the assassin's prodigy the elite society of character assassins

“WHO AM I?”

 My whispered query bounces off the rich colored walls and cool marbled floor.

Never have I been so curious, so anxious.

If I search Blackmoor, will I find personal belongings of my father? Books, journals, letters, photo albums? Something that tells of his past? Of Victoria? Of me?

Heart cramped, fists clenched, I breathe deep, hoping to catch his scent. Tobacco, liquor, cologne…

But all I smell is the familiar, soothing aroma of strong black java.

Remembering the pot of coffee graciously brewed by Watson, I head back to the parlor. Lightheaded and weirdly disconnected, I float across the threshold, toward the fragrant coffee…and stop cold at the sight of an imposing figure.

He’s standing at the window and peering out at the immaculate lawn.

My skin prickles and my heart skips. “Who are you?”

He turns a fraction of an inch, his head angled as though puzzled by the question. “You can see me, madam?”

His voice is deep, seductive, and heavily accented. British, like Penelope and Watson. “Of course, I can see you,” I say, cursing the hitch in my voice. “You’re standing right in front of me.” Actually, he’s standing on the far side of the room, in the shadows. 

He moves into a path of muted sunlight.

Handsome. Carnal.

The man oozes a lethal sensuality that pulverizes my wits. He looks to be in his thirties. Worldly. Or maybe world weary. Dark eyes that have seen too much, a chiseled jaw that hasn’t seen a razor in days, and longish, black hair that looks perpetually windblown.

His aura—if you believe in that sort of thing—is potent.

“Remarkable,” he says as I continue to stare.

You can say that again. This guy is a piece of work. Pinstriped trousers, a crisp white shirt, a crimson vest, and a black knee-length coat. He looks like he stepped out of a movie-adaption of a novel by Charles Dickens or Oscar Wilde. A Victorian rake head to toe. Except…instead of shallow charm, I sense deep conviction.

And a familiar bone-deep loneliness that seizes my lungs.

I stare. I think. I breathe.

This guy gives off the same imposing and sexy vibe as the mysterious man who invaded my recent dream. An assassin who kicked vampyric jackalope ass and then seduced me into bed. A dream prompted by Penny.  

Am I hallucinating? Is he a figment of my inebriated fancy? A concocted presence like Penelope and Balderdash?

Unsure what to make of my circumstance, I keep things light. “Okay. I’ll bite. What’s your name? Algernon Moncrieff? Lord Arthur Goring? Sir Robert Chilturn?” A sucker for period films, how like me to conjure one of Wilde’s rogues as my Dream Man.

“Gabriel Bennett.”

“Never heard of you.”

“You wound me, madam,” he mocks. “And your name?” 

“Zoe Albright.”

Real or imagined, I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. All predatory-like. I don’t like the way my body’s responding—accelerated pulse, fluttery stomach—or the erotic desires he inspires. Yes, he’s gorgeous, but far too intense.

Then again… Maybe I’m misinterpreting my reaction. Maybe this surge of adrenaline is a biochemical reaction in response to potential danger.

What’s it gonna be, Zoe? Fight or flight?