In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter Six

Greyson waited impatiently for his friend's carriage to be brought around. Greyson found he was an even worse companion now then earlier this evening.

His temper was frayed. The anger lingered in his clenched fists, the black furrow of his brow.  It had been a damnably long evening. Hell,  he still couldn't quite believe it. The lady had found him so dastardedly, trusted him so little as a gentleman that she leapt off a balcony to be rid of him.

The bloody balcony!

It rankled.

Greyson ran a hand through his brown locks, uncaring that its ends were haphazardly falling about his face.  He unraveled his cravat, taking the first deep breath since the blasted woman had gone missing. Charlotte would have had to shimmy down the latticework with a network of vines and weeds, her slippers vying for purchase on each small rung. She could have broken her fool neck.

His fury, his absolute fear for her, revealed the truth of this night. She had unmanned him.

Quite utterly.

The level of protectiveness, the sheer obsession of his thoughts, frightened him. He felt a responsibility towards her he couldn't rid himself of. Ha! Responsibility. Greyson felt many things for Charlotte, but responsibility was at the bottom of his lengthy list.

How had his evening become so deuced...complicated?

He had found himself picking up the pieces of an evening gone awry - nay, an evening that could only be described as a comedy of errors.

After the ladies had been thoroughly ensconced in darkness with their orders, Greyson had barely time enough to drag Lord Simpton to the far outermost reaches of the balcony, before an overlong shadow of a man stretched ominously over him.

He had looked up to see Crowley, his detestable host. If Crowley showed any distaste for his company after their altercation, however, Greyson wouldn't know it. The way Crowley stood blocking the light, Greyson only noticed his absolute stillness, his whole being merely a human-shaped void.

"Claymore," his adversary clipped. Crowley walked closer, the harsh features of his face blurring into view. "Didn't expect to see you out here..."

It came out as a question, his voice rising on the final syllable. As if, perhaps, he had expected a sight rather different. Crowley's eyes shifted behind Greyson, his brows pulling into a frown.

Confused, Greyson resisted the urge to glance behind him. He needed to get Crowley back into the ballroom. Now.

"I see you had the same idea as I. Rather crowded ballroom, you have here." Greyson murmured, his tone rather hard even to his own ears. Whether from the their previous conversation or anxious for the ladies, he couldn't say.

The man laughed sharply. "Yes, yes. I found myself needing...some air." His footsteps took him farther out onto the balcony.

Shite.

Greyson held his breath when Crowley stopped, his boots inches from Lord Simpton's upturned palm.

Crowley looked around, his head swiveling, almost as if...

Greyson frowned. "Are you looking for something?" Greyson didn't know why, but his instincts were clamoring. Sensing danger.

Another laugh. This one, strained. "Who else would be out here?" He asked, his eyes coming to Greyson. "Been out here long, Claymore?"

"Long enough."

Whatever Crowley was looking for, Greyson would never know. After a brief silence, Crowley nodded to Greyson.