Chapter Twenty-Seven
ELODIE
Declan parked his red Ferrari in front of an old brick building, and I pressed my nose against the clear glass of the car window to take a better look at the house.
Most of the blinds were shut, and even the ones open were completely dark behind the glass.
I had never been to York before, but I heard some people believed it was one of the most haunted cities in Europe.
The more I thought of the letter Preston and I found in Lilian’s study, the more I felt like I was a puppet being dragged on expensive golden strings, especially when my mind kept replaying what Preston had said to me the night before, when the two of us walked back to the manor from the mausoleum.
A piece of advice, poison, use it as you will. Keep your distance from the Marzouqs. They’re ingratiating and cunning, not the company you want to keep.
But Lilian’s mind was unchangeable. She insisted that I would have a good time, and I didn’t want to risk getting myself kicked out of the house, of the inheritance. So when Declan arrived at the manor two hours ago, I kept my plan in front of my mind’s eye as I walked down the long stairs.
Now, as I opened the car door, my doubts crept in again. I adjusted my coat, the chilly hand of the wind caressing my skin. It was cold tonight, and the black silk dress Lilian chose for me to wear didn’t help my chances of not falling sick.
“Are you sure you can park here?” I asked, eyeing Declan’s car crammed between the houses, blocking most of the street.
He grinned, his full lips curling mischievously, his eyes warm like melted caramel.
“I can park wherever,” was all he said, as he pushed the keys into his pocket and walked up to the crimson door, which seemed to be the only entryway into the house.
I had no idea what we were doing here, or where we really were for that matter, but the knife resting in the pocket of my coat gave me some comfort as I followed Declan. He knocked on the door with a repeating rhythm, and I tensed, unsure of whatever awaited us on the other side.
“Where are we?” I asked while he rotated the golden rings on his fingers, one by one.
“Devil’s Purse.” He grinned once more, wide and full of teeth, just as the letterbox flap shot open, revealing a single scrutinising eye.
“Diabolus numquam dormit,” Declan said, and the door flung open.
My eyes widened. What was this place?
Declan crossed the threshold, and I looked over my shoulder one last time before I was pulled into a narrow hallway.
The walls were covered with flourished crimson and gold papers, and at the end of the hallway another door awaited us, painted in the same colour as everything else in here.
A bald man wearing a sharply tailored tuxedo stood before it, the top of his head gleaming like a full moon.
“Master Marzouq.”
Master? Which century did they live in?
“We weren’t expecting you tonight.” The doorman’s movements were precise as he took hold of his red velvet jacket.
Declan fixed the gold buttons on his shirt, then did the same with his hair. “This is Elodie Thornbury.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, to which the bald man’s eyes rounded.
“Granddaughter of Lady Thornbury.” He gaped, and for a broken moment, I thought I saw horror flash in his eyes alongside the unhidden excitement.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss.” He extended his hand, then drew it back, panic sitting out on his features.
“I’m s-sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.
” His eyes were blinking so fast I feared he might be having a stroke.
Then as if nothing had happened, he reached for my coat.
I let him take it, the absence of my knife biting instantly, as I quickly fixed my black silk dress.
I’d never had the chance to wear such dresses before, and while I somewhat felt naked in the thin material, I adored it.
When Lilian sent it up to my room, the first thing that emerged into my mind was what my mum’s reaction would’ve been.
She probably would have laughed at first, but I was certain she would’ve loved it as well.
Or maybe she wouldn’t have. The more time I spend at Thornhill the more I feel I didn’t really know her.
The second thing that settled over me was horror. While I did love the dress, the thought of wearing such a revealing thing outside of my room made my palms sweat with unease.
“You look divine.” Declan smiled, holding out his arm for me to take. After a moment of hesitation I accepted his offer, resting my own arm on his. “Like the moonlit night brought to life,” he added, guiding me to the next red door.
My cheeks warmed at his compliment. “Thanks,” I mumbled, my tone measured. I felt even more naked now.
I looked over myself, making sure I was indeed still covered, and Declan took a dramatically deep breath.
“Welcome to the Devil’s Purse.” His hand twisted around the gilded doorknob.
“Gaming club for gentlewomen and gentlemen. Run by the one and only Marzouq Dynasty.” He grinned proudly, flashing his white teeth.
Then, as if he had forgotten something, he swirled back around.
“Basil, old man.” His grin widened even more, if that was humanly possible, as his eyes landed back on the bald man behind us.
“Would you be an angel and keep this little visit between the three of us?” He gestured, drawing a triangle with his finger.
“My father has enough on his plate as it is.”
Basil nodded with a mischievous smile just as the door closed behind us, hiding him from our eyes. Declan leaned down to me like he was sharing a secret while he led me deeper into his family’s club.
“I might have been banned from here for a month or so,” he whispered. “A week ago.”
My eyes rounded. “From your own club?” I asked with pretended disbelief. In reality, I couldn’t have cared less about his activities. Preston’s warning about the family was still an ongoing alarm in my head.
He shrugged, the ruby earrings dangling in his ears. “Well, technically it’s my father’s… and he’s very keen about his rules.”
The salon, at least thrice the size of the Drunken Lion Pub, bathed in every imaginable shade of red—wine, rose, rust, blood—all lit by golden sconces that cast a soft, flattering glow.
It was crammed with men and women wearing colourful suits and dresses, and not all particularly in that order, smoking cigars in ornate leatherbound chairs.
The chatter and laughter roared like the ocean, everyone trying to be heard over the other.
I still had no clue what we were doing here, besides apparently breaking the owner’s rule about banned members.
My gaze shifted over the room and fell on a wooden stage in the far corner.
The music flowed with a fast upbeat rhythm, an alluring melody I wasn’t familiar with, as the four performers each held an instrument in their hands. I couldn’t recognise any of them.
“Shaabi,” Declan said, handing me a glass with golden, bubbling liquid.
I lifted my eyes at him, confused, and he pointed at the quartet on the podium.
“The music they are playing is called Shaabi,” he explained, downing the champagne in one swallow.
“Traditional Egyptian.” He beamed with pride, and my lips parted.
Of course. The melody swirled around us like a charm, luring us in to join the dancers. I shifted further away, concentrating on the sparkling bubbles in my drink instead.
To my relief, a moment later Declan decided to show me around, leading me deeper into the belly of Devil’s Purse.
We left the dancefloor behind and moved into quieter corridors, where the music softened to a rhythmic throb, like a heartbeat wrapped in velvet.
The only sounds here were distant laughter and scattered conversation.
Paintings hung on the walls in ornate, gilded frames, each portraying a striking figure.
One wore a jackal-headed mask. Another was robed in feathers and crowned with a solar disk, her hand raised in a silent blessing.
A third held a sceptre across his chest, his eyes like burnished gold, calm and eternal.
Egyptian gods.
We stopped at a bar, lit in every colour of the rainbow, and Declan pulled out two chairs, motioning for me to sit.
I looked around the rounded room with its curving walls and the people half-hidden behind the grey smoke of their cigarettes.
No one was paying attention to us. At least, not me.
I did notice a handful of people sneaking quick glances at Declan.
From the way his lips stayed in a constant proud smirk, I had the feeling he noticed them too.
I blew out a short, relieved breath that the attention wasn’t on me, and sat on a stool just as he produced a golden handkerchief from his pocket.
He carefully wiped down the chair before sitting as well.
“So,” he watched me over the rim of his champagne glass, his dark brown eyes curiously gleaming. “How are you enjoying your stay so far?”
He gestured for the bartender, and in a blink, a bubbling blood-coloured drink appeared in his hand as if the man had anticipated the order before it was even made.
I found myself watching him a moment longer than necessary.
His crimson apron was nothing like the striped one I used to wear in the Drunken Lion.
It was elegant, tailored, probably made from a fabric richer than anything I ever wore before I came to Thornhill.
A small golden name tag, pinned just above his heart, read Silvio.
I looked away, thinking of the past month I spent at Thornhill.
My grandmother, the ghosts, the nightmares, the haunted tunnels, and the ancient books filled with eerie folktales and made-up histories.
A shiver glazed down my spine. A month ago I wouldn’t have believed any of it.
Even now I found myself questioning my sanity, yet I knew what I saw. What I felt.