Brimstone Seduction by Barbara J. Hancock Page B

the brightening sky.
    â€œNice entrance, big guy. Worthy of Rin Tin Tin,” Severne said.
    It was always the same after the frenzy of kill-or-be-killed: the need his body had to shake, his mortality evidenced by his reaction. He refused to allow the shudders. He threw the daggers in the Thames. The water bubbled and boiled and then settled to gentle ripples as the blades sank to the murky bottom and cooled, forgotten. He kept the brooches. It seemed more honorable than throwing them away.
    He’d been forced onto a side of this ancient fight, but he felt no allegiance to the daemons that held his soul and his father’s soul ransom. He fought for a father who no longer knew him. The Brimstone in his blood couldn’t negate the coldness of that. He was only surviving so that one day his father might live out his remaining days and die in peace.
    The silent daemon dog turned and led the way back to Baton Rouge.
    * * *
    The offices of l’Opéra Severne were housed in an octagon-shaped room behind the main box office. Kat hadn’t expected the room to stretch up to as many floors as the balcony levels of the main hall, or for the only way to reach the levels to be wrought iron ladders on wheels like you’d expect to find in a Victorian library.
    Severne had told her she was welcome to search out the paperwork involved with the ownership of the private balcony box where the opera glasses had been returned. He’d also warned her the search would be more easily offered than done.
    The next day, when she made her way to the offices after rehearsals, she didn’t know where to begin. Although the walls were lined with wooden drawers, the rows of drawers extended all the way up, floor after floor to the ceiling, which lofted in a frescoed peak high above her head.
    As she paused to decide where to begin, the chirruping of birds could be heard in the rafters and from perches and nests in the nooks and crannies of the half dozen four-story-tall ladders, which had landing platforms at each floor.
    â€œI warned you,” Severne said. He came from behind a stack of loose files taller than her head. Taller than his head, come to think of it. He had nothing in his hands. She couldn’t imagine him doing paperwork as part of his job. He was master, not assistant. He was a king, not a clerk.
    â€œThere are several employees who tackle the books from time to time. But they mostly click their tongues and despair,” he said.
    Kat looked at the daemon she knew to be wealthy and successful. He looked more capable of waging war than accounting.
    â€œYou’re free to wade through as much of this as you’d like, but I’ll warn you that it’s more a sentimental collection than a useful resource. My father was an optimistic hoarder. He always thought he’d have time to organize,” Severne said.
    â€œWas?” Katherine asked. It was an intrusive question. Her curiosity made them both pause as if they’d been caught in a sudden, actual conversation against their will.
    â€œHe still lives, but he’s not himself. He doesn’t remember his time at l’Opéra Severne. All of his keepsakes would be strange to him now,” Severne said.
    He’d tensed, and the whole room all the way to the rafters seemed to note the change in atmosphere. He nudged the ladder nearest to him, and a small flock of brown sparrows rose up, startled and protesting.
    â€œSo this cluttered office was his domain. That makes sense; I couldn’t imagine it as yours,” Kat said.
    The restless man across from her suddenly quieted and focused on her. His entire attention fell on her face.
    â€œDo you spend much time imagining things about me?” he asked.
    She’d blundered into a trap, and her unwitting confession had given him an excuse to change the subject from the warm clutter of the room and his father.
    Kat traced pictures in the dust of a nearby desk. She drew a feather