Chapter 21 – BELLS #2
Just when I'm starting to worry he's going to keep sitting there and staring at me like he doesn't know what the hell to do with me, he speaks again in a dry, flat tone that's clearly meant to be forceful but comes off as vaguely exasperated instead.
"You're going into the tower."
"Not doing it. You can blackmail me into joining your band, make me sing until my throat's so raw I have to guzzle honey, you can even make me sleep in your creepy camera-filled room. But you can not make me walk into that fucking tower."
"It's just a mask shop," he grits out, clearly exasperated.
"I don't care if it's an unmarked van full of candy and puppies."
But that does pique my interest, just a little bit. Until I glance at the tower again and spot a shadowed figure moving in one of the windows that looks a hell of a lot like a golden skull. It's gone almost as soon as I see it.
"That's a ghost, Rex."
He follows my gaze, brow furrowing. "I'm sure it was just—"
"Nope!"
Rex's eye closes for a moment and he lets his head fall back against the headrest like he's praying for patience from a god that abandoned him years ago. Then he pulls out his phone and starts typing.
"What are you doing?"
"Texting someone."
"Who?"
"You'll see."
We sit in hostile silence for maybe three minutes. The rain drums against the roof. Rex's fingers keep tapping against the steering wheel, but other than that, he's dead silent again.
Then the tower's heavy wooden door opens.
What must be a male omega emerges, all floppy brown hair and warm brown eyes with a fluffy pear-shaped build, wearing a forest green vest over a cream cardigan with a perfectly tied bowtie.
He looks like he stepped out of a cottagecore Pinterest board.
All he needs is a teacup and a freshly baked scone.
Okay. Maybe I'm not going to end up in the basement.
The omega spots Rex's car and waves enthusiastically, jogging over despite the rain. Rex gets out first, and I follow, hanging back.
"Rex!" The omega beams at him like they're old friends even though Rex doesn't have friends from what I can tell. Guess I was wrong. "You didn't tell me you were bringing company."
"Last minute decision," Rex mutters.
The omega turns those warm brown eyes on me, and his smile gets even brighter. "Hey! I'm Jamie. Nice to meet you!"
"Bells," I manage, still trying to reconcile the fact that this cheerful omega exists in the same universe as Rex Steele. And that they know each other.
"Oh, I know who you are!" Jamie practically bounces on his toes. "I've seen videos of The Reverie. You have an incredible voice. And now you're with Vespyr? That's so exciting!"
I shoot Rex a look that says you told him about me? But Rex just shrugs one shoulder, the universal gesture for so what?
"Come on," Jamie says, already heading back toward the tower. "It's freezing out here. Let's get inside."
I follow him because he's an omega and a walking emerald flag, but I'm ready to bolt for the woods if even one thing makes my skin prickle.
Rex falls into step behind me.
"Don't," I warn him, glancing back over my shoulder.
He pauses, brow furrowing. "Don't what?" he asks, glancing back, too, like I might have been talking to someone else.
"Don't follow me. I feel trapped," I hiss to him so Jamie can't hear me. The omega is already almost to the tower, talking about what a nice day it is with all the fog and rain and gloom. Jamie might look like a cottagecore mouse in human form, but he has the heart of a goth.
Rex raises his eyebrow at me like I'm being ridiculous, but he doesn't challenge me. He walks on ahead with a beleaguered, tormented sigh.
The tower's entrance is massive. There are two thick wooden doors with iron reinforcements that have to date back at least a century. Jamie pushes one open with a strained grunt and motions for us to follow him.
Inside is a spiral staircase carved from the same gray stone as the exterior. It winds upward into shadows, lit by actual torches mounted on the walls. Oh, wait. They're LED. That's slightly less menacing, I guess.
"Is this place haunted?" I ask with a laugh, only half-joking, wrapping my arms around myself and craning my neck to look up into the shadows of the staircase. "Because ghosts are chill, but serial killers? Not so chill."
Jamie tilts his head, pursing his lips in confusion. "Haunted?" he echoes, his voice rising an octave.
"I saw something in the window," I say. "And I'm torn on it being a serial killer or a ghost. Fifty-fifty."
Jamie's warm skin blanches. "A ghost?" he croaks, like he's about to run for the hills himself. Then he hesitates, putting a finger to his lips and staring thoughtfully up at the spiderweb-covered stone ceiling. He blinks back to me, shaking his head. "Wait, what did the 'ghost' look like?"
"A golden skull?" I say flatly.
Jamie lets out a nervous laugh, the color flushing back in all at once and reddening his face. "Oh! No… no, that wasn't a ghost. Or a serial killer. That's just my mate."
He bounds up the stairs before I can ask any more questions, chattering about how business has been slow lately and something about a shipment of Italian leather that got delayed.
Rex looks at me, and I look at him.
"Ladies first," I say, grinning.
Rex rolls his eye and starts climbing the steps after Jamie, his long legs carrying him easily up the eternal staircase of despair that feels more like a freaking mountain to me.
Holy shit, do these stairs go on forever?
Then Rex's boot catches on an uneven stone.
He pitches backward.
I barely have time to brace before his weight slams into me.
My back hits the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs and suddenly Rex is everywhere—his chest pressed against mine, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping the railing to cage me in and keep us both from tumbling down the stairs.
We freeze.
His breathing is harsh behind the mask, his single visible eye wide with something that might be surprise or pain. Or both. He's close enough that his lips are almost brushing mine, and when I manage to breathe myself, my lungs fill with his sharp, dark scent.
Sterling silver.
Leather.
Smoke.
My omega hindbrain takes a big sniff before I ruthlessly shove it back down and sit on the crate I mentally keep it in for good measure. I can practically hear it shrieking indignantly. It helps to picture my inner omega as a wild, furry gremlin that's hellbent on embarrassing the shit out of me.
"Shit," Rex mutters, pushing himself upright. "Sorry."
"You okay?" I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Fine." He winces, favoring his left side. Still healing. Right.
"You're not fine, you almost ate shit—"
"I said I'm fine." But he doesn't immediately start climbing again. Just stands there, half a step above me, jaw tight with what I'm starting to recognize as pain he'd never admit to.
"Move," I say before I can change my mind.
His eye narrows. "What? Why?"
"Because you're injured and clearly not as steady as you think you are, and I'm not getting crushed when you fall backward again."
"I'm not going to—"
"Move."
For once, he actually listens. He presses against the wall, creating just enough space for me to squeeze past him on the narrow staircase. Our bodies brush—unavoidable in the tight space—and I catch that scent again.
I hold my fucking breath this time.
"Lovers' quarrel?" Jamie calls down from the top of the stairs, his voice echoing off the stone.
"NO," Rex and I say simultaneously, with identical levels of venom.
Jamie just grins wider, clearly not believing us.
I shake it off and start climbing, more determined than ever to put distance between Rex and me. I'm distinctly aware of his presence at my back, one hand on the stone railing, ice blue eye boring into the back of my head. Then he starts following, his footsteps steady and cautious on the stone.
And even though I'm not charging up the basement steps on all fours like a creature to get away from imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows behind me, my inner omega apparently still has that instinct in spades. Guess picturing it as a furry little gremlin isn't that far off base at all.
I reach the top and step into what I can only describe as organized chaos.
Mask shop is the understatement of the decade.
This is a mask hoard.
They cover every available wall space. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands.
Leather, metal, fabric, wood. Ornate theatrical pieces next to simple black half-masks.
Some look antique, others brand new. Full face masks.
Half masks. Masks shaped like animals, skulls, abstract designs I don't have words for.
And that's not all.
There are horror props scattered throughout the space.
A suspiciously realistic severed hand sits on a bookshelf, gripping a purple candle.
Nope. A purple dildo. A collection of vintage medical instruments hangs on one wall.
Preserved insects and bats in shadow boxes.
Old anatomical drawings. A fucking guillotine blade mounted like wall art above the dusty taxidermy head of a glass-eyed buck.
It's like a museum in here.
"Welcome to my workshop!" Jamie announces with obvious pride, spreading his arms wide.
I'm still processing the sheer amount of stuff when something massive and orange catches my eye.
There's a tiger.
A full-grown fucking tiger, lounging lazily on a plush sheepskin rug in front of a crackling fireplace. Its fur is matted and clumped in places, more dull yellow than vibrant orange.
It's not moving.
The relief at realizing it's taxidermy is enough to make me dizzy.
Why the fuck did I think this crazy place would have a tiger lounging around in it?
It isn't that weird in here. Sure, half the masks on the walls are giving off haunted energy I'm going to want to scrub away with holy water, but a tiger—
The tiger lifts its head and yawns, revealing yellowed teeth the size of my fingers.