“Hey, hey.” Evan leans forward, holding out a hand. “Let’s not bring drama to the dinner table. Let’s talk about how we get the waiters to serve the under twenty-ones instead, hm?” Evan waggles his eyebrows. “Or maybe rank everyone’s attire tonight on a one-to-ten scale? Bree, you’re a ten, obviously.” He makes a chef’s kiss motion for effect.

“Agreed,” Nick says, raising a glass with a wink in my direction.

A white-gloved hand holding a salad plate crosses my field of vision. When I look up, I see a pair of softly tilted brown eyes in a golden-brown face. The woman smiles and moves on to hand the next plate to Greer. The man to Nick’s right pours sweet tea into our waiting glasses, and I see that he’s brown too. I feel my brows draw into a line when I see that all of the waitstaff at the other tables in the room—all of them—are Black and brown people. Another reminder that this isn’t my world. I’m just here to say goodbye, the right way.

The back of Nick’s knuckle brushes my hand. “Everything okay?”

I blink. “Yeah,” I say, and his smile in response is achingly sweet.

The rest of dinner passes in a flavorful, multicourse blur: seared duck with parsnips, sautéed squash and zucchini with fresh strips of basil and pine nuts, and a vegetable risotto.

It’s not until the band starts up again during dessert that I remember that there’s a dance floor. We’re just finishing our bread pudding when Nick nudges my elbow. “Wanna dance?”

I do a double take, but he seems serious, so I stammer a yes and walk with him to the dance floor to the sound of Evan’s not-so-subtle whoops. Luckily, most of it is covered by the movement and noise across the room.

“Does that guy ever let up?” I mutter.

“Not that I’ve seen.”

We stop at an empty corner of the dance floor, but before we can begin, the band transitions to a loud swing beat. Nick wraps a hand around my waist and grins. There’s no talking to be done here. All we can do is dance—until a long-fingered hand taps him on the shoulder.

The man standing behind Nick is a silent ghoul in formal wear. Yellow-red eyes the color of dying leaves are set deep in a pale face under hawkish black brows. Underneath his black suit is a dark red shirt and thin black tie. He has a severe and undeniable beauty, but it’s been channeled into unsettling qualities; like an ancient Gothic structure, he’s all arches and sharp, aggressive features. The acrid, cloying smell of his signature collects in the back of my throat like bile.

A Merlin.

“Isaac.” A chill runs up my spine at Nick’s stiff greeting.

This terrifying man is Isaac Sorenson.

Lord Davis’s Kingsmage.

45