small squeak.

He gives me an understanding, patient look.

"This way, Miss Grey."

"Thank you." I take a shaky breath, my heart fluttering like a captured sparrow, and nod.

I feel safer with the servant—Joseph—than I did with Xavier, and safer still when Joseph escorts me through the hedges out of Xavier's sight. We're almost back to the house before he speaks.

"Are you all right, Miss Grey?" he asks in a low voice, and with a certain knowing that tells me he's asked many women the same question in this house.

I smile gratefully.

"Better now," I say. "Sorry. I had a little panic attack thinking I'd be late for my appointment, but I'm fine now."

I can't bring myself to tell the truth. Not even to a man who seems sympathetic and who's probably dealt with much worse than Xavier being a little smarmy.

And he seems to know it, too, giving me a long look before he nods and pulls the back door open for me. "Follow me, please."

The massive gargoyle of a house feels less oppressive without Xavier hovering over me with every move. There are things I want to ask this Joseph guy, things that make me nervous and afraid.

You know how it goes—servants see everything. And if there's anything that Micah really wants to know, I'll bet the people who work here are the ones who could tell him. Didn't some ex-butler blow open the whole case with Aleksander and the Faircrosses? And wasn't there a dead maid involved? I think I remember reading that.

The help are way more useful.

Not me.

I'm not a good spy.

I'm not good at anything but making pretty furniture.

He's going to be so disappointed.

I don't even know how to bring up the topic with Joseph.

I keep my eyes fixed on the trim line of his shoulders in his perfectly starched tailcoat as I follow him through the house. Maybe money makes the people at the Arrendell manor too loyal to ever turn on their employers, though.

There's an entire cult of secrecy around this place.

We rarely see the servants in town shopping for things the ‘royalty' might need; everything gets delivered or brought in from out of town.

But with everything that's happened here lately, no amount of money can buy those servants' loyalty, or their silence. Killing them, on the other hand, just might.

…or so I've heard from, like, mystery novels and such.

I feel so na?ve right now.

I'm just working up the nerve to ask Joseph a few leading questions when we cross into the main foyer and he pulls the massive double doors open, standing expectantly and watching me.

I stop on the threshold. It feels a million times warmer on the other side, like I'm caught between two completely different worlds.

I look at him as he raises his brows mildly.

"Is there something else you need, Miss Grey?"

"N-no." I can't do it. I can't trust that anything I'd ask would be innocuous enough not to give the game away. So instead, I just smile. "Do you mind if I ask your last name? It feels too informal, calling you Joseph."

He gives me a curious look, unreadable. I wonder if he can see right through me.

"Peters," he says after a moment.

My smile brightens.

"Thank you for showing me the way out, Mr. Peters." I file that away. "Have a nice day."

I can at least tell Micah his name and that he seemed concerned about me—worried enough to possibly be sympathetic to Micah's cause, and possibly willing to disclose a few Arrendell secrets.

I feel a bit better. Like I finally did something useful.

There's a spring in my step, chasing away the unclean feeling Xavier left behind, as I slip back into the sun and grab my phone to shoot a quick text to Mr. Vampire Man himself.

Are you busy right now? I send. I'm leaving the mansion, and I really need to see you.