The penthouse didn't just smell like magic anymore, it smelled like an interrogation. Or a wake. Or maybe just the stagnant, dusty air of a room that hadn't been aired out since the eighteenth century. Theron sat on the edge of the plush velvet sofa, his fingers drumming a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his kneecaps. He felt like a caged bird, no, a caged leopard, restless and itching to bite something.
Across the room, Belica wasn't doing much to ease his nerves. She was draped over a chaise longue with the kind of liquid grace that made a man feel like he was being hunted by a piece of silk. She was nursing a glass of something thick and violet, her eyes never leaving him.
"You're going to wear a hole in the upholstery, Theron," she murmured. Her voice was like honey poured over a razor blade. "Relax. The Dragon is already half-way to his little mortal. The trail hasn't snapped. I'd know."
