Chapter 43
T he magical restoration of the estate and its residents continued to dazzle Amiya. As Miss Lula led her back downstairs, Amiya took in the sights and sounds of the transformed world.
Every floorboard, every piece of wooden wall paneling, every chandelier, every curtain . . . all had been restored to glittering, lavish perfection. The air smelled not of ash and cinder, but of fine scents: richly carved wood, sumptuous food, sweet summer roses.
Amiya noticed details that had not been present on her earlier tour through the home—items that must have been destroyed by the fire.
Vases, for one. There were so many crystal vases, of all colors and sizes, arrayed on tables and standing throughout candlelit rooms, and each of them housed the freshly cut roses that scented the air.
“Like what you see, lady?” Miss Lula asked. She wore a self-satisfied smile, as if she herself were responsible for the splendor surrounding them. “Who would ever want to leave such a wonderful place?”
They passed the parlor, from which the piano chords floated. A young man attired in a tuxedo sat at the keyboard of the grand piano. Amiya did a double take: it was Ossie.
Ossie inclined his head toward Amiya, a slight acknowledgment of their burgeoning friendship.
“I thought he worked in the kitchen?” Amiya asked Miss Lula.
“He works wherever I want him to work,” Miss Lula said. “I told him to play tonight, in honor of our new lady.”
Amiya didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the absurdity of it all. It was as if she had tumbled into some nightmarish rendition of Cinderella.
Miss Lula brought her to the closed double doors of the dining room. She pushed open one of the doors with a flourish.
“The master is eager to meet you.” Miss Lula took Amiya’s hand in a firm grip, clearly sensing Amiya’s apprehension. “Come inside.”
She brought Amiya across the threshold. Amiya scanned the candlelit room, muscles coiled with tension—and then she saw him.
He stood at the big picture window on the far side of the chamber, his back facing her. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a black tailed tuxedo. Crisp white hair flowed to his shoulders in a smooth mane.
Amiya was certain she had never seen this man before. Had he come back with the house, too, rising from the grounds like some haunting spirit made into flesh?
“Master Westbrook,” Miss Lula said. “Your lady has arrived.”
Westbrook turned. He had that classic blue blood look about him: the soft features of a southern aristocrat who had never spent a day of his life engaged in anything more laborious than signing contracts.
Amiya might have considered him handsome for an older gentleman, under any other circumstances.
But there was something not quite right about his appearance, and it took a moment for her to discern the key detail that hinted at his unearthly rebirth.
“My, my, my,” Westbrook said, in a syrupy Georgia drawl. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Miss Lula, yes, indeed.”
He smiled, and Amiya’s heart clutched.
His teeth—oh God, his teeth.
Westbrook’s teeth were perfectly white—and honed to razor-sharp points.
Like a shark , she thought, a chill coursing through her that the warm room couldn’t dispel.
Westbrook strode toward her, taking easy, smooth strides: the walk of a man confident in his domain.
His blue-eyed gaze never left her face. But there was a flatness to his eyes, as if they had been painted on; the eyes of a wax figure, perhaps, that might appear genuine in a strictly physical sense, but lacked the depth of a living soul.
Every nerve ending in Amiya’s body screamed at her to run out of the room, to escape the evil that this man wore about him as plainly as his tailored tuxedo. But she kept her high-heeled feet rooted to the floor.
It was time to play the game.
She noticed the bulge of a pistol riding his waist, and heard the soft jingle of keys with each of his footsteps.
“A fine lady, indeed.” Lips peeled back in a broad smile, showing his sharklike teeth in full, Westbrook stepped to Amiya and took her hand.
Amiya suppressed a shiver. His skin was cold.
He bent and kissed her fingers. She felt the tip of his clammy tongue on her flesh, the hardness of his needlelike teeth. Nausea snaked through her.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Miss Lula said. “Master Westbrook, we’ll be serving dinner soon. Your favorite, of course.”
“Thank you, Miss Lula,” he said. He winked at his departing house manager. “This one’s a keeper for sure.”
“If she knows what’s best for her.” Miss Lula shot Amiya a warning glare. “Behave, lady.”
“I’m fine.” Amiya tried to smile, but she felt sick.
“I’ll fetch you a drink, my lady,” Westbrook said. “You look as if you could use one. Does bourbon suit you?”
Amiya rarely drank hard liquor, but she sensed that refusing the offer would be a mistake. “Yes, please. That sounds good.”
Westbrook spun on his heel and ambled to the large oak liquor cabinet. Using a crystal decanter, he poured a finger of liquor each in two glasses.
“I trust my staff has treated you well during your stay.” He returned to her and offered her the drink.
“They’ve been . . . fine,” Amiya said, picking her words carefully. This man, or whatever he was, was the last one here that she could trust. “Quite accommodating.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He settled onto a nearby chaise lounge made of a smooth velour material. He patted a space next to him. “Sit, please.” He flashed his predator’s grin. “I don’t bite.”
Despite his assurances, looking at his mouthful of sharp teeth, it was much too easy for her to imagine him literally tearing her flesh apart, tendon by tendon, and consuming her raw. She had to forcibly eject the gruesome image from her mind.
Trying not to spill the drink because her hand was trembling, Amiya eased onto the furniture. She crossed her legs and balanced the glass on her knee, bracing it in both hands.
“Not much of a drinker, are you?” he asked. He chuckled, took a small sip from his glass. “Have a sip, sugar. It’s excellent bourbon, distilled by a former business associate of mine.”
She levered the rim of the glass against her lip, tilted it slightly, allowing the barest amount of liquor to touch her tongue. It was good whiskey as he promised, but she needed to keep a clear head.
“Nice,” she said.
Westbrook nodded with approval. He unfolded his body across the chaise lounge, one of his legs only inches from hers.
“I keep a wine cellar as well,” he said. “A large quantity of Bordeaux, top of the line quality. You look like the kind of lady who might appreciate that sort of thing.”
“I enjoy red wine,” she said, an honest answer.
“We’ll open a bottle for dinner, then,” Westbrook said. “I like a lady who appreciates the finer things in life that I can offer.”
Amiya offered merely a brief smile and a nod.
In her adult life, she had been on dates with dozens of men, and Westbrook reminded her of an older, wealthy gentleman that she’d once agreed to have dinner with when she was in her early twenties.
Like Westbrook, he continually reminded her of his material possessions, the fine things he could bestow upon her, as if such things were all she cared about.
She had smiled and nodded her way through the evening but generally kept him at arm’s length, concluding the encounter by allowing him only a chaste kiss on her cheek.
She doubted the same strategy would work with Westbrook. He kept stretching and expanding his body, inching into her personal space. He knew she couldn’t run away. She was in his world, and the penalties for rejecting his advances were severe.
As he was chatting about his wine cellar, he casually let his hand drop onto her thigh.
Amiya stifled a scream—but she couldn’t resist stirring. His cold touch sent a current of ice through her bloodstream.
“Touchy, are you?” He grinned, but withdrew his hand into his lap. “I must apologize, lady. You’re so beautiful you’ve made me forget my manners.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “This is all so overwhelming.”
“I understand,” he said, though his flat eyes showed no awareness of her emotions. “You’re here in this magical place, and you’re wondering how is it all happening? Did you slip into a dream?”
Amiya said nothing, let him continue.
“I fade into sleep at dawn every morning and I don’t remember a thing about it when I wake at sunset,” Westbrook said. “Terrible things happened here, on my property, as you may have surmised, but the evidence of such things is washed away nightly. It’s the blessing that we receive.”
“The blessing?” she asked, and couldn’t hide her sarcasm.
“ The blessing ,” he repeated, and took a sip of whiskey.
“You could have a highly regarded position in this house of mine. You could retire to your room and sleep away the day, and awaken to a dream each night. A dream of rich, sumptuous things and handsome gentlemen eager to please you.” Chuckling, he made a sweeping gesture.
“I have such pleasures to show you, my lady.”
As if on cue, someone knocked on the doors across the room that led to the kitchen, and the doors swung inward on oiled hinges. A dapper young man entered. He pushed a small cart laden with silver and covered dishes.
Westbrook flashed a hungry smile and rose to his feet.
“Dinner is served,” he said.