Magia Posthuma ✓

Nineteen

Hermannstadt, Christmas Eve, 1769

"One moment, Eos..."

His sonorous voice had cut through the music and the noise of the crowd and had immediately halted her march to the door. She'd turned back towards it, scowling through her gold mask as his sober, black suit and silhouette emerged from the throng of brightly coloured silks like a black cloud on a summer afternoon.

"...I'm not quite finished with you yet," he'd said.

She'd thrown her hands up and huffed. Why had he followed her? "Well, I've certainly had my fill of you," she'd replied as he shoved his way towards her.

"Not yet, you haven't."

The moment he'd thrown down the ace of diamonds and taken the game, Irina had torn away from the table with an indignant (and rather undignified) grunt – kicking over her chair in the process. The shame of it – of losing to him – had broken her, and she'd been desperate to leave at any cost, but she'd barely made it through into the next room before she heard his voice calling after her. How had he caught up to her so quickly?

And suddenly there he was, looming over her like a shadow creeping up a wall; she hadn't noticed how tall he was whilst he was sat at the gaming table. She'd had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "...You've already taken both my pearls and my pride, Count," she'd said. "What more could you possibly want?"

"I very much doubt you'll mourn the loss," he'd jibed smoothly; "I imagine ladies like you have more jewels than you have places to wear them–"

She'd glared at him; she was tired of being picked apart by a total stranger, "You know nothing of–"

"I think I've more than demonstrated that I do – and as for your pride?" he'd interrupted fluidly as he invaded her space.

She'd stopped breathing; with every breath she seemed to draw more of him in - his musk, his magnetism.

His lips had curled beneath his mask. "From what I can tell, you could certainly stand to lose a little."

"How dare you!" Irina had snarled, rising a little taller to challenge him. "If you had any idea who I was then you'd swallow those words, Count; they'd be enough to have you whipped."

The idea seemed to amuse him. "...I'd take the whipping if it meant I could have your name," he'd dared her, knowing that she'd never reveal her identity to him; it was a card she was keeping very close to her chest. "...Or are you going to make me guess?"

"The only games I play are card games."

With nothing more to say, she'd rolled her eyes as she grabbed her skirts and spun away from him – ripping through one of the soft, chartreuse curtains dangling beside her. She'd hoped – prayed – that it might lead to a way out - that she could lose him - but instead it simply led into one of the cellar's stone cloisters and nothing but a dead end. A dead end furnished sparingly with a ripped chaise, a rickety side table cluttered with half empty champagne glasses, and a stuttering candelabra spitting wax onto the flagstones.

And then the curtain was suddenly swept to the side. When he ducked inside with a predatory look in his eyes, she'd taken a step back. "...If you dare lay a finger on me–"

Half amused, half offended, he'd scoffed at the notion. "Without permission? I wouldn't dream of it, Eos," he'd replied, prowling towards her. He'd opened his arms and bowed, "After all, it is darkness who succumbs to the dawn – not the other way around."