Instead of the traditional black, the man’s tuxedo was the same royal blue as my jacket, and the color brought out his light, bright, powder-blue eyes. His jacket was unbuttoned, and an old-fashioned silver pocket watch gleamed in his vest pocket. It seemed like a harmless timepiece, but the long attached chain had a hidden, razor-sharp edge, just like its owner did.
The man had broad shoulders, but his chest was lean, and he wasn’t overly bulked up with muscle like so many other men here were, especially the security guards who hovered around the edges of the ballroom. The guards might all have guns holstered to their belts, but this man radiated the quiet, confident strength of an apex predator who knew he could kill every other person in the entire castle.
Desmond Percy—a Section 47 cleaner and my fellow spy.
“It’s about time you showed up,” I groused.
Desmond grinned, his eyes crinkling and his white teeth flashing in his handsome face. “Aw, did you miss me, Numbers?”
I rolled my eyes. Desmond had dubbed me Numbers due to my analyst work, but I didn’t mind the nickname, especially since I had my own moniker for him.
“Miss you, Crocodile Dundee? Of course not,” I replied in a tart tone. “I didn’t have time to miss you. I have been busy working. Not swanning around and drinking champagne.”
Desmond arched a blond eyebrow. “I haven’t had a drink yet, and I never, ever swan. However, I did notice you sneaking a piece of strudel earlier.” Another grin spread across his face. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. All the sugar you eat is going to kill you someday.”
I snorted. “Some of us can’t subsist on kale smoothies alone.”
This time, Desmond rolled his eyes. “The smoothie contained far more apples than kale. Something you would have realized if you had taken more than three sips of it before diving right back into the box of pastries you bought this morning.”
Desmond and I had radically different opinions when it came to food. Like so many Section cleaners, Desmond considered his body to be a finely honed temple of lethality, and he treated it accordingly, by willingly and regularly ingesting kale smoothies and the like. Me? I thought life was far too short and our work for Section 47 much too dangerous to subject my taste buds to the horrors of kale and other green, healthy things.
Desmond’s latest smoothie creation had actually been pretty good, sort of like a liquid apple Danish, although I enjoyed teasing him far too much to admit the truth. At least, not yet.
Maybe later tonight, after the mission was complete and we were back in our hotel suite alone together.
My gaze trailed down his body, and hot sparks of anticipation erupted in my stomach. Desmond and I had gotten together several weeks ago, after he’d killed Adrian Anatoly and I had exposed not one but two moles inside Section 47. Even though I’d only known him a short time, I cared about Desmond much more than I had ever expected to, especially since he was a Percy and I was a Locke. Given all the bad blood between our fathers, Desmond and I being together was something of a Christmas miracle, but he was smart and funny and exceedingly loyal to his friends. Plus, the sex was incredible.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmured. “Your aura is flaring.”
Desmond was a galvanist, a paramortal who could control, channel, and manipulate various forms of energy, from the electricity running through the chandeliers overhead, to the kinetic zip of a bullet through the air, to the force, fire, and fury of an explosion. His galvanism was a rare, powerful ability and yet another thing that made him so dangerous.
He could also see the energy that people themselves constantly emitted. According to Desmond, every person had an aura, a color or feeling that hinted at their personality, emotions, and intentions. Supposedly, my aura was a deep, dark blue and as cool and crisp as a fall morning. I loved his description, even if I wasn’t sure what, if anything, a cool blue aura said about my personality.
“Charlotte?” Desmond asked. “What are you thinking about?”
I flicked the edge of his royal-blue bow tie with my index finger. “Just wondering why I had to dress up as a nutcracker while you got to wear a James Bond tuxedo like usual.”
“Because you’re the one who decided to go undercover as part of the waitstaff. I could have easily gotten you added to the guest list as my plus-one.”
Desmond was here tonight as Desmond Macfarlane, a paramortal arms dealer who acquired weapons for his own criminal activities and also resold them to the highest bidder.
“Besides, I think you’re supposed to be a toy soldier,” he continued. “Isn’t there only one nutcracker in The Nutcracker?”
“No idea. I haven’t seen the ballet since I was a child. My mother took me the Christmas before she died.” A wave of wistfulness washed over me, and I couldn’t stop a note of longing from creeping into my voice. “My grandmother and I were going to see it last year, but she was so sick we had to cancel our plans.”
My mother, Josephine, had died in a car accident when I was nine, and my father, Jack, had always been away on one Section mission or another, so my grandma Jane had raised me. Grandma Jane had been a mortal who had conned her way into working for Section 47 by pretending to be a psychic, and she had passed away earlier this year after a battle with cancer. That cruel disease didn’t discriminate between anyone, and it affected mortals and paramortals alike. Fucking cancer.
Desmond skimmed his fingers along the sleeve of my jacket, touching only the fabric and not my arm, as was his habit. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. It would have been nice to see the ballet with Grandma Jane.” I glanced at the stage. “Maybe I can get a glimpse of the performance tonight—after I break into Elsa’s office.”
“Maybe,” Desmond agreed, still skimming his fingers along my jacket sleeve. “Although I’m glad you decided to join the waitstaff tonight. Royal blue suits you, Numbers. Plus, I’m growing rather fond of seeing you in a uniform.”
Heat shimmered in his eyes, making them burn an even lighter, brighter silver-blue, and he dropped his hand, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “And especially of taking it off you.”
Even more sparks of anticipation exploded in my stomach. Desmond didn’t often touch me in public, but in private, well, we had grown very familiar with each other’s body over the past several weeks.
I flicked his bow tie again. “Good. Because I feel the same way about you and tuxedos, Dundee.”
He grinned. “Should we make a date for later?”
“Absolutely. Right after the mission is over.”
I held my tray out. Desmond grabbed the remaining champagne flute, then turned this way and that, angling his chest toward one person after another, just as I had done earlier. The costume diamond in the center of his bow tie contained a hidden camera just like the one in the extra silver button on my coat.
“No sign of Henrika yet,” Desmond murmured. “Although I see plenty of other underworld players here.”
I grimaced. “Tell me about it. The whole room is red.”
He gave me a sympathetic look. My synesthesia might let me see typos, errors, and mistakes, but it sometimes went haywire and overwhelmed me with colors, sounds, and other sensations. As more and more people had entered the ballroom, especially the known paramortal criminals, that little voice in the back of my mind had increased in volume and intensity, and danger-danger-danger was now relentlessly pounding in my ears.