Page 144 of Demon's Beauty

“Mr. Blair,” Esme says smoothly, appearing in the doorway beside him. “Please, let me escort you out.”

Her eyes land on me, but she doesn’t give me any reaction other than to incline her head back toward the interior of her office.

“You may wait for me inside, Soleil. I will return shortly.”

I nod silently, waiting for the pair of them to pass before stepping inside and shutting the door lightly behind me.

Their footsteps grow quieter down the hallway, and the proper thing to do would be to take the seat in front of Esme’s desk and sit demurely until she returns. Hands folded in my lap, perfect posture, ever the dutiful apprentice, waiting to be scolded by the High Priestess.

I have no intention of doing that.

Not only because my entire body is humming with way too much nervous energy to even think about sitting still, but because I’ve never been in the High Priestess’s office all by myself.

And as long as I’m already breaking rules…

I make a slow circuit of the room, studying the bookshelves filled to the brim and spilling over with hundreds of ancient tomes, the pieces of coven history framed and hung on the walls, the feel of the magick here. Pulsing and powerful, it’s the living heart of the coven, the proverbial seat of power for generations and generations of Crescent witches.

Along with the literal seat of power.

The High Priestess’s chair, set behind her desk.

As ancient and ornate as everything else in this room, its wood has been worn smooth with time, and all the strands of power in the room seem to lead right back to it.

Back to where Esme Hawthorn does the work of running this place, to where all her predecessors have done their work.

To where her successor will work someday, too.

Almost without thought, I let the strands of magick pull me forward.

All the way behind the desk and to the chair, still pulled slightly out as if waiting in invitation.

I sit.

Just for a moment, I tell myself, just to see what it’s like.

And I’m not sure if I expected some great revelation or awakening, but it mostly just feels like… a chair.

There’s magick around it, certainly, like magick swirls around everything in this place. Maybe it’s a bit more powerful considering all the impressive witches who’ve sat here throughout the years, but it’s not all that different from any other chair.

Looking out on an office filled with Crescent history, on a desktop piled high with papers that must represent hours upon hours of work and responsibility, there’s something almost mundane about the weight of the leadership it signifies.

But I barely have any more time to contemplate it before footsteps echo down the hall.

Shooting to my feet, I scurry away from the desk and pretend to be studying the array of rare botanical specimens lining the windowsill as the door creaks softly open.

“Admiring my collection?”

I turn at the sound of Esme’s cool, polished voice, doing what I’d like to believe is an admirable job hiding how fast my pulse is racing, how my heart is lodged in my throat.

“Yes. Your orchids especially, I know how difficult these particular varieties can be to get a hold of.”

Esme doesn’t acknowledge the inane comment.

“Take a seat,” she says coolly, nodding to the chair set in front of her desk. “It may not be the most comfortable place in the room to sit, but I hope it meets your approval.”

I swallow hard as I circle back around the desk, but whether because she doesn’t suspect or just doesn’t care to push the issue, Esme says nothing further about chairs or who might be sitting in them.

“You received my note,” she begins when we’re both seated, not a question.