Page 61 of The Blood Witch

The interior hall of the deSanguine manse was even more opulent than the palace. Fey’s eyes widened in wonder as she took it all in—the ornate patterned rugs, the heavy rosewood furniture. Paintings hung from every wall, nestled between lit candelabras that supplied the hallway’s only illumination. There was so much to look at, so much demanding her attention. It was overwhelming.

“Master Alastair,” came a clipped voice.

Fey jumped. A man stood just inside the door, head bowed, in a crisp black uniform lined in white. He was old, his skin paper thin and sagging with age. His voice was crisp, with just a hint of an accent Fey couldn’t place. An accent she was sure she’d never heard before in her life.

“And Mistress Fey,” the man continued. He kept his eyes down as he addressed them, as though speaking to their shins. “I will take your coats, if you wish?”

Alastair was already shrugging off his suit jacket, the sleeves marred from Jasper’s claws, and handing it to the strange man, who took it and folded it over his arm in a swift practiced motion.

“I don’t have a coat,” Fey told the man. She didn’t get the sense he was a Vampire, but… she couldn’t place his Faction at all. He was… nothing. A husk.

“Of course,” the man said, inclining his head, addressing her feet instead. “Your bag, then?”

She didn’t have one of those, either. Suddenly, she wished she’d brought her blades, just to give him something to shut him up. Two steps inside, and she already felt out of place, already felt like an imposition in this crowded opulent space.

“She’s fine, Winston,” Alastair insisted. He placed a hand on Fey’s lower back, and instantly her body relaxed, just as it had at the club. It’s okay, that touch told her. We’re okay. And I’m yours. “Do you know where my brother is? We’re running a little late, and?—”

“No, you’re not running alittlelate,” came an amused voice from a doorway to their left. “You are runningverylate.”

Fey turned, watching as someone familiar walked into the room. Her heart skipped. Alastair stood with her, his hand pressed to the small of her back, and yet… Alastair walked into the hallway from that room. A near-perfect replica of the man she loved.

Behind her, Alastair—her Alastair—ran a hand through his hair.

“Fey, this is my little brother, Callum,” he said, gesturing to the man approaching them. “Callum, this is Fey.”

Little brother. That’s how Alastair had always referred to Callum. Somehow, Fey had forgotten that their Faction aged so differently. She had expected a kid, maybe a teenager.

Not the tall, elegant male who stepped forward to take her hand.

“Fey,” Callum said with a kind smile. He put her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “It’s such a delight to meet you. I’m only sorry my brother hasn’t brought you to meet us sooner.”

They could be twins, Fey thought, as Callum rose to stand before her. They looked nearly identical.

Except… there were differences, weren’t there? Now that she looked closely. Now that he had stepped closer to the light.

Callum was shorter by a fraction of an inch. Slimmer, too, in the shoulders. And his hair was a softer shade of black, more of a dark brown, and worn in a different style, long in the front and cut shorter in the back. It fell around his face in soft waves.

Their eyes were where all similarities ended, though. Callum had the same golden eyes as his brother, but they were… soft and friendly. Kind. That anger, that barely restrained violence in Alastair’s eyes, was completely missing in his brother’s.

“You are even more beautiful than my brother said,” Callum told her, still holding her hand.

Fey couldn’t help the blush that rose to her cheeks, no more than she could help the smile she offered him in return.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me, Callum,” she teased.

Hand still on the small of her back, Alastair laughed. “Don’t let his attention get to your head, Witchling. You’re not his type.”

“True,” Callum said, his eyes sparkling. “But who knows? Maybe I could always make an exception for the right woman.” He winked at her.

“Alright, back off,” Alastair warned him, stepping forward. Callum threw back his head and laughed, a sound so full of joy it brought a smile to Fey’s face immediately.

“Forgive me, Fey, I can’t help it,” Callum told her. He let go of her hand and took her elbow instead, guiding her down the hallway and away from the strange man that still stood there, holding Alastair’s jacket. “I’m a shameless flirt. Please, come and sit. Let me pour you a drink.”

He led them to a sitting room, with a long velvet green couch and matching armchairs. He didn’t let go of her until he brought her to the couch himself, guiding her to sit.

“Wine?” he asked, crossing the room to a small bar and pulling out a glass for her. “Or we have liquor, if you would prefer? I could mix you something—anything you’d like.”

“Wine is fine,” Fey told him, watching as Callum selected a bottle.

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