Storm of Shadows (Lumineers 1)

CHAPTER 1: NORHAVEN HALL

Music floated from the monstrous edifice centered in Chroma's Catterford District, every window ablaze with light, casting its massive carriage-lined drive in a warm glow. Horses stamped, waiting out the long night. Drivers milled about, flasks in hand, laughing, catching up with friends.

This was Norhaven Hall. One of many wealthy mansions packed with ornate furniture and rich fabrics, too many floors, and more bedrooms than could ever be filled. But it was Norhaven's ballroom that bustled tonight. A hunting grounds for the woman in violet. A place to listen to whispered secrets. A place to stalk her prey and plot his demise.

Lord Parlow was marked for death. It wasn't a visible symbol tattooed on his skin or pinned to his suit jacket. It was a name written in a book, paid for by a healthy sum of money. Death was expensive. Life, even more so. Central to both were his secrets, splattered across his existence like colors on a tapestry. But only one color mattered tonight. The color of Lord Parlow's blood. She would paint with it before the end.

He stood across the room, sipping expensive gin with a group of tradesmen, discussing the business of the day: merchant agreements, the cost of exporting Candela's coveted textiles, the vessels he'd commissioned just last week. All the ways he might grow richer off the backs of his inferiors. Guests greeted him in passing, laughing, smiling, paying their respects to the happy host.

Mechanical waiters threaded in and out of the crowd wearing white aprons—serving drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and petit fors—their lifeless voices a direct complement to the steady ticking of their clockwork innards. Ticking that kept perfect time. Each had a bronze key protruding from its neck, slowly unwinding.

"Sir, a drink for you?"

"Madam? Some sparkling wine?"

"May I take your glass?"

Guests accepted the offerings without acknowledgement. They did, however, look upon the help with envy. Few could afford the luxury of so many mechanicals. Except, perhaps, the likes of the Norhaven's lord.

Still, the woman in violet watched.

Lord Parlow's voice was grating, laced with puffed-up authority to match his importance. Candela's merchant tycoon, sitting on a small empire of wealth. His chestnut hair was streaked with gray and his beard neatly trimmed. Tonight he was sharp in black and white, with red cufflinks like rubies that glittered when they caught the light. But they weren't rubies, were they? They were prisms.

From across the room in her violet gown, Tabitha Grey's keen eyes swallowed him whole. The men around him laughed, the sound rolling off their chests in rambunctious bellows. Easy. Carefree.

She blinked, watching herself sidle up behind Parlow. She removed a hidden dagger beneath her sleeve. In the time it took to exhale, her blade sliced him open in passing, severing the artery in his neck. She moved on, slipping back into the crowd, ignoring his blood as it splattered across the faces of his companions, ignoring their shock, their disgust as they wiped it away. Parlow gurgled. He dropped to the floor, spasming, staining its pristine shine with red. But when Parlow's face turned, it wasn't his eyes looking back. It was Clora's.

She blinked, frozen in place, and the contortions of her mind faded away. The party continued in full swing, oblivious of her intentions or wild imaginations. Parlow told another joke and his companions laughed again. She unclenched her teeth and took a deep, steadying breath.

His son and daughter were gathered nearby. Jasper and Sofia Parlow. They'd get everything when he died, this mansion, his country estate, his ships, and even his position in parliament. His heirs had the most to gain by his death. Had they been the ones to order it?