Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“Very enjoyable,” I lied, taking a sip from my champagne.
Declan’s features lit like a match. “I’m glad to hear that. I told my father and Lilian that you’d get the taste of it in no time.”
My brows knot. The taste of it? What did they think I was doing beside spending time in the library and occasionally eating? I forced a small smile onto my face as Declan devoured the drink in his hand.
“And now your nineteenth birthday is coming up.” He leaned ahead, and I studied the black eyeliner around his almond shaped eyes. “Are you excited?”
The sweet mix of rose and myrrh filled the air. I leaned back in the chair, further away from him. Excited was an exaggeration. I wanted to meet my mum’s old friends, see them at least from a distance, but I was still nauseous at the thought of the party. Of the crowd.
“I am,” I lied again, emptying the glass in my hand, letting the honey-sweet liquid flow down my throat.
Declan’s lips parted, ready to ask another question, when a hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him.
He flinched, then turned around. As soon as his eyes landed on the dark-haired boy standing behind him, his shoulders relaxed, the tension leaving his body like he was breathing for the first time since we entered the club.
The boy leaned down and whispered something into Declan’s ear, who first smiled, then creased his forehead. He nodded before turning back to me.
“Forgive me.” He placed his empty glass down onto the counter. “It’ll only take a moment.” He beamed, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not quite. “Until then, everything you order is on me.”
On the house, is what he meant. I watched him follow the other boy and disappear into another hallway before I straightened on the chair.
My eyes wandered over the crimson-draped walls covered in gilded vines and leaves, and the white-marble stairs on the other side of the room.
My gaze drifted higher, and the ceiling entered my sight.
It was covered with a fresco of three figures.
I needed a moment to recognize it as a story from Greek mythology. Except, it was a tad mocking.
Aphrodite lay on a cloud-shaped bed, Ares at her side.
In the original tale, this moment was followed by Hephaestus’s rage, and his trap to shame the lovers in front of the other gods.
But here, Hephaestus didn’t seem angry. Not in the slightest. He was sitting with his wife and her lover, as the three shared fierce kisses, their naked bodies pressed closely together. Not one chiton or himation in sight.
I looked away from the explicit image and glanced down at the watch on my wrist to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks.
The sudden urge to move, to leave the room behind, gripped me.
So I requested a drink to accompany me while I took a look around the club.
I crossed the room, manoeuvring through clusters of people, and stopped at the stairs.
The golden railing was cold under my palms as I ascended to the second floor, gripping a glass filled with a harsh pink liquid, the music softening behind me.
Colourful lights flickered to life the deeper I moved in the corridors, dancing over the walls like fireflies.
The second storey was much less cramped than the main area.
It was almost empty, if not for the couples hiding in corners and window seats, their sighs alarmingly loud in the silence.
I swallowed, and concentrated on the tapestries and doors instead, letting my fingers wander over their surfaces as I passed them.
They weren’t like the ones at Thornhill; they were simpler, but still elegant and rich, golden lines slashing across the dark wood like rivers.
“No, the Thornburys.”
My fingers froze above one of the lines.
The muffled voice came from behind a slightly cracked door, just a few steps away.
I took a sip of my drink, tasting pomegranate, and—my eyes widened as the liquid sparkled and popped in my mouth, like popping candy.
I held back a cough and swallowed the war in my throat.
“It’s like the story of Romeo and Juliet—” The words washed away. I shifted closer to the door.
“Like Romeo and Juliet,” a woman’s voice repeated, and someone cut in with a mumble. When she continued, she sounded annoyed, “Because she disappeared first, then he died, and now, boom, the girl is back. How hard is that to understand?”
My forehead creased. What were they talking about? Another set of voices joined, lower than the ones before, but I couldn’t get out the words.
“I know that Romeo and Juliet both died at the end.” It was the woman again.
“That wasn’t the point, Sil,” an older woman’s voice cut in. “They didn’t know each other, you mug. Lilian’s granddaughter grew up somewhere else.”
Lilian’s granddaughter? Were they talking about me? I pressed myself closer to the door, careful not to accidentally push it in.
“They weren’t in love,” another agreed.
They weren’t in love? Who? Who were they talking about?
“Still. Isn’t it heartbreaking?”
“Eh,” someone else said. “They didn’t know they were engaged to each other. They didn’t even know each other.”
Engaged? The word rang in my head, sharp and sudden, like a newly built cathedral in my mind, testing out the bells. I tried to make some sense of what I was hearing.
“Maybe the girl didn’t, she grew up away from her family. But I know for a fact, the boy did.” It was the older woman talking again.
Someone let out an agreeing grunt. “I heard,” the voice lowered, “that Varden not only knew about it, but he was waiting for her. They raised him to be her husband, and the poor thing never even got the chance to meet her.”
Varden. The name echoed through my mind, tugging at something buried deep inside, something hidden beneath layers of fog I couldn’t lift. My heart drummed against my ribcage, each beat heavier than the last as I strained to hear more.
“You heard? I told you that, you knob.” It was the older woman again. “I went to their house a few times, you know, delivering my own sews for them when Nikolaj—my delivery boy—was sick,” she explained. “They were nice people, the Aldridges, they didn’t deserve the horror that happened to them.”
The floor creaked on the other side of the door and I flew back, running back the way I came from before they could catch me eavesdropping. The Aldridges? As in Alex Aldridge, my mum’s friend?
Could it be that I was engaged to someone named Varden Aldridge? A son of Alex Aldridge? No, that was absurd.
My steps slowed as I reached the stairs, my heart throbbing in my throat in anxious rhythm. I fixed my dress—my palms damp like misty leaves—and descended the stairs, manoeuvring through the swirling haze of grey cigar smoke that thickened the air.
Varden. Died. Engaged. The three words ricocheted inside my head, drowning out everything else. The people, the smoke, the rich scent of incense—
A hand landed on my shoulder. I flinched, spinning around, only to be greeted by Declan’s wide grin.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
I blinked as he slowly multiplied before my eyes. What was happening?
“I’ve been invited to a game if you would like to join,” he continued while my vision blurred. My head was getting heavier with each breath I took. He gestured toward a black door with the word private etched into a polished gold tag, and I shook my head.
“Actually,” I breathed. “I think I need some air.”
The smoke thickened, and I couldn’t decide if I was flying or dancing or just walking as I usually did, then—air. Cold and biting, just enough to bring my senses back to life. I blinked. I was on the street. I blinked again, twisting around.
“Your car,” I said. “It’s been stolen.”
Declan held my arm, lifting an almost empty water bottle to my mouth.
“Drink.” He laughed, and my brows knit, but, to my surprise, I did. The cold freshened my whole body.
I blinked, again and again, until slowly, my head cleared. I inhaled the cool night air.
“Are you finally back with the living, Sweetheart?” he asked, placing his two heavy palms on my shoulders.
While I wouldn’t have admitted it, it brought me a strange kind of comfort. I glared around, realising I’d no idea where I was. Suddenly my throat was dry again. I took in the long, paved pathway surrounded by large trees and bushes inked by night. A park of some sort?
I rubbed my sore eyes.
“Where’s the Devil’s Purse? And your car—did it get stolen? Did I get stolen? Did you kidnap me? What was—”
“Woah, slow down there,” he cut in, leaning into my face like he was studying a lab rat. “Now that your head is clear—er—you can tell me what you ordered while I was away.”
I opened my mouth then closed it, placing a palm over my right cheek where the small bat scratch hid under layers of powder the twins had put on me. Now it pulsed with a force so string it was as though it was doubling its size.
“I didn’t look at the names.” I shook my head. “Something with grapefruit, pomegranate, and persimmons.”
I was trained to look, to notice, to read between the lines.
But tonight, when it mattered, I failed.
I was too tangled in my thoughts about Lilian, her plan with Declan’s father, and that walking headache of a man, Preston Davenport.
And what he said about the Marzouqs…and how he had looked when he said it. Almost like he was truly concerned.
The cold settled over us and Declan sniffed.
“You drank the Nectar of Pasithea on your first day?” He laughed, wiping his eyes and slightly smudging his makeup.
I stiffened from the way his laughter rang, harsh yet warm.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t Dionysus’.” He smiled, mischief gleaming in his gaze.
“I’m not sure you would’ve liked the consequences of his drink. ”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he started, as we continued walking beneath the tall trees, their shadows shifting with the wind. “Pasithea is the Greek goddess of hallucination. Dionysus—”
“Is the god of wine and revelry.” I nodded, trying to make sense of what he was saying.
“Yes.” Declan pointed at me, his voice rising with excitement. “Very good. He’s also known as the god of festivities and theatre… he’s one of my favourites.” He grinned.
That didn’t surprise me. What did was that I still couldn’t understand what he was trying to tell me.
“So you sell spiked drinks in your club?” I asked, drinking the rest of my water.
“Yes, but no.”
I raised an eyebrow. “They’re not spiked the way you would think.” His full lips curved into a secretive smile that only deepened my curiosity. “They just…have to live up to their names.”
The paintings of gods and the drinks all seemed inspired by different mythologies. The Devil’s Purse’s unique charm settled over my mind like a pink, spell-like cloud.
“Why is the club a mix of Greek and Egyptian culture?”
“That…” He blew out a breath, and watched the white cloud of warmth curl in the air before dissolving.
“My paternal grandmother was from Greece. My father has always been fond of their mythology.” I nodded.
That was understandable. “And my mother was Egyptian. My father took her surname before I was born.”
Marzouq, of course. And that explained his rich accent as well.
We reached the end of the grove but the walkway continued ahead.
“Where are we exactly?” I surveyed the one storey building that came into view. A row of rounded columns held its roof with a triangular pediment sitting on the top of it.
“In the Museum Gardens, silly. That’s the Yorkshire Museum.” He pointed at the Greek revival building. “And that—” Monumental ruins emerged from the mist. “Is the St. Mary Abbot. Rumoured to be haunted by the Black Abbot himself.” Declan’s voice was harsh enough to wake the ghosts.
I rubbed my hands together, trying to coax some warmth into them before burying them deep inside the cold silk lining of my coat.
“Shouldn’t places like this be closed at night?” I asked, eyeing the ruins veiled in pale moonlight. Everything looked older here, like time had folded in on itself and forgotten to move forward.
“Not if you know the right people.” He beamed as we passed beneath the shadow of the crumbling archways.
Of course the rules were different for people like him. For people like Lilian and her circles.
The walk back to the Devil’s Purse shouldn’t have taken long, but the minutes stretched, pulled thin by silence. Every step echoed louder than the last until Declan’s crimson car finally shimmered into view.
“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night at The Black Swan hotel?” he asked for the second time, and I shook my head just as firmly as I did before. “It’s a two hour drive, and—”
“I’m sure,” I cut in, even firmer than before.
He nodded in acceptance, opening the car door. It was thoughtful of him, to take me on a walk to help clear my head from the alcohol, but all I wanted was to be in my own bed. Torn between a haunted city and a haunted manor, I would choose the ghosts I already knew.
Declan started the engine, the soft growl filling the silence. My gaze flicked up to the windows of the Devil’s Purse, the uppermost ones cloaked in darkness except for a sliver of red curtain that seemed to move. Not sway, but shift, like it was parting for someone I couldn’t see.
“I won’t marry you.” The words fell sharp and sudden, like a blade unsheathed off my lips.
Declan’s hands tensed on the steering wheel. His brows creased, and something flickered across his tan face. Not hurt… but something else.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced, like he was reading it from somewhere. I let my gaze pour into the darkness behind the lights of the car.
“I know about their plan. I’m not agreeing to it.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising.
“Good,” he said at last, his movements like a caged bird as he shifted on the leather seat. “Because I don’t want to agree to it either,” he exhaled.
For a breath neither of us moved. So what I suspected was true. This was all part of a greater plan.
My gaze flicked back to the top window, to the shifting curtain. No one stood there. The windows seemed shut tight, with no chance of the wind slipping in. Still, something made the curtains move, something made my skin prickle like the void itself had grown eyes and was staring down at me…
The car moved, and my gaze flicked down to the crimson door crammed between the worn bricks like a bleeding heart. How could a house so bland hide as magnificent a place like the Devil’s Purse?