Page 49 of Morning's Light

CHAPTER 11

His pinkie raised, Israel brought the teacup to his lips and sipped, the scalding hot Earl Grey sliding nicely down his throat. When he replaced the porcelain cup to its matching saucer, it clinked delicately.

Decorum in public was everything. It was all about image. He might live the way he chose to in private, but if his mother saw the facade slip even an inch, he was toast.

The sentiment had been ingrained in him since birth. Reputation was one of the few things in this world that mattered. Mrs. James had a temper to match her magic, and made sure her son—as well as any children who may come in the future—knew the importance of maintaining a public image. That included propriety, respect, and manners, manners, manners.

In his apartment, Israel could say and be and do whatever he wanted. If he didn’t feel like going to the laundromat and left thousands of dollar’s worth of clothes dirty on the floor, then no one was there to stop him. In public, however, he was a model citizen. And made sure he looked like he’d stepped off the pages of GQ magazine.

The woman across from him said nothing. She watched his movements. Her eyes captured everything and stored the information away for later. He could practically see her ticking things on her mental ledger.

Her hair was the red of old flame, down to her elbows and swept up halfway to display smooth, round cheeks. Her eyes were full and deceptively soft, the bright green of forest moss. Too many men had looked into those eyes and thought her naïve. Guileless. They were wrong.

“She showed up at my house.” Israel emphasized the last three words with gusto, though was careful not to overdo it. “Which normally I don’t mind, but she was covered in garbage, Zelda.”

The woman’s eyebrow rose in response to the statement. “Garbage?”

Israel reached across the table and grabbed her hands, staring imploringly. “Trash. Like from a dumpster. Can you imagine it? She was covered in the most horrible things. Egg shells, coffee grinds, and God knows what else. I called a cleaning service on my way over here to make sure there were no crumbs left behind.”

Instead of dwelling on that, Zelda reached into the heart of the matter. She drew a ruby-red fingernail against Israel’s skin and watched blood well beneath the surface in a long trail. “This behavior of hers. Is it out of the ordinary? Abnormal?”

“You better believe it.” Israel sighed, resigned. “Our mothers set us up, you know. I thought having a tryst with a Cavaldi was going to be fun. And it was, for a while. Now…I don’t know. Sex with a bigwig magic user versus trash in my shower? It’s not really weighing in her favor.”

Zelda wouldn’t tell him how to handle himself, although she could if she wanted to. If she chose to exert her prowess—flex the proverbial muscle—the others would fall in line. She had an attitude from hell and the magic to match. Her dark eyes had narrowed as Israel recounted his tale and the numerous complaints making his life less than stellar.

Luckily, manners prevented her from revealing her true feelings. The people she worked with and for had no sense of humor, so she was better off following protocol to their faces while pursuing her personal pleasures behind their backs. And those things were combined with Israel James.

She made a face and drained the rest of her tea. After her many years in the Claddium, she understood the necessity of obligatory social events. She recognized their importance, knew how to say the right things and perform the right gestures. Her magic bloodline descended from generations of diplomats and Claddium members worldwide. With a history like hers, she was a natural at protocol and subterfuge.

And she loved it.

“I want out,” Israel replied.

Zelda leaned back in her chair and examined her manicure. His words didn’t please her. “Were the terms of our deal unclear?” she asked in a low, smooth voice. “What part of ‘get close to Aisanna Cavaldi and find out what she knows’ do you not understand?”

Israel was full of excuses, she mused, listening to his unapologetic explanation of recent circumstances. It was pure laziness. Very annoying.

“I sympathize, Mr. James,” Zelda replied, breaking his monologue of grievances. “But I ask you to continue to persevere, as always. Be strong for us.”

“Can you remind me what I’m getting out of this, again?” He licked his lips. “Just a taste?”

She flicked her gaze to his face and scowled.

The information would come to her either way. Dealing directly with Israel James was much more pleasurable. Her only fun outside of the office. Pity he was so damn stupid.

Removing her hands from his slightly sweaty grasp, she twiddled her fingers above the slim white candle pillar in the center of the table, watching the flame burst to life and swirl in various patterns. Gold, green, blue, and back to burnt sienna. If she chose, the entire place would burn to the ground, leaving nothing but ashes.

She considered it a testament to her power of control that she rarely indulged in such displays. Instead of crushing Israel beneath the heel of her Valentinos, she focused on commiseration. “It does seem a lot to ask of you,” she continued in a pleasant tone. “You must have the patience of a saint to keep dealing with her. Though I do appreciate how you try.”

“I do. And it’s not like we do a lot of talking. We hardly talk at all. It’s a physical thing. We keep contact to a minimum outside of our designated times, and she rarely stays through the night. Though lately she’s been staying later and talking in her sleep. Something about her sister, and darkness coming to get her….”

The woman’s ears perked up at the mention.

“…although she’s never been afraid of the dark before. It’s a real downer.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” At last, something new. She would need to report back to the office immediately to update the others on this new piece of information. The Cavaldis were compromised by rogue magic.

Israel smoothed out imaginary lines in the tablecloth. His skin appeared gold-plated against the pristine white, the glint of flame on his brow. The fire was as much a part of him as it was of her, but in different ways, different lines.

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