//CLARA//
The silence of the Guggenheim mansion at two in the morning was thick enough to choke on. We sauntered inside, the heavy oak doors thudding shut behind us like the closing of a tomb.
I smoothed my hands down the front of my skirts. By some miracle of silk and tailoring, the dress was intact. Only Casimir and I knew that my inner drawers were a shredded ruin. My legs were still shaky, though I was not sure if it was from the warehouse or from him.
Probably both.
We were headed for the stairs when a shadow suddenly flickered in the parlor. My heart did a violent, panicked backflip against my ribs. I froze, my modern instincts sharpening into a jagged edge.
I was half a second away from pulling some kung-fu shit—even though my only real training was a Cardio Kickbox class once in Soho—before a familiar, grating voice cut through the dark.
"I trust the rats at the docks provided stimulating conversation?"
