CHAPTER TEN
It’s a strange day at Lumina. I eventually summon the energy to eat, but even then, all I can do is nibble and peck.
I return to my room and lie there thinking.
Lily and I have pretty good chemistry, I don’t even mind Ava, but I appreciate my privacy—always have.
I have no doubt they suspect something between Darkwood and me, but I’d rather not confirm it.
When seven o’clock draws near, I rummage through my duffel for what to wear, but I needn’t bother, an ankle-long indigo dress and matching heels materializing on my bed.
I pick up the dress and let the glossy fabric flow through my fingers. It’s even less of a surprise that it fits me perfectly.
Dressed, I sit on the edge of the bed and wait, my head refusing to switch off. Because that girl, this Stephanie… That could have been me. I’ve been fucking around with Shadowcraft. I’ve broken the rules. If Lily’s theory is correct, that makes me a prime candidate, so what made Stephanie a better mark than me?
Or maybe there’s nothing to this at all, that she was selected by random, that the killing was opportunistic, perhaps, which puts my little night explorations into new perspective.
There’s a sudden tugging sensation, like I’m freefalling from the world’s tallest fucking tower.
A pressure behind my eyes, growing until it’s almost unbearable, and then it’s done.
I let the following nausea pass and fold my shoulders back.
He’s teleported me to his chambers, as promised, but there are changes.
Deep-blue curtains cover the windows. More light. More candles.
There’s a table set in front of me laden with food—elaborate dishes fanned out and mixed aromas filling the air. My stomach, only a moment ago so distressed by the teleportation, growls with hunger.
And at the end of the table is Darkwood in a sable suit and beige vest—the latter quite at odds with his usual Addams Family attire, but it works. An explosion of warmth in my core reminds me I’m once again bare below.
He pushes himself back and stands, dragging his chair behind himself until he’s right beside me. He places his chair next to mine. “Welcome, my pet,” he says.
That usual anxiety I feel in his presence is amplified by his proximity. I wet my lips before speaking. “This looks wonderful.”
He looks over the food. “Aphrodisiacs from the forest.” He points. “Roast wild chicken infused with ginseng, maca, and honey-roasted pears, a yohimbe-bark stew, tribulus terrestris salad…and here.” He picks up a bottle just past my plate, filling a goblet to my left. “Mulled wine with spices and damiana leaves.”
“Thank you.”
“Please,” he says, gesturing to the table, oddly cordial tonight, “how do they say it inanis? Dig in?”
It’s an order more than a suggestion, but I have no problem filling my plate.
The food, however the fuck it appeared here, is incredible. The mix of flavors, foreign and familiar, threatens to turn me into something of a poor dinner guest, but I hold my composure while I savor the stew, intermittingly sipping on the wine, which is warm with a floral, herbal undertone. It’s a long way from the usual dollar-bin TV dinners and crackers I’ve been eating back home.
Darkwood watches me silently, eating and making barely a noise doing so.
He observes me when we’ve finished. “How do you feel?”
The aphrodisiacs have clearly worked, my poor sex already slick. “I think I’m ready for my next lesson, Professor.”
A short laugh. “Ah, my ignorant lamb. So eager, but there will be no lesson tonight.”
I almost protest, instead pursing my lips and looking away from him, crossing my legs under the table. I hate they will stay closed for the remainder of the night.
But there is something new in that expression I see. The Professor looks almost mournful, which triggers my curiosity, because Damien Darkwood doesn’t seem the type to get emotional, to show any kind of vulnerability, really.
“Drink,” he says, reaching over to refill my goblet.
But this man who’s joined me for dinner tonight is not acting like himself—not that I’m any expert.
He looks around the room, rubbing his hands together every so often and refusing to meet my gaze.
“Have I done something wrong?” I’m shaking as these words leave my mouth. I don’t want to provoke him.
“You said you had questions.” His baritone returns loud and clear as his eyes shoot up to meet mine. “Best not keep me waiting.”
I straighten myself, wiping at my mouth with a napkin.
I consider what to ask, how to do this subtly, but fuck it.
Into the fire I go.
“Did you have anything to do with the murder this morning?” I ask.
He stiffens but maintains his composure. “I’m a professor here, Ms. Fairchild. My job is to guide these students. Not murder them. I wouldn’t betray that trust to serve my own interests.”
Curious choice of words.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, dragging my gaze away from him. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Oh, but you have, and you’ll be punished, the penalty severe, but again, not tonight. No, tonight we mourn another young spirit lost.”
“Is that why you’re…” I falter, seeking the correct word in my mind. “Sulking?” which sounds childish and juvenile and not at all what I wanted, but it’s what comes out.
“Perhaps,” he confirms with a nod. “Death is final. Irreversible. Invincible. Even the most powerful sorcerers have not been able to defeat it.”
“Have you…” Damn my hesitation. Damn my fear. It’s not letting me phrase my sentences right.
“Say it,” he enthuses, “lest I double the punishment.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?” I blurt out, obviously failing to learn from my last question.
A dark smile forms on his face. He stands and moves behind me, his frame forcing a large shadow to climb the opposing wall.
“My past will always haunt me, my pet,” he claims, his slow, confident footfalls echoing around the room. “But that was the nature of my work, once.”
“Your work?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow, this narrative intriguing me more than his confession.
“I once worked for the Umbral Brotherhood. Assassination. Interrogation. Whatever they asked,” he reveals, his face stone-cold with conviction as he stops to face me, hands behind his back.
“Really?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
He nods. “A breakaway arm of the Brotherhood recruited me out of college. My job was to hunt down and punish the worst criminals in the magical world, those that slipped through the judicial cracks, so to speak. And yes, I see the irony in it.”
I can’t stop the questions. “What kind of criminals?”
He shrugs. “Human traffickers, serial killers, pedophiles…I dispatched them methodically, diligently. Still,” he sucks in a deep breath. “One finds little enjoyment in it after a time, in the physical act of taking a life.”
So he’s what? One the good guys? James Batman Bond out there in the middle of the night correcting wrongs and dishing out justice?
It makes sense in a fucked-up kind of way.
I almost go to pinch myself because surely this can’t be happening, that the Professor is revealing something about himself, opening up, getting personal with me? His fuckdoll? His pet?
Why?
That is the resounding question here.
I ask the obvious. “But you did enjoy it, once?”
The fuck, Annabelle? I scold myself, wondering how the hell these questions are getting past my stupid brain and out my stupid mouth, but Darkwood simply smiles.
“Those that preyed on the innocent, the weak… Yes, I’ll admit there was a satisfaction when I ended them. I felt no remorse, only a dull kind of joy in the duty of it, but the more I worked, the more the tedium of the human condition began to weigh on me. Inanis or not, it’s all the same.”
I try to fill this in. “And when you heard of the murder this morning it reminded you of your, ah, duties? Are you suggesting that was the work of an assassin?
“No,” he rejects that notion, wagging his finger. “This was no work of the Brotherhood. Each of us has a signature, a flourish if you will, but this…this was something else. There was hunger in it. There always is.”
He crouches beside me, taking a knife from the table and turning it over in his hands. “Knives were never my preference. Too messy. Too…labor-intensive.”
I recall the scarred woman at the ball. I wonder if the Professor did that to her, what his ‘preference’ was then.
I shouldn’t go down this path, but to hell with it. I’m on a roll. “Sir…?” I speak in a voice that’s all but a whisper, unable to shake the image of the messed-up face behind that mask. “There was a woman at the ball,” I begin, knowing this line of questioning is only going to increase the severity of my punishment. “She had a scar. Right here,” I pause to lift my index finger to my face. “She knew my name, warned me not to call the number on the card.”
He nods, looking down at his own reflection in the blade of the knife. “She was a student once,” he explains, his irritation showing in his clipped tone. “She showed promise at the beginning, but in the end, it was too much for her, the training. She’s lucky all she left with was that scar. She’s lucky she left with her life.”
It’s like he’s taken that knife and stabbed me in the gut. Whoever this woman was, she was his protégé. Or his lover, his mistress? Maybe his pet, just like me. They were once intimate. In other words, I’ve taken on her role, maybe the role of countless women before me. I look away from him, my gaze falling on an empty plate to the left.
“But what about my name?” I say, trying to satisfy my own curiosity. Or at least try. “How did she know my name?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t know yourself at all, do you, my pet? But you will,” he nods. “I promise you.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? All I can see in my head is her and Darkwood. They’re not performing magic or casting a spell.
They’re fucking.
Hard. Dirty.
And still he won’t give me the satisfaction of taking me? What is he waiting for?
The caress of his breath on my forehead stirs me from my thoughts. “I detect a hint of jealousy,” he says. “Why?”
My eyes grow hot, but I won’t falter. “Because I want to be the first, the only,” I confess, averting my gaze from him.
He lets out a sneer, and I can’t help the annoyance it sparks within me. He leans closer. The tip of his nose brushes mine and sends currents of electricity pulsing through my body. How this man can swing my emotions so wildly I do not know. A moment ago I was ready to lash out, to scream in his face no matter the consequences. And now I’m willing again, aching, for something else entirely.
“I like how you get jealous, little lamb,” he whispers, his forehead pressing to mine. He doesn’t allow me any time to respond. Instead, he claims my mouth. His tongue dives between my lips, his fingers clutching either side of my neck. A sense of unbridled lust spreads through me as our kiss deepens in the gentle illumination. I want him to take charge again and put me in my place. But when he pulls back, I realize I’m in for more disappointment.
“That will be enough,” he says, standing and straightening himself out. “Tomorrow, midnight. My chambers. I trust you’ll find them.”
Delayed fucking gratification.
Yippee.
“But—” It’s all I get out before he snaps his fingers and the air leaves my lungs, that pressure behind my eyes returning before I am once more sitting on the edge of my bed, empty and alone.