1
PHAEDRA
Hawkes House. It’s been a long time. Not much has changed. The quintessential Regency-style London townhouse matches every neighbor in the row with its elegant white stucco façade and black wrought-iron ornamental fence. The epitome of refined luxury. A home for the wealthy. There is nothing to indicate the residence is anything but what it seems to be.
Sure, the impressive portico is a bit more ostentatious than its neighbor, but one could chalk that up to a pretentious ancestor. Held up by four fluted columns, the roof extends all the way to the street, a grand entrance designed to protect its visitors from the elements. Or, more likely, from the prying eyes of its neighbors, for those who visit Hawkes House are anything but ordinary.
Smoothing the long, pleated metallic-gold skirt of my Grecian-inspired, one-strap dress until it falls elegantly around me, I step under the portico. Heels click in the quiet night air as I walk up to the imposing black front door. The golden knocker, a hawk, of course, is waiting to greet its visitors. I reach out and grasp the ring hanging stiffly from its beak, but instead of knocking, I pull down and twist it to one side. One golden wing slides to the right, revealing the true gatekeeper to the infamous Hawkes House—a smooth glass screen. Modern security surrounded by centuries of tradition. As I press my thumb, there is a faint click of the door unlocking. My cue to enter.
In the old days, the door would have been opened by a guard. With time came modernization and the implementation of biometric security. I sigh, wondering what new technology they will implement in another hundred years.
The foyer, light and bright with marble floors and lightly paneled walls, is familiar and welcoming. I stop and stare into the camera placed high in the corner and allow the facial recognition software to match me to my photo and the fake name I used when I joined so long ago.
Only members are allowed in Hawkes House. A little over a thousand years ago, Edzel Hawke, a shifter and one of the original members of the supernatural council, opened his house in Greece to high-ranking supernaturals of each race. Invitation-only, his “club” was designed to facilitate communication in a more conducive environment.
As the western world developed, he eventually moved it to the more central location of London. Membership is still invitation-only—you must belong to one of the six races: shifter, vampire, mage, Fae, demon, or Elven—to get an invitation, but the club has grown beyond the original Founding Members, and now includes the most powerful members of each race.
And although I belong to none of the six, I’m a member. I smirk. Sometimes, you need to think outside the box to get what you want, and I wanted entry to this house. A little blackmail and voilà, an invitation. Most of the members visit to socialize with the upper echelons of the supernatural society. I come to listen to their secrets.
Intel is so very hard to come by these days, especially the caliber of information murmured in these rooms. Because of its origins, Hawkes House is still the supernatural council’s favorite place to meet. All kinds of secrets are whispered in these rooms. Who’s in power, on their way out, climbing the proverbial ladder, and so forth. Boring political chatter for the most part, but occasionally, I strike gold and hear a nugget of truly useful information.
Entering the salon, I pause and glance around. The room is a clever rendition of an English gentleman’s club with its dark wood paneling and trim, tufted brown leather club chairs and matching sofas, deep red Persian carpets, dim lighting, and walls filled with gold-framed art. I inhale deeply. The atmosphere smells like old money and magic. The conversations are barely audible, as if anything less restrained would be inappropriate, but unlike the clubs of old, there is no male-only gender requirement as evidenced by the elegant ladies scattered about the room.
Surprisingly, it’s quite crowded tonight. Like me, several of the members are dressed formally, while others wear semi-formal or business attire. No one is dressed casually. After all, there is a reputation to uphold.
Magic stirs the air, lightly teasing my nose, but I ignore the delicious scents and head to the bar. The one thing you don’t want to do in Hawkes House is act as if you don’t belong. Subtlety is the name of the game. And staring at those in the room is not only rude, but it can be an invitation for them tolook closer, and I doubt I’d hold up to their scrutiny. Thankfully, keeping secrets is normal in the supernatural world. You don’t ask shifters about their animal or mages what magic they can wield. My secrets are my own.
Sliding onto a barstool, I artfully arrange the slit in my skirt to showcase my long legs and place my clutch on the mahogany bar top. A small smile flirts with my lips. I wonder if the fishing will be good tonight.
One of the green leather barstools two seats down from me slides backward. An elegantly clad arm signals the bartender in a smooth, barely noticeable movement as a man in an immaculate tuxedo seats himself. My interest flares as I study him. Blondish-brown hair clipped close, cleft chin set in a granite jaw, straight aristocratic nose, and high cheekbones. Tall, with broad shoulders and perfect posture. I raise an eyebrow. Impeccable genes.
Strong notes of amber, sandalwood, cinnamon, and vanilla tickle my nose. Mage… and a very powerful one too.
While all supernaturals have power, not all of them can wield magic, only mages, elves, demons, and Fae. Their magic is easily identified by its own unique scent. Elven magic smells like nature with its moss, sage, musk, and sweet hints of jasmine. Demon magic is full of earthier tones like tobacco, leather, and the smell of a roaring fire, and Fae magic is like a hot spring day, abundant with notes of wildflowers, citrus, and sweet honeysuckle.
Besides his magic, this mage also smells divinely expensive, but it’s not as if they let just anyone into Hawkes House. Wealth is a minimal requirement nobody speaks about, but a necessary one.
He turns toward me, sweeping steel-blue eyes from my strappy gold heels to the dark hair styled in a low chignon at thebase of my neck. A spark of interest appears in his eyes, but the buzz of his phone steals his attention away.
Pretending not to listen, I turn and lightly sweep the crowd behind me for anyone of interest. Hypnotic chocolate brown eyes meet mine, a question in their depths, but I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head. The corners of his mouth turn down, but after an elegant shrug of his shoulder, the vampire’s attention quickly turns to another. When I hear the name of the museum I’m visiting later this evening, my attention shifts back to the mage next to me.
His crisp English voice is low but carries easily to my ears. “Dr. Samuels is unveiling Westgate’s collection to society this evening at a gala. We have orders from the council to attend,” he murmurs into the phone. “We all know our roles. Black tie attire. Low key. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
My lips twitch. Guess we’re attending the same gala.
Held at the Museum of History, the event is to honor the life of the vampire, Lord Nolan Westgate, and all his many achievements. Everyone who is anyone in the supernatural world will be there to pay homage to him. I silently snort. Most people couldn’t care less about his death. He was a dangerous and formidable vampire, who held a sharp sword over the heads of many.
They do care about his legacy, though. During his life, Nolan amassed one of the largest collections of magical artifacts in the world, and everyone is salivating over it.
As one of the experts called in to review provenance and establish authenticity, I can confidently confirm it’s full of powerful objects that should remain in a vault, but I’m not on the council, nor do I report to them. If they want to step in and bid on the items, it’s for the benefit of all. It honestly doesn’t matter to me. I’ve done my job. Plus, I’ve already taken the pieces I wanted and shipped them home.
I order a French 75 cocktail from the bartender, along with a cheeseboard. There are never good hors d’oeuvres at events, and as one of the guest experts, I doubt I’ll have time to eat.
A flash of silver catches the corner of my eye, and I glance at the mage next to me. He’s sliding a coin between his fingers, over and over, as he stares closely at me, then he switches to the stool next to mine.
“Tell me, do you always listen in on private conversations?” he asks in a crisp upper-class British accent, the lightness of his tone betrayed by his intense gaze.
Always.I lift an amused brow. “You’re using your phone in public. Hard not to.” I lean closer and tell him a bit of truth. “Sometimes it yields useful information.” His eyes narrow, and my lips twitch. Time for a diversion. “I don’t have…conversations…with men who are taken.”
