CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROZLYN
The attic stairs creaked beneath Rozlyn’s feet as she padded up the wooden steps behind Haven, her bronze dagger tight in her grip. A blade might not work against magic, but if a spirit could be pleasured by Nightshade, then she could still surely stab one, even if it didn’t kill them. Being taken off guard would give enough time for Haven to release his sorcery on one.
Orange candles burning in golden sconces along the walls, papered in cerulean willow trees, hung upside down like everything else in this manor. Yellow flames with black centers licked across the wicks, the glow casting shadowy images of what looked to be skeletal stags dancing, the wax remaining in place as it had in Haven’s tower.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Haven pressed a palm and an ear against the door, seeming to be listening and feeling for sorcery.
Rozlyn craned her neck, and the only sounds she could hear were her own breath accompanied by Haven’s. “The swishing stopped,” she whispered.
“I don’t trust noises that suddenly disappear,” Haven said, his shadows crawling down the walls and door, claws slipping out from their inky hands, before seeping through them.
Like a clock, the moments ticked by inside Rozlyn’s head until Haven nodded to himself and opened the door. He slipped inside while holding out a hand, motioning with a finger for her to come.
Rozlyn stepped into a large attic, the room hexagonal in shape. Three chandeliers were planted on the floor, yet in a straight position as though they were dangling from the ceiling. Peeling maroon wallpaper of upside-down white bears covered every inch, including above them. The furniture wasn’t on the floor but on the ceiling, all bright colors. A magenta settee, yellow chaise, lime green table, two orange chairs, a writing desk, and a lavender wool rug. Shelves decorated the walls with glass figurines of dancing women, each standing in the reversed position by their heads.
The floor and walls shook, the glass figurines vibrating yet not collapsing to the floor. Rozlyn pulled Haven by the arm in case the settee above them decided to come crashing down. His shadows curled from his hands just as a ruby apparition seeped from the floor, its shape like an octopus. A red tentacle lashed forward and wrapped around Haven’s wrist, and Rozlyn sliced through it. Before she could stab into the creature again, Haven’s shadow had already cut through the head. The top portion slid to the floor, and the creature convulsed, both parts disappearing back to the depths from which they’d come.
“What kind of magic is that ?” Rozlyn asked, inspecting Haven’s wrist where a red mark rested, but the injury wasn’t bad enough to need a healing salve.
“They are old remnants of spelled objects that have taken on a life of their own. Some hold parts of the sorceress’ spirit that was divided throughout the manor. They should’ve remained hidden because they will now have to discover what I can do,” Haven growled. He then opened a closet door in the middle of the far wall and nudged her inside. “Stay put.”
Haven shut the door before she could argue, and she was left to her defenses, surrounded by darkness. He spoke low words on the other side of her door, words that sounded as though they were in another language. Swishing stirred once more, the volume increasing, the noise louder than anything she’d ever heard, to the point where she couldn’t hear anything else. She didn’t cover her ears though, only attempted to continue listening as she winced.
Silence followed, long and never-ending. Time ticked and ticked and ticked . Fear pulsed through Rozlyn when not even Haven’s boots made a creak against the wooden planks.
She slowly opened the door, surveying the empty attic. No sign of Haven. Her heart hammered. The Marquis of Shadows would tell her to obey him and hover in the closet, but if something had happened to him, or if he needed her, she couldn’t linger behind like a weak animal. The other door to the stairs was drawn wide, and she stepped forward to hurry down them to the next floor just as Haven entered at the bottom. His fiery gaze latched onto hers, fury swirling in his pale eyes.
“Can you ever obey?” he snapped, his feet stomping against the steps toward her.
“You were taking too long!” she hissed. “And then you were gone from the room! I told you I would watch your back. Not cower in a corner of a dark closet, where I couldn’t see anything, I might add!”
“I know what I’m doing,” he said as he towered above her, his chest heaving.
“Did you forget that you were wounded a moment ago?” she pointed out, jabbing him in his sternum.
“I’ll live, won’t I?”
She pursed her lips. “Unless there is a delayed reaction and your hands fall off, then the poison travels to your heart and squeezes the organ to death.”
Haven stared at her, unblinking. “That’s absurd.”
When moans reverberated beneath them, and shadowy scarlet heads resembling nefarious sea creatures peaked through the floor, he ground out, “Closet. Now.”
Rozlyn didn’t question him and fled inside with Haven behind her. He shut them into the darkness, but a moment later, orange orbs flickered above them, bobbing just like the ones outside Nightshade’s manor.
Haven lifted his hand, making a myriad of different shapes. A triangle. Circle. Some sort of squiggles as though he were writing a letter. The closet was much tinier with him standing beside her, and if she were as claustrophobic as her friend Cordelia, she might’ve panicked in the corner.
Once Haven’s hand fell back to his side, he calmly drew in a breath. “The fuckers are gone, but we’ll stay in here until dawn. There were more remnants than I’d expected. The last time I was here as a boy, there had barely been any.”
“They must like me then,” she jested.
“Hmph.”
“I’m fine with staying in here though,” she said as she watched the orbs float above them. “Did you create the ones at Nightshade’s manor too?”
“I did.” He frowned, flexing his hands at his sides.
She thought about the two encounters she’d witnessed between the two men. Haven’s mood wasn’t the least bit cheerful around him, more so on edge each time. “But you seem to hate him.”
His eyebrow lifted. “I don’t hate the fucker.”
Rozlyn blinked. It was a very strange friendship indeed. However, if he didn’t consider the ferryman an enemy, then she wondered how he treated those who were. Oh yes, the labyrinth …
Perhaps she was used to how she and the other courtesans interacted, never once having an argument with any of them. She knew some might perceive her as a doormat, yet she just preferred to get along. But she had seen the other girls get into nasty spats at times—hair pulling, slaps, a drink to the face. Envy over when a wealthy client chose one courtesan over the other. A few would act as though nothing had happened while others held grudges that never went away.
“Well, I think Nightshade—” A nip, like a pinch, came at her neck and she clamped her hand against flesh. “Something bit me!” she shrieked.
“Stop mentioning Nightshade and my shadows won’t do it again,” he muttered. A hint of jealousy lingered in his voice. Did he think she wanted to be the ferryman’s courtesan?
“Fine,” she relented. “But just so you know, I’d rather be trapped in this closet with you over drinking a glass of wine in his name I shall not say’s manor.”
“Good.” Haven backed into the wall and sank down onto the floor, his large body taking up most of the space.
One of her feet rested beside the door and another between his legs, leaving her nowhere to really go. She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. “What am I supposed to do? Stand the entire night? Or, better yet, sleep while standing?”
Haven shrugged, his expression neutral. “You can.”
He desperately needed to work on how to interact with people, but she found him rather endearing in his own way. “Make room, sorcerer,” Rozlyn huffed and settled between his legs, then leaned against his firm chest.
She could feel the steady thump of his heart against her back, and now that everything had calmed down inside the house, she could do nothing but think. Think about the night before. The Marquis of Shadows’ touches, the way he made her moan with his fingers and cock. How his tongue and lips had felt like silk against her throat. As his warmth cocooned her, she would take the torture of yearning for his touches over standing the whole night.
Haven surprised her when he was the first to speak. “How did you end up in a brothel anyway?” It came as a surprise that he wanted to learn more about her, but that was what friends would do.
Rozlyn released a breath, recalling her grim childhood, something she chose to keep at the bottom of an abundance of happy things. When she was younger, even after discovering Madam and the woman’s brothel, the memories had plagued her until she allowed herself to be loved. Rozlyn had thought either Madam would use her for her own purposes the way her mother had, or would only care for her so long before throwing her back to the streets.
“My mother was madly in love with my father, the king of Dawnbreak—as you know,” Rozlyn murmured. “She would always go on about how one day he would finally ask her to be his wife, that she would live in his palace and have so many riches that she would never have to worry. Only her, never me. The king was already married at the time, you see, and my mother was his mistress. When I was a child, he would come to our meager home for pleasure from my mother while I sewed in another room. He never told me hello, never once gave me a hug or a smile. My mother only saw me as the key to becoming his wife, his queen, and when he no longer came around, she abandoned me. I was nine years old, left to fend for myself. Which, back then, I didn’t know how to do. The madam of a brothel found me wandering the streets in search of my mother and took me in.”
“And she forced you to work for her?” he said between gritted teeth, his arm circling her waist as he sat straighter. “At nine years old?”
“No!” she whisper-shouted. “I chose that path when I was older. The courtesans kept me shielded, protected me, and Madam trained me to fight in case I ever needed to defend myself again. She may not be my blood, but I consider her my mother. I promised myself the one thing I would never do was fall in love and become someone’s mistress, even though a courtesan is in a sense, regardless of her feelings.”
Haven remained quiet for several heartbeats. “I still can’t believe you wouldn’t choose to be a fucking princess, especially since you’re the first heir to the throne, bastard or not. I don’t know anyone who would turn down power, wealth, and beauty to live as a courtesan,” he said, incredulous.
“It seems you don’t know a lot of people.” Rozlyn tsked. “A courtesan can have all those things. So can a dressmaker. But if I never have any of those things, it doesn’t make a difference.” She turned in his arms and lifted his chin. “When it comes to beauty, I’m not a hideous beast, and even if I was, would it matter?”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Pampered with powders and fine clothing. You could fashion your hair any way you desired.”
“I like my hair this long, Haven ,” Rozlyn drawled, wanting desperately to kiss him, to feel his lips against hers. But she would respect his wishes—no kisses. “And if I was inside the palace walls, it would continue to remain so.”
“I liked the feel of your hair in my hands last night,” he said, his tone gruff, his warm breath mingling with hers.
Heat pooled low in her belly, and her voice came out breathy as she spoke, “If you require my assistance, all you have to do is ask.” Even if he wasn’t her patron, and it wasn’t for the curse, she would want to find pleasure with him a second time. But she knew that would only make her want to do it again and again.
“Go to sleep,” he rasped, yet his arm remained around her waist, and she relaxed against his comforting chest.
Rozlyn closed her eyes and pretended as if she were in her dress shop with fabrics of every color and texture, reminding herself that a courtesan was never supposed to fall in love.