Chapter 2: The Devil's Tango
The name hung in the air like a bad note from the saxophone—wrong, sour, and entirely too loud for a room that thrived on shadows.
Simon's eyes narrowed to slits, his jaw working as he processed the scene in front of him. Emily could practically see the gears grinding behind those bloodshot eyes, trying to figure out if he was being played. The stranger's arm around her waist was immovable as iron, but she could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against her hip.
"This your boyfriend?" Simon's voice was a slurred challenge. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe whatever you want." Emily's voice came out steadier than she felt. "I'm not responsible for your comprehension skills."
The stranger laughed. It was a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through his chest and into her spine. "She's got a sharp tongue."
"You have no idea," Emily muttered.
Simon stepped closer. She could smell the sweat on him, the desperation. "I saw her first. She was drinking alone, waiting for no one."
The stranger's grip tightened. "And yet here she is. With me."
"Prove it." Simon's chin jutted forward, belligerent and ugly. "Prove she's yours."
The air changed. Emily felt it more than saw it—the way the stranger's posture shifted, the way his eyes went from amused to something else entirely. Something flat and cold and ancient. The temperature around them seemed to drop, and the candlelight in his eyes guttered like a flame in a draft.
"Simon." The stranger said his name like it tasted bad. "I would strongly advise you to walk away. While you're still capable of walking."
It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of casual certainty that made Emily's heart skip. She'd studied enough history to recognize true power when she saw it—the kind that didn't need to raise its voice because it had never once needed to.
But Simon was too drunk to recognize the cliff he was standing on.
"Who do you think you are, man? Some kind of—"
Emily moved.
She didn't think. She just acted, reaching up with both hands to cup the stranger's face. His skin was warm beneath her palms, the stubble along his jaw rough against her fingertips, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. His eyes locked onto hers, startled and sharp, and she saw something flicker behind that winter-blue gaze—something that might have been surprise.
"My love." The words came out softer than she intended, breathless and almost desperate. "I want to dance. Please. Just dance with me."
She held his gaze, her thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, willing him to understand. To play along. To get them out of this moment before Simon did something that would get him hurt.
Please, she thought. Please just take the out I'm giving you. Take the out I'm giving him.
The stranger's eyes searched her face. She could feel the faint movement of his breathing beneath her palms, steady and slow, unhurried. A thousand years of patience looking back at her.
Then something shifted. The violence in his posture didn't exactly disappear, but it folded itself away, neat and contained. His smile returned, and this time it was genuine amusement.
"Anything for you, love."
He swept her into the small open space at the edge of the bar, his hand finding the small of her back with a practiced ease that made her breath catch. She stumbled slightly, unprepared for the sudden movement, and he caught her, pulling her close against his chest.
"Easy," he murmured against her hair. "I've got you."
The jazz trio had shifted into something slower, a sultry number that seemed to wrap itself around them. Emily had no idea if he'd somehow signaled them or if it was just the kind of cosmic luck that kept the universe spinning, but she wasn't about to question it. Her hands had somehow found their way to his shoulders, and she could feel the solid warmth of him beneath the wool of his jacket.
"You're shaking," he observed quietly.
"People keep touching me without my permission." She met his eyes. "It's been a long night."
He hummed in acknowledgment. "And yet you chose to stay on Bourbon Street."
"I didn't choose anything. My friend dragged me here." She glanced toward the bar, where Simon was still standing, watching them with the confused fury of a kicked dog. "Ironic. She's the one who abandoned me for a guy, and I'm the one getting harassed by one."
"Hazard of being beautiful, love."
"Oh, is that what you tell yourself in the mirror every morning?"
His laugh was genuine this time, a startled bark of amusement that seemed to catch even him off guard. His hand pressed more firmly against her lower back, and he swayed her gently, turning them in a slow circle.
"I stand corrected. You have a sharp tongue and a sharper wit."
"I'm a Renaissance history scholar. Wit is a survival mechanism when you're the only woman in a room full of aging men who think they know more about the Medicis than you do."
"And yet the Renaissance was so romantic." His voice was a low murmur against her temple. "All those beautiful paintings. Those passionate love letters. The occasional ritualized murder."
"You really know how to set the mood."
"Someone has to." He spun her, and she was too surprised to resist, her skirt flaring as she turned. When she came back to him, his hands found her waist, steadying her. "Though I must say, you're the first woman who's ever asked me to dance in the middle of a confrontation."
"I was trying to save you from a fight."
"Were you now?"
His eyes glinted. There was something beneath his amusement—a flicker of curiosity, maybe even respect. Emily felt her cheeks flush.
"He was going to do something stupid. And while I appreciate the thought of having my own bodyguard, I didn't want to watch a drunk get his face rearranged in a Bourbon Street bar." She paused. "Actually, I don't know you. Maybe you were the one who was going to get rearranged."
"Perish the thought." The way he said it made her believe him.
The music swelled, and he moved them again, obviously leading with the kind of confidence that came from centuries of practice. Emily followed as best she could, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket to steady herself.
"You dance well," she said, slightly breathless.
"It's one of my many talents."
"Humility isn't one of them, apparently."
He smiled, and she noticed, with a strange jolt, that it was the first real smile she'd seen from him. It softened his face, made him look almost approachable. Almost human.
"I'm Klaus," he said, as if the name should mean something. Maybe it did. New Orleans was full of history, and she'd read enough to know that the old families—the ones that had been here since before the Americans arrived—carried names loaded with meaning.
"Emily." She said it before she could think better of it. "Emily Laurent."
"Emily Laurent." He tested the name, letting it roll off his tongue. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I must admit I prefer the circumstances under which we met."
"You mean me using you as a human shield?"
"I prefer the term 'valiant protector.'"
Emily laughed. It escaped before she could stop it, bright and unexpected, cutting through the dim haze of the bar. "Valiant? You barely knew what was happening."
"I knew a beautiful woman needed me. That was enough."
"Flatterer."
"Observant."
She turned her face away, embarrassed by the warmth creeping up her neck. Across the room, Sarah had materialized near the bar, watching with wide eyes and an open mouth. Emily made a mental note to throttle her friend later.
"Your friend seems concerned," Klaus observed.
"Probably wondering what I'm doing dancing with a handsome stranger instead of getting us kicked out like I normally do."
"Normally?"
"I have a reputation."
"Let me guess. You're the one who argues with professors about historiography and wins."
"That's oddly specific."
"I'm a good judge of character."
The song was ending. Emily could feel it in the slow decrescendo, the way the saxophone was drawing its final notes. Klaus's hand was warm on her lower back, and when she looked up at him, she realized he was studying her with an intensity that made her feel like she was being cataloged.
"Should I be worried?" she asked.
"About what?"
"About the fact that you're looking at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve?"
His smile curved, slow and dangerous. "I'm more of a collector, love. I see something interesting, I hold onto it."
"Pretty sure that's not the normal response to meeting someone."
"And I'm not a normal man."
The music stopped. The silence that followed seemed louder than the song, pressing in from all sides. Emily became suddenly aware of how close they were standing, of the way his hand still rested on her lower back, of the fact that she hadn't pulled away.
She stepped back. Put distance between them, just enough to breathe.
"Thank you." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "For the dance, and for being my very handsome human shield."
"Emily."
She paused. He was watching her with those ancient eyes, and for the first time, she saw something in them that wasn't amusement or curiosity. It was a flicker of darkness. A warning.
"Bourbon Street is dangerous after midnight," he said. "More dangerous than you know. Watch yourself."
She should have asked what he meant. She should have stayed, pressed him for answers, unraveled the mystery of the man with the impossible eyes and the too-old wisdom. Instead, she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm always watching for danger."
He said nothing. But he watched her as she turned away, and she could feel his gaze on her back like a brand, following her across the room, through the crowd, out the heavy oak door and into the neon-drenched chaos of Bourbon Street.
She told herself the shiver that ran down her spine was from the cold.
She told herself she wouldn't think about him again.
And if she felt his eyes on her long after she disappeared into the crowd, well. She was a rational woman. A scholar. She didn't believe in ghosts.
But something about that man made her wonder if she should start.