Page 94 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
They all had a hellhound’s skull upon their left palms.
She had just walked into a Fyren soirée.
A few eyebrows rose among the crowd. Aurienne determined, astutely, that she was not the awaited guest of honour. She closed her right hand over her tacn. “Er—hi,” she said to Mordaunt. “I was just dropping something off. I’ll—I’ll leave it in the kitchens, shall I?”
“Hullo,” managed Mordaunt. “I wasn’t expecting you. Erm—certainly. The kitchens.”
“Right—I’ll just—go then, shall I?”
Aurienne took a step backwards and collided with someone.
“You,” said the someone. Strong fingers snatched Aurienne by the chin.“You.”
That voice. Those Gorgon eyes.
It was Tristane.
She held Aurienne’s face in a vice grip. Aurienne wasn’t sure whether she was about to be strangled or eaten. She gathered seith at her tacn and eyed Tristane for the nearest patch of bare skin.
Then Tristane kissed her on both cheeks.
Aurienne, transfixed, was drawn into the sitting room by the Fyren Order’s warchief.
Tristane was magnificent in a low-backed black dress. Her entrance was heralded by cheering and raised glasses: it was she who was the much-awaited guest of honour. The Fyren in the room offered words of congratulations and respectful bows. Tristane’s sharp fingers did not release Aurienne’s wrist. Mordaunt had never looked so perplexed.
“Yes—c’est vrai—I am out at last.” Tristane whirled Aurienne into a spin. “And this creature is the one who made my escape possible.”
There was a chorus ofoohs, which was fortunate, because it covered Mordaunt choking on his drink.
“Osric, bravo, you really outdid yourself, having her here tonight,” said Tristane.
Mordaunt pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and said, “Of—of course. Anything to please you, Tristane.”
Tristane turned to Aurienne. “And you agreed to come? I am honoured by your presence.”
Her arm hung round Aurienne’s shoulders like a friendly executioner’s. Aurienne had never been so paralysed by shock. Thank Fria her cloak covered her Haelan whites.
Mordaunt did not fare much better. He was doing his best debonair lean against the fireplace, but a stiff line of tension marred his slouch. His tacn glimmered with suppressed seith. His eyes restlessly passed from Aurienne to his colleagues, as though he suspected that they would launch themselves at her between bites of canapés. He interspersed this activity with glowers cast Aurienne’s way, which informed her that if Tristane didn’t kill her, he would do it himself.
Aurienne returned these looks, enlivened by righteous anger. If he hadn’t lied to Cíele about his whereabouts tonight, she wouldn’t have walked into this den of wolves.
Mrs. Parson was trying her best not to look concerned, but was so distracted that she poured whiskey into a dish of mushroom tartlets.
A late arrival popped in. It was Leofric.
Aurienne distinctly heard Mordaunt say, “Hel.”
Leofric danced into the room in a scarlet tailcoat and made a profound bow to Tristane.
“Welcome back, boss,” he said. “We’ve missed your iron hand on our cocks, metaphorical and actual. Have I already missed the story of how you escaped from—”
Leofric cut himself off: he had just spotted Aurienne. He froze, stared at her open-mouthed, then gasped, “Haelan Hot Tits.”
A ripple of startled whispers (“Did he just sayHaelan?”) made its way round the room.
“Really, Leofric,” said Tristane.
She snatched him by the face. Her nails dug into his cheeks. Leofric made a sound like suffering bagpipes.
