Promises to Keep - By Amelia Atwater-Rhodes Page 0,5

food—probably caviar, or something equally vile. Jay doubted anyone here cared about underage drinking, but the last thing he needed was alcohol … or fish eggs.

“Is there somewhere I could sit for a while?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. This way.”

The servant led, and Jay followed with a shiver. It was like walking behind a ghost, something not altogether there.

As they entered a quiet parlor, an unsettling thought nudged into his mind: maybe this man wasn’t a servant at all. After all, Kendra’s line was allied with Midnight, the heart of a lucrative slave trade. Though humankind in this country had stopped trading people more than a century before, many immortals had a different sensibility about the uses to which a life could be put.

Midnight’s trainers had employed a bevy of methods designed to strip free will and any other vestiges of a soul from those they’d claimed to own, including many of Jay’s ancestors. Witches who went to Midnight intending to kill the trainers reappeared like zombies, intent only on obeying their new masters’ commands to murder their former kin. Was the static darkness in this servant’s mind the result of that same process?

Except for the late Lord Daryl, the trainers were exclusively from one line—all immediately descended from the so-called Mistress Jeshickah herself. Jay dared to hope they didn’t share Kendra’s line’s love of art and so might not choose to attend Kendra’s soiree. Even so, the glow of his initial fascination had dimmed, putting him on edge.

Jay found sharks, lions, polar bears, and crocodiles beautiful, each in their own way, but any one of them could turn into a man-eater given the wrong circumstances, so he tended to give them a wide berth. Beauty aside, why had he now put himself in a situation where some of the creatures around him might want just his blood, but some of them might actually want his soul?

CHAPTER 3

JAY WAS FOOLISH and impulsive at times, but even he wouldn’t have come into this crowd alone as a hunter. He also wouldn’t have come just to see Sarah—he could see his cousin easily enough in a safer environment. But he might never have another chance to see this, the awesome whirl that was thousands of years of artistic talent.

Now that he had tasted the rotten pit in the center of this sweet fruit, however, he needed to move on, before he stumbled across something he couldn’t stand to ignore.

He was on his way to the door when his plan was hijacked by a set of paintings.

According to the plaques that accompanied the series, the woman depicted was the Norse goddess Freyja, “a lover, a mother, a witch, and a warrior,” who rode at the front of the Valkyries as they collected the souls of the bravest fighters.

Momentarily alone in the room, Jay took in the dramatic, sweeping paintings, some depicting scenes of battle and others explicit enough to make him blush. His drive to leave eroded. He had never known that oil on canvas could be so powerful. As he stared at a depiction of Freyja near her slain husband, it took him several moments to realize that the sorrow he was feeling wasn’t coming from paint.

He turned to discover that a woman now occupied the couch he had abandoned. Her elaborate gown was rumpled and stained with paint. Her feet were tucked up next to her, and she laid her head on the armrest. Jay could see bare toes peeking out from her torn skirt hem.

“Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling down to retrieve an ivory hair comb that had fallen next to her. Like the gown and the dark ringlets falling around her shoulders, the comb was streaked with dried paint.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She took the comb from him but made no move to place it back in her hair. “I thought no one was in here.”

“I was admiring the paintings,” he said, “but I’ll leave if …” He trailed off; his reference to the paintings had triggered a trickle of something other than bone-deep sorrow. “Are these yours?” he asked.

She nodded, and the pinprick of light inside her flared briefly.

“They’re …” He wanted to bring that light back, but he didn’t have the words he needed to express the way the art around him made him feel.

“They’re trash,” she interrupted, the spark snuffed. She stood and brushed past him to critically examine her own work. “Tripe hung to please Kendra, or Kaleo, but certainly not me.” She lifted