doggen who had worked upon the estate, he now wished he were not alone beneath the great house’s roof.
He stopped again. Checked the hallway behind once more.
Nothing.
The grand staircase in the front of the mansion had a gracious turn to it, the better to show off the females of the bloodline as they came down in gowns to formal dinners. No gowns tonight. No formal dinner, either. And unlike the shellans and daughters who sought attention, he flattened himself to the wall and debated the merits of sneaking this way as opposed to using the staff stairs in the back. But he’d decided the latter were more troublesome because they were a narrow space for conflict.
He had a gun hidden in the folds of the smoking jacket he’d put on over his fine dress shirt and slacks.
When his monogrammed house slippers finally hit the black-and-white marble tile at the bottom, he looked around. Listened. Listened … even harder. There was nothing that seemed threatening: The heating vents at floor level offered whistles as warm air was forced up through the cellar’s ducts. A creaking sound that was deep inside the walls suggested January’s cold had gotten into the bones of the old house.
Water was running.
In the kitchen.
Throe palmed the gun inside the pocket and proceeded through the formal dining room. In the far corner, there was a flap door for staff to bring out food and drink during service, and he kept out of sight of its small, eye-level glass window, putting his back to the panels.
When he was ready, he quick-shifted over so he could see through it into the kitchen.
One of his shadows was at the sink washing dishes, its balloon-like form split on the top half so it could do its work.
That was when he smelled the turkey.
The shadow had prepared the dinner he had ordered the night before. Just as instructed.
This was good, Throe told himself. This was … as it should be.
No more independent thinking.
Pushing his way into the kitchen, he was prepared to shoot—even though he had seen that bullets had little effect on his ghostly soldiers. Still, what other weapon did he have if they turned against him?
“Stop,” he ordered.
The shadow didn’t hesitate. It froze where it was, bent over a deep-bellied sink full of soapy water.
“Resume.”
The shadow went back to work, cleaning the roasting pan with its pair of arm-like extensions. The food that it had cooked was laid out upon the butcher block counter that ran the length of the industrial kitchen, the fine porcelain serving dishes covered with their lids, the turkey under a large cloche. The tray that was to be taken up to his bedroom when he called for it was set with his favorite Herend dishes, a sterling silver fork, knife, and spoon, and a linen napkin that had been folded and pressed.
The bottle of wine he had requested was chilling.
There was a wineglass and a water goblet yet to be filled.
The shadow brought the roasting pan up out of the suds and rinsed it with the sink’s hose. Then it set the pan aside on a drying rack, water dripping from its translucent form, falling unimpeded through the lower half of its body onto the floor.
His soldier, born of his own blood from that incantation, turned to face him and waited for an order. Nothing but a vessel for his will. Utterly obedient.
Mayhap he had been mistaken, he thought as he lowered the Book. These entities of his, deadly or docile upon his command, surely had no independent thought.
So why had he assumed they had snuck up upon him?
“Others,” he said out loud. “Come hither!”
In a lower voice, he said to the one before him, “You shall protect me against any threat. From no matter the source. Do you understand?”
The shadow nodded its upper half, the movement causing its buoyant form to bounce a little as it hovered over the kitchen floor.
“No matter what the other three do, you must always protect me. This is your sole purpose.”
As the entity bowed to him again, he pivoted around and backed up against the still warm stoves. He didn’t know exactly what he was worried about, however, as he brought the Book into place once again over his vital organs.
Like it was a bulletproof shield.
But these shadows had no will of their own, he reminded himself as one by one the three entities entered the kitchen and stopped obediently. Patiently.
Stupidly.
These translucent smoky killers were his creations, to do