Gunmetal Magic: A Novel in the World of Kate Daniels

both of us.
    “Then I consider this matter closed.” I opened my car door and stepped out into the cooling air. A moment later he joined me. We walked down the street toward the mansion.
    “I’m sorry about the way things went down in the office,” Raphael said. “I shouldn’t have brought Rebecca. It was petty.”
    “Water under the bridge.” I waved my hand at him and gave him a sweet smile. “But if you do it again, I’ll kill you both.”
    He laughed under his breath. It was the delicious seductive laugh I remembered. “Be careful, someone might mistake you for a filthy bouda.”
    “I like boudas. They’re fun in bed.”
    “They?” A sudden edge crept into Raphael’s voice.
    “They. Since you are now officially a taken man, you won’t mind if I test-drive someone else from the clan.”
    “Like who?”
    We strolled through the gates. The guard in the booth checked out my dress and stared. I gave him a friendly smile.
    Raphael held up his invitation. The guard examined it and waved us on.
    “Enjoy the party.”
    “We will,” Raphael answered in a voice that suggested hell would freeze over before he would enjoy anything.
    We strolled up the sidewalk.
    “Who?” Raphael demanded.
    For a man a hair away from mating to another woman, he was very interested in my sexual adventures.
    “I haven’t decided yet. I always wanted to have a three-some.”
    Raphael stopped.
    “Two guys or maybe a guy and a girl. Since you’re more experienced than me, you must’ve had both? Which one was more fun?”
    “Why stop at two partners?” Raphael said, enunciating the words very clearly. “Why not have half a dozen? You could hand out numbers to keep order. Get a little cute sign that says, ‘Now serving.’”
    Oh, the spoiled bouda didn’t like that. Not one bit. “Don’t be silly. That would be tacky.” I paused by the glass and wrought-iron door, waiting for him to open it.
    “Tacky?”
    “Yes.”
    Raphael swung the door open. Inside, a tiled lobby waited for us, bathed in the bright glow of electric lamps made to look like old gaslight lanterns. I stepped through and nodded to an older woman standing by the door. She wore a dress the color of red wine and her makeup was flawless. Two men stood near her. Both looked like they chewed up bricks and spat out gravel for a living.
    “Your invitation,” the woman said.
    Raphael handed her the invitation and unleashed a smile. Wow. Ascanio didn’t know it, but he had a long way to go.
    The woman’s face softened. She brushed the invitation with her manicured fingers and smiled back. “Welcome to the party.”
    Sixteen or sixty, it didn’t matter. Raphael smiled and they sighed. And he wondered why I thought he was spoiled.
    Raphael put his hand on my back, gently escorting me to the next room. A spacious chamber stretched in front of us. Its cream walls rose high, supporting a twenty-foot ceiling. The granite floor was polished to an almost mirror gleam. Enormous, twelve-foot-tall windows, framed with gauzy white curtains and thicker golden draperies, spilled the weak evening light into the room. Matching accents ran along the molding. To our right a curved white staircase led upstairs. The entire place felt like a palace, graceful and somehow timeless.
    The air smelled of wine, cinnamon, and another odd, but familiar aroma…oregano…no, marjoram, mixing with the lush, smoky sweetness of myrrh. “Interesting choice for potpourri.”
    “Spicy.” Raphael leaned to me, that dashing smile still on his face. “I can’t tell if he’s covering up the scent of something bad with this perfume or not.”
    We stood for a long second, our nostrils fluttering, taking shallow breaths and trying to break the fragrance down to individual scents.
    “I’m a bust,” I said. If there were any hidden odors under that amalgam of herbs and resins, I couldn’t find them.
    Raphael furrowed his eyebrows. “Me too.”
    All around us people glided across the floor, men in tuxedos and tailored suits, women in expensive dresses and shiny rocks, looking like attendants to some ancient tyrant. Music emanated from somewhere above, gentle, exotic, and unobtrusive, like a hint of an intriguing perfume.
    “Why do I get the feeling I’m at court?” I murmured.
    “And there’s the king himself,” Raphael said.
    The guests parted and I saw a man. Of average height, he had a wealth of wavy hair the color of pale amber. An expensive suit of light gray sketched his