The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman Read Free Book Online

before us, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, I wish you to craft at least three original compositions, choreographed to match Brighton’s impressive light show.”
    My eyes tick between Silas and Brighton. The tension in the air is as brittle and volatile as the driftwood lining the beaches. And I suspect one wrong word from either will ignite and combust the façade of calm within this room.
    Silas rubs his hands together so fast I fear they will spark and light the atmosphere ablaze.
    “Original scores. Understood?” His black gaze zeroes on Brighton.
    LeFroy’s body sits rigidly upon the edge of his chair, as if ready to down Silas.
    I shift uncomfortably and clear my throat. “I do love composition, Silas, and I adore what Mr. LeFroy’s done with his pyrotechnics—so it shouldn’t be so very difficult.”
    LeFroy shakes his head. Silas seems to comprehend its meaning, but it is lost on me.
    “Ah, ah, ah , Brighton.” He waggles a long finger. “I need not remind you in front of the lady, of your… responsibilities , do I?”
    LeFroy’s teeth grind together. “No. Fine. Miss Teagarden—”
    “You may call me Allegra.”
    The tension in his face lessens a fraction. “Fine. Allegra. I shall meet you this afternoon to begin our assignment. The sooner I might tick it off my growing list of responsibilities , the better.”
    Lefroy shoots to stand and flings open the door. He strides out without bothering to close it.
    Silas tsk, tsk’s to his retreating back. “Temper, temper.”
    Silas is not angry, indeed he appears highly amused. He smiles widely at me, but his wide white teeth threaten. “You seem more pleased at the prospect, Allegra.”
    I nod.
    My pleasure has naught to do with composition.
    I will get to spend much time in Brighton’s company. And despite his tempestuous mood swings, that is indeed a most pleasurable prospect.
    * * *

    Brighton

    I heard it first and a wave of heat passed over my skin.
    My own personal siren call. Thunder . My would-be savior and my grim reaper.
    Lightning flashes; the sky awakens with bursting white flashes, illuminating the purple backdrop of churning clouds.
    I leap out of bed, shaking the cobwebs from my mind.
    A bolt strikes close, very very close.
    I startle backward and smack my head off the birdcage behind me. Close, too close—six feet from my window the ground hisses and sizzles.
    I feel his presence before he speaks. A warming sensation, as if I’ve downed a tumbler of fine scotch, trickles from my spine to my fingers to my toes.
    I stiffen , awaiting the familiar, sing-song voice.
    “Brighton. I am come.” His voice from behind the front door.
    No use in barricading it. If he wished to enter, he would enter.
    I spin, rummaging through my papers on the table, futilely trying to hide the most recent research.
    “How? How did you find me again? I was so meticulous,” I say, without turning around.
    He gives a quiet laugh, his footsteps walking toward me. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”
    Anger scorches my cheeks. I whirl and push past him, loading my arms with the lightning rods.
    “If we work together, we might accomplish our goal more quickly.”
    My hands shake as I fight the urge to strike and pummel that smug look from his haughty-pointed-face. “Our goals , couldn’t be more diametrically opposed.”
    He glows, ever-so-slightly, like the warning sky before a storm.
    I twist the door knob with my two free fingers, kicking it open with my boot-heel.
    “You shall not succeed without me.” His voice is scathing as I shove past him.
    I push into the storm, running down the path toward the pond in the center of the isle.
    The fireflies descend instantly, gathering and trailing behind me as if I am some ethereal Pied Piper. And predictably, the cats arrive as well, falling in step like the soldiers of the cursed that we are.
    I sigh. Innocent bystanders to my madness .
    Water pounds my head, and I thrust on the hat to divert the