Michael Cross was a sociopath. Serafina felt certain of it. Her fleeting contact with his emotionless blue-gray eyes had unnerved her. It was as if the man hadn’t noticed her, or worse, dismissed her as unworthy of his attention.
He dismissed her.
Serafina found the notion so infuriating that she considered stealing a strand of his hair or a drop of his spit to work a magic so powerful he would scream her name as he died. But that would have meant wasting her time on yet another weak man. Serafina was done with weak men.
She stormed from the main gallery and marched down the corridor when the left side of her face grew hot. She covered her cheek with her palm and turned, expecting to see a spotlight pointed at her. Instead, she gazed through the open door into another gallery. Curious as to why the flash of heat had come from there, she entered.
The scene inside this gallery appeared much like the other, only smaller in scale and without musicians. Why would her magical senses have called her in here?
And then she saw her.
Serafina had spied on her granddaughter many times since coming to Rio, which hadn’t been easy because Jian Carlo usually kept his wife sequestered in his estate. Yet here she was, alone and vulnerable.
Serafina watched from behind a cluster of people, considering how to capitalize on this opportunity, when Michael Cross came up to Adriana. Was he as smitten with her as he appeared to be or simply charming a potential buyer? It was hard to tell. Unlike Adriana, who advertised her adulterous desires like a billboard, Michael Cross kept a tighter rein on his expressions. Still, with a little mystical manipulation, Serafina could make sure Adriana not only got what she wanted but what she deserved.
What both she and Jian Carlo deserved.
Michael Cross may or may not be the American Exú had commanded Serafina to find, but she could definitely use him to inflict her revenge on Adriana and Jian Carlo.
Serafina had seen enough. She left the gallery and found a dark alley in which to wait. Twenty minutes later, Adriana emerged and hailed a taxi. Serafina let her go. There was no reason to risk recognition just for a snip of hair or dress, not when she could walk up to Michael Cross and stab him with a knife. Blood strengthened spells, especially blood from a target’s own body.
Serafina grinned. She would enjoy causing him pain.
The anticipation sustained her for the ninety-minutes it took for the gallery event to end and the last of the guests to finally leave. During that time, Serafina ran through possible methods of attack and enjoyed the excitement building in her loins.
That’s where it always began. Not in the head, as Isolda had tried to make her believe when she drenched Serafina in rooster blood and left her in that cement trough overnight to bind with Yansã. Ordinary mediums, like Isolda, felt the seat of power in their head. Serafina drew power from her sex.
The heat between her thighs radiated up and down. Whether Michael Cross left the gallery alone or with his agent, Serafina would be ready. A quick nick of the knife as they entered a taxi or, if he was alone, a whore’s seduction where she could take her time in the shadows, strip away his arrogance, and reduce him to a quivering mass of need and desperation. Give his cock a taste. Then stab him with the knife and leave.
The gallery door opened and Michael Cross emerged.
Serafina advanced.
His agent called down from the balcony. “Sebastião has a car for us.”
“I’m going to walk. Probably beat you there.”
She laughed and waved, flapping her arms like a giant blue bird in that ridiculous caftan. “Breakfast tomorrow?”
He flashed a thumbs up and walked away.
Why would a successful woman like Jackson White waste her time on an arrogant, talentless client? Children finger-painted with more artistry than Michael Cross. Yet, if not for the bright colors of his painting against newsprint, Serafina would never have looked twice at his work. Never come to this event. Never seen him with Adriana.
Oh yes, it would please her greatly to stick him with her knife.
He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and turned down a one-way street that led to the shore. He seemed in no hurry as he paused to stare at an intersection paved with red and blue geometric patterns. When he crossed the street, he ran up and down a flight of steps for no apparent reason.
Perhaps he was crazier than she thought.
A bicyclist whizzed by and clipped his arm. Instead of yelling at the boy or chasing after him, the crazy American bolted up the street in a different direction. Horns blared as he charged between cars. Serafina had no choice but to chase after him.
He ran effortlessly, as if his body were made for speed, and although her legs were long and strong, she couldn’t match his pace. He leapt over cement posts, bicycle racks, and a dog scrounging for food. He darted through parked cars and strolling tourists.
Why was he running?
Serafina jogged to a stop and clung to a corner lamppost, panting with exhaustion. As much as she wanted to pursue, she could not.
He shouted from somewhere not too far away. “Why are you following me? Get out. What do you want?”
His words made no sense. No one was following him except for her, and she had yet to catch up with him. Who was he yelling at? If she wanted answers, she had to keep moving.
When she rounded the corner, Michael Cross was running beside a taxi, shaking the door handle and screaming. “What do you want from me? Get out and face me, you coward.”
He slapped the trunk.
“Amodei. Do you hear me? I’ll find you.”
As the taxi passed Serafina, the rear window rolled down and the head of a white snake emerged—the top of an ivory cane—followed by the face of a very black man wearing a very white hat. His laughter carried through the night, as did his words.
“I’m counting on it.”