Free Shadowdance by Kristen Callihan

let her gaze roam listlessly about her small parlor. She loved her flat. Assembling it for comfort, she’d picked big, padded armchairs and covered the floors in plush carpets. Robin’s-egg blue lacquered the walls, the high gloss reflecting the light of her lamps and candles when it grew dark. Cream-colored velvet drapes kept the chill from creeping through the windows, and her couch was, in truth, alarge, wrought iron campaign bed of some long-dead general’s and was piled high with plump pillows for lounging. Quite satisfactory. And nothing like the homes in which she had been raised.
    Though the location changed from time to time, her childhood homes had all looked the same within—pink silk damask walls, dainty gilded furniture, and numerous mirrors to reflect Maman. Everything glittering and feminine. And Mary most of all. Always resplendent in frothy petticoats, rich satins, and lacy pinafores. Hateful, really, that Mary still loved to wear high fashion. Back then, however, she had loved it all. Loved playing with the battalion of French dolls provided for her, loved waiting for Maman to grace her with a morning visit. They’d sip rich chocolate and eat buttered crumpets, and Maman would tell her stories of lovely men. It wasn’t until later, when Mary fully understood just who and what those men were and why they provided the riches around her, that a sick, twisted dismay would weigh down her chest upon Maman’s arrival.
    Maman
. Ha. They weren’t even French. It had taken Mary ridiculously long to figure that out as well. But Maman was long dead, and that part of Mary’s life over.
    She had friends. Tonight she might have gone out, might have danced and laughed. Yet she had stayed home. For she did not know how to be at ease with others. She’d never learned, growing up as that girl in the ivory tower. Mary sighed and sank back into her body. The sensation was akin to slipping under a warm blanket. It took her but a moment to orient, pick up her book, and turn toward the warmth of her heating stove. The cream enamel Swedish stove was more efficient and used fragrant wood instead of muddy coal. Behind the grate the flames danced.Self-pity never helped a thing. And she was better off than most. Being alone was perfectly fine. Perfectly.
    A creak sounded upon her landing. Tensing, she glanced over the high back of her couch. Her hall was dark, only the small reading lamp at her side hissing away. Which made the sliver of light shining along the base of her front door perfectly visible, as was the shadow of someone standing behind the door. Mary’s hand slid to the revolver she kept by her side. Even in her home, she never let herself be without a weapon.
    When she wanted to, Mary could move with speed and silence. In a blink she lightly vaulted over the couch, ripped open the door, and had her gun cocked and aimed. At Jack Talent’s broad chest.
    “Put it away,” he said in a bored tone.
    She allowed herself the pleasure of ignoring his request for a long moment. Then she lowered the gun and took stock of him. He stood, feet braced, hands at his side, in a manner that ought to have conveyed trust, but with his rippling strength, he appeared ready to pounce. Mist glittered at the tips of his cropped hair and on the weave of his black wool overcoat. He towered over her, all bunching muscle and boiling energy, and he had to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.
    “I thought you were at Daisy’s birthday ball,” she said.
    A deep furrow ran between his brows, brows that, when he smiled, tilted upward at the tips like the leaves of a bascule bridge. The feature ought to have given him an open, almost boyish look of expectancy, but his sour nature fought that appearance, twisting it into a near-permanent glower of disappointment. Even so, the very idea that nature had given him a face more inclined to joy made her fight a smile. Served him right for being so prickly.
    “I thought you were invited too.” He