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The limo curved through wrought-iron gates and onto a drive that could’ve doubled as a private runway. Yew and cypress trees lined either side, their branches so dense they swallowed the late afternoon light.

When the house emerged, it did so like a shadow looming out of mist—huge, austere, and silent.

Dark stone walls rose in stark tiers, lined with narrow windows like watchful eyes, and a set of stairs led up to twin blackwood doors engraved with runes I didn’t recognize.

I wasn’t sure if I was about to meet Kara’s parents or be judged by the ghosts of Halden family past.

“You lived here?” I asked, not meaning to sound so hushed.

“For the first three decades. Then I got my apartment in the city.”

A reminder that she was almost as old as me. It was easy for the years to slip by without meaning, when you had so many—or maybe I’d gotten comfortable and lazy. I sensed that had changed.

I continued to watch the house as the SUVs peeled off, and the limo turned a circle around a fountain in the courtyard, pausing before the doors.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Meh. I could’ve had a fountain in my apartment, but Paul would’ve filled it with vodka.”

Her lips twitched in something close to a smile, and she punched my arm. I resisted the urge to rub it; she was damn strong. “I meant the house.”

“I’m not sure ‘like’ is the word I’d choose,” I said, then added dryly, “I’m sure it’s lovely and homely inside.”

It was an actual smile now, the first I’d seen from her. Strange, considering the tension of what awaited.

The limo driver opened his door, presumably to come and let us out in some redundant show of formality, but I didn’t wait for that. I’d been managing door handles all by myself for years and demonstrated my prowess now.

“How does this work?” I asked as I climbed out, looking up at the house. “Do we wait to be greeted, or have you got a key?”

Kara got out behind me. “You’re not fazed by it, are you, Mas—” She broke off with a guilty look toward the chauffeur, who hovered discreetly nearby.

“Masterpiece?” I asked, raising an eyebrow up at the architecture. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

She covered her smile with her hand—two in as many minutes. Real progress.

“Let’s go in,” she said, reaching for my hand and then thinking better of it.

I let her lead, following her up the steps, watching her bare legs and firm ass beneath my hoodie and wondering what her mom would think of that .

The double doors opened before we reached them, revealing an expansive foyer lined in black marble with gray veins.

I’d been kind of expecting it, and wasn’t disappointed.

Very gothic, very ‘House Val’Shera’. Almost ostentatious—only the sparseness of the furnishings and the styling stopped ‘elegant wealth’ from becoming ‘vulgar waste of money’.

“Welcome back, madam,” an elderly gentleman with butler vibes greeted us. “Your parents are in the smoke room.”

Smoke room … smoking room. It was an odd turn of phrase, but when he opened the door on the left, it became clear.

The foyer had been large, but the room we stepped into was far grander.

Everywhere there were swirls of smoky gray against dusky pale blue, the theme carrying on into the thick carpet, long curtains, and walls.

The ceiling was so high I couldn’t have reached it even with a chair, and the fixtures were arranged to diffract the light, adding to the smoky impression.

It was as if someone had lit a fire then changed their mind, dousing it before it really got going.

A sofa, chaise lounge, and several chairs sat around the center of the room, all upholstered in those same smoky shades. And there they were—Kara’s parents.

Her father was tall, his dark hair falling in tousled waves to broad shoulders, framing a face with strong features, lips full in a way that was almost unsettling. He wore a tailored black suit over a white silk shirt, unbuttoned to reveal more than a hint of alabaster skin.

But it was her mother that drew the eye.

She was striking—her bronzed skin seemed almost too smooth, too perfect, and platinum hair fell in a sleek cascade around her sharp face.

She wore a flowing black dress adorned with intricate silver patterns, and she had Kara’s eyes—or I suppose Kara had hers—deep emerald green.

They flitted over me with curiosity, before settling on Kara.

“There you are, my dear,” she said, her voice strong. No hint of a welcoming smile. “We heard the news. How terrible, so distressing.” The words were there, the tone wasn’t. She turned to me. “And you brought a friend. Mr …?”

“Xan Sullivan. A pleasure.” It felt like meeting the in-laws, and that was a disturbing thought.

Her eyes took me in with a quick down-up, lingering briefly on the injury of my arm. “I’m Virelle, and this is Dacien, as no doubt Kara told you.”

No, she hadn’t. “Of course.” I nodded to her father. “Good evening, sir.”

He gave a slow nod back, saying nothing. Friendly couple.

Kara stood silently beside me, making no move to greet them.

The power levels in the room were high, Virelle perhaps marginally topping Dacien. I felt something else, too: a sense of age. They both looked early forties. Appearances lied.

Virelle gave a small sniff. “I take it from the injury on your arm and the matching hole in my daughter’s odd attire that your night wasn’t completely incident-free.”

“Not completely, no,” I said.

“Mmm,” she said, with a note of disapproval. “Harrington,” she called, and the door opened again.

“Ma’am?”

“Show our guest to a room and arrange for clothes and healing.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He gave a slight bow and held the door for me. It was as good a dismissal as they came.

I hesitated long enough to meet Kara’s eyes, then turned and walked out. It was her family; she’d had a lot more practice with them than I had.

Still. A briefer encounter than I’d expected. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“This way, sir.” Harrington led me to a staircase that could happily play host when the local carol singers came to call, though I doubted that happened often.

Upstairs, I was shown to a suite as expansive and luxurious as the rest of the house, the décor no less grim and dark. I couldn’t imagine spending three decades living in this place without one hell of a therapy bill come the end of it. But what did I know—maybe Kara had twice-weekly sessions.

Harrington gestured to a wardrobe larger than the wall of my apartment. “Within, you will find clothing of various sizes, sir. I trust something will be to your liking.”

“I’m sure.”

A pretty girl in a maid’s uniform arrived by the door, bearing a tray with a single blue vial. How she’d been summoned, I didn’t know, but she held it out to me and I took the little bottle.

“If you apply that liberally, sir, your wound will swiftly heal.”

“Thank you.” I addressed the comment to the girl, who gave me a curtsy before she disappeared. She seemed nice enough, but in this house, she was probably a trained demon assassin.

It was all a little surreal.

“Bathroom through there, sir.” Harrington gestured to the door to the en suite. “No doubt you will wish to bathe.”

Was that a subtle reminder than I stank even worse than Kara had suggested? No wonder they hadn’t wanted me in their smoky room any longer.

“Thank you,” I said again, and Harrington withdrew with a bow, leaving me alone.

I sighed and went to explore the room.

*

An hour later, there was a polite knock on my door.

I’d taken a shower and dressed in a deep blue button-down shirt I’d found in the wardrobe, paired with black slacks for lack of any other options.

The vial had healed my burn in under a minute, the skin as good as new, but the shirt itched where it covered it—or maybe that was because the hair hadn’t grown back.

I adjusted the cuff as I walked to the door in polished black oxfords—again, few options, but at least they fit. The clothes were new, the quality excellent, but it felt like I was dressed for an interview. I hadn’t worn anything more than jeans and a T-shirt in … about twelve years.

Opening the door, I half expected to see Kara, but it was Harrington again.

“If it suits, sir, dinner is served in the dining room.”

“Fantastic.”

He cast an eye over my ensemble, face suitably impassive to hide whatever he was thinking. “Is sir ready?”

A dismissal one moment, a summons the next. “Lead on, old chap.”

A slight furrow of his brow marked the petty hit I’d scored, but his face dropped back into professional stoicism quickly enough.

He led me down the steps and through another door, into a smaller room with ebon paneling, deep green carpets, and subdued lighting.

A more intimate arrangement—the table could easily seat twelve, but was laid for only four in the center.

I was the last to arrive.

Virelle and Dacien were seated on one side of the table, Kara on the other.

She wore a deep charcoal velvet dress, just dark enough to set off her bronzed complexion, with a modest square neckline and long sleeves that flared at the wrist. Her makeup leaned warm: gold-toned shimmer on her eyelids, a subtle highlight on her cheekbones, and a dark rose gloss that made her lips look fuller.

Her hair was pinned back on one side with a silver comb, the rest falling in loose waves over one shoulder, catching the low light.

Pretty damn impressive in only an hour. I wondered if she had help. Either way, I couldn’t deny she was absolutely gorgeous.

Harrington bowed me in, and closed the door behind me.

“Thank you for the healing potion,” I said, by way of polite opener, resisting the urge to scratch at my arm or fiddle with my cuff as I crossed to the seat they’d left for me. I’d been wrong: it felt less like an interview, more like a trial.

No one said anything as I sat down.