I could feel it, the weight of his attention sitting heavy on my shoulders, and the collar responded. As soon as Archer’s eyes met mine, the collar fluttered and pulsed, the ethereal sensation making my stomach swoop like I’d just been thrust through another of his strange portals.
I bit my lip to keep from sighing at the sensation.
Once he was satisfied that everyone was where they should be, he gave a stiff nod and headed for the counter, pressing buttons on what looked to be the world’s fanciest coffee machine.
“Espresso?” he asked, looking at me over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised.
“Uh, no. Thank you.”
No one spoke while Archer went through the motions, the machine loud as he made his hilariously small cup of coffee. Once he was finished, he turned, rested his behind against the counter, lifted the tiny cup and saucer to his mouth and took a sip. I watched him, knowing it was wise to keep my eyes on the predator in a situation like this, and anyone could tell that Archer was the most dangerous predator in the room.
When he was finished, he set the cup aside, withdrew the letter from where he’d stored it in his jacket, and stared at the wax seal once more before looking at me sternly.
“Now, I’ll ask again. This letter is addressed to Delilah. Do you know her?”
“Yes,” I said, knowing I had no option but to tell the truth.
I needed help; it was clear as day that the situation Heidi had expected me to find in New York was not at all what I’d actually found. If I was going to survive—something I very much wanted to do—it was highly unlikely I’d do it alone.
And while my options were limited, I hoped that choosing to side with Archer and his men would be better than trying to go it alone against the Order.
The devil you know, right?
“I’m Delilah.”
“Plot twist!” Vine howled, rubbing his hands together like a TV villain, but everyone else ignored him.
“You’re Delilah?” Archer questioned, those dark eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
“Named after the great betrayer,” Archer said, his tone both caustic and dismissive. “How apropos.”
“I’d like to read my letter please,” I said, ignoring his insult and holding my hand out expectantly.
“Your letter?” Once again, that imperious eyebrow arched and he stared at me incredulously.
“Yes. It has my name on it, after all. And you wouldn’t even have the letter if it wasn’t for my help. So, if you please, I’d like to read it.”
I waited, hoping my face didn’t show how nervous I truly was, standing there, making demands of Archer in his own home.
“Alright,” he said after a moment of contemplation. “But should you double cross me...should you eventhinkabout double crossing me, you won’t live long enough to regret it, witch.”
At my throat, the collar twitched, seeming almost agitated, and I reached up unconsciously to pet it, stroking it gently until it settled again.
Strange.
Why did it seem like the collar—the collar Archer made for me with his own dark magic—had been offended on my behalf?
The more I thought about it, the stranger it became. The collar was supposed to be a restraint, a shackle to keep me under control. But it hadn't felt like that for awhile now. Instead, it seemed almost...protective. Like it was guarding me rather than containing me.
But that made no sense. Magic didn't just decide to act independently of its creator. Especially not shadow magic controlled by a demon. So why did Archer's collar seem to have developed its own opinions about how I should be treated?
Archer gave the collar his own bemused stare before his face settled back into his regular mask of indifference.
“Understood,” I said, then he handed me the letter. For a moment, I simply stared, my fingers tracing the letters of my name where Phips had written it on the paper.
He’d known I was coming. He’d been waiting for me to arrive, and when he wasn’t sure he’d survive to greet me, he’d left me this, hoping that I’d know where to look for it.
