The charm had made him seem shorter and a bit less bulky—less aggressive, all around. It had softened the brutal, grim lines of his face, curving the granite-hewn edge of his jaw and making his lips thinner and his mouth less expressive. It had smoothed his forehead and relaxed the severe set of his eyebrows. His pupils were blue now, transformed with a pair of ordinary colored contacts, but his eyes still revealed every breeze disturbing the ocean of his emotions.

It was eerie just how much Theo did not resemble himself. Yet his severity and seriousness somehow seemed to radiate out from the charmed suit he wore, ruining the illusion of harmlessness he’d been striving for.

“They’ll make sure I’m separated from you first thing,” he said in a low voice when they reached the frosted double glass doors. “You’ll be on your own, but I won’t be far away.”

“So what do I do if they try to kill me?”

“Retaliate. You have fire.” He paused. “Oh, and scream real loud.”

“Great,” she muttered as they pulled the doors open. Why the hell had she volunteered for this again? Oh, yeah, she was the Coven’s best chance for information.

Hell, she wanted some of her own, too.

The lobby was sleek and polished and filled with people in business suits. It looked like any other office building on a Tuesday morning, bustling with commerce and with the scent of greed heavy in the air. Apparently, not all their employees were warlocks. Many of the lower-tier people were non-magickals with no clue about the sort of otherworldly dealings this conglomerate dealt in. Amazing.

They approached the receptionist’s desk. She was most certainly a warlock. Sarafina could almost feel heat coming off her—fire. The two security guards standing near the desk were warlocks, too. She was a young redhead—fitting for the element she commanded. The guards eyed them with mocking expressions on their faces, probably recognizing them as kindred magickals, yet not their kind.

The receptionist raised her gaze to them as they approached, a pair of stylish square glasses perched on her pert little nose. The nameplate on her desk read BELINDA. “Can I help you?”

“We’d like to see Stefan Faucheux,” answered Sarafina. She’d dressed up for the occasion, a Ralph Lauren black wool sheath dress and a matching pair of Prada peep-toe pumps, all provided by Thomas Monahan. She’d done her hair up high on her head and had taken a lot of time with her makeup. She knew she looked like she belonged here. If only her friends back in Bowling Green could see her now.

Belinda blinked. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, he’s not expecting us.”