3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Sylvie
The Present
Cutting the silk dress up the back, I deftly slid it over the lifeless, pale shoulders of the woman on the table and tucked the edges out of sight. I’d grown used to dressing and handling dead bodies, but this one hit a little too close to the bone.
The somber navy blue dress was dignified yet understated. The kind of dress you'd buy for a job interview or a work dinner, unaware that it might one day be the outfit you’ll be buried in. My fingers worked gently, straightening the collar and smoothing the material while my mind wandered to the past.
“Do you know the hurt and heartache you left behind?” I asked her softly as I finished putting color on her waxy lips. The thirty-six-year-old woman suffered from severe depression and had ended her own life. Just like my mother. Anger and sorrow filtered through me as I walked out into the chapel area.
“Is she alright?” a small voice asked, fragile as a sparrow's wing. The woman’s daughter sat alone on a bench. The girl was maybe seven or eight and clutched a small handmade blanket like a lifeline. She had wispy brown hair pulled back into a crooked ponytail.
“My name is Sylvie. What’s yours?”
“Jordan.”
I sat next to her on the padded bench in the dim hall and offered a smile. “Her body is here, but I like to think her soul is somewhere else now, just like my mom. And maybe they are happy.”
“Did your mommy die like mine?” She looked up with eyes too old for her soft face.
“Yes.”
“Are you still mad at her?” she whispered.
My heart cracked open, and I wanted to get up and walk away from her raw pain. I could hear Ezra talking with someone in his office. It was probably the girl’s father. Looking down at her worn, handmade blanket, I searched for the right words.
“Not anymore, but it took a long time. Are you angry with your mom?”
Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. “But I miss her too.”
“Yeah, I understand. But what helps me when I get sad is to remember she loved me even though she didn’t stay. So I forgive her and try to let the anger go. It’s hard, though.”
The girl let out a long, broken sob. “It hurts.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” I awkwardly wrapped my arm around her as she buried her face into my side. Her hollow-eyed father came out of Ezra’s office a few moments later.
After the somber funeral, I trudged up to the apartment I shared with my two roommates, Luna and Alexa, who were both still at school. A package lay on the doorstep addressed to Harley Quinn, and it took me a second to remember telling Drakos that was my name. I brought the package into the apartment and sliced through the tape with a steak knife. It had been two months since we buried bodies in the desert together, and I still dreamed about that strange night. Anxiety and a warped sense of anticipation ran through me as I opened the box.
An expensive-looking contraption designed for massaging feet and legs lay nestled in bubble wrap. The small card tucked inside read, “ I’m a heel. Jack Napier.” He’d been more like a cruel asshole, but the gift and the stupid pun made my lip quirk.
When I plugged it in, the machine whirred to life, the weird tentacle-like appendages beckoning invitingly. It was an odd yet thoughtful gift for someone who spent hours on their feet.
I thought about sending it back in tiny pieces but then shrugged. He’d never know whether I actually used it anyway. Sitting back on the couch, I slipped my feet into its embrace. The sensations were borderline sexual, each rotation pressing against my arches with precision. The nodules kneaded and caressed, working out knots I didn't know existed, and I couldn't help letting out a little moan.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes and silently thanked Drakos Creed for brightening my otherwise sad, gut-wrenching day. He was still an asshole, though.
Later that night, I received a text from an unknown number.
This is Jack. Did you get my package?
I stared down at my screen, wondering how Drakos Creed got my cell phone number.
Sylvie: Why are you sending me stuff? And texting me?
Drakos: Because I still want to shower with you
Sylvie: OMFG-get over yourself. Good night, Satan
Sylvie: And thank you for the foot massager. I needed it today
Holy Mother of Christ, Drakos and I had texted each other. No more.
A few days later, Alexa and I wandered through the eclectic, second-hand antique shop called Vegas Vintage. My favorite antique store, which smelled like mothballs and unwashed clothes, was located in a rundown strip mall with a dollar store on one side and a vape shop on the other. It carried a strange collection of castoffs and treasures, and I loved the place.
Absently, I flipped through the old paintings and pictures propped against the back wall and stopped on one that caught my eye—or, more accurately, assaulted it. The small plaque on the bottom of the frame read “Dante's Inferno .” It was all garish colors and disproportionate figures writhing in torment, a painting only a Dante enthusiast could love—or maybe tolerate.
“What the hell is that?” Alexa asked.
“A depiction of Hell from Dante’s Inferno .”
“That’s ghastly.”
“It’s perfect,” I countered. I pictured Drakos’s face when he unwrapped the monstrosity.
“You’re not going to hang that in our apartment, are you?” she asked, slightly horrified.
“Even better. I’m giving it as a gift.”
“Ah, like a white elephant gift. I take it you don’t like this person.”
“Exactly,” I grinned.
I sent the monstrosity via courier with a short note: “Lucifer, this reminded me of you. S.”
When a week passed and I didn’t receive a response, I figured we were done—until another package arrived, the size of a long jewelry box, only a little heavier. It was also addressed to Harley Quinn.
As I opened it, reluctant curiosity curled in my belly. My thoughts trailed off when I saw the exquisitely crafted scalpel, its handle engraved with my initials, nestled in felt. The instrument was beautiful, making my chest tighten. It fit my grip like it had been made specifically for me.
He’d personalized the handle, and it was such a thoughtful gift my stomach squeezed. I didn’t want to like anything about him.
“Damn it.” I knew without a doubt I should send the scalpel back, but I wouldn’t. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I’d ever received.
My smile faded, and I placed it back into the velvet-lined box as I remembered Drakos telling me I might be pretty enough to fuck under all the dirt and makeup, just so he could get me out of his system.
If I kept the scalpel, I needed to reciprocate so I didn’t feel like I owed him anything. But nothing too personal or sentimental.
Over the next few days, I wracked my brain. On my lunch break, I made another trip to my favorite secondhand store. I didn’t find anything this time, but before leaving, I browsed through the used book section, my fingers brushing over the worn spines. I saw a collection of poems by Oscar Wilde and remembered reading his short novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
I’d been fascinated by the eerie story of the charming, handsome, but morally corrupt man who sold his soul for eternal youth and beauty. I found a 1910 leatherbound edition online, annotated a few passages, and sent the book to Drakos. I hoped he got the dig.
My phone buzzed as I finished up some paperwork in my office a few days after I sent him the book. Glancing down, I saw Drakos’s name on my screen. My heart jumped as I read his text.
Drakos: Thank you for the book. So you think I’m handsome and charming?
Sylvie: I think you missed the point
I walked into Luigi’s alone for dinner that Friday night. Both my roommates were neck-deep in midterms, but since the authentic Italian restaurant was just around the corner from the mortuary and I craved carbs like my next breath, I went alone. The place bustled on a Friday night, but I’d called ahead and asked Sophia to save me a table.
She glanced up from the hostess desk and smiled. “Hey, Syl. Your date is waiting for you in your favorite booth.”
I quirked my head. “Date?”
“Yeah. He showed up about ten minutes ago and said you were meeting him here.” She raised an eyebrow in question.
My roommates and I came here almost every Friday night to celebrate the end of the week, but I’d never brought a date here. I walked toward our favorite booth where she’d pointed, and Drakos Creed sat there, casually studying the menu.
My jaw dropped as I stared down at him. “What are you doing here?” I hissed. He looked up and his beautiful lips tipped into a cheeky grin.
“Hello, Killer. I wanted to thank you in person for the eccentric gifts.”
Glancing around, I slunk into the seat opposite him. “How did you know I’d even be here?”
He raised an eyebrow as he studied me. “Because you’re here every Friday night with your roommates.”
“Are you stalking me?” I asked incredulously.
“Stalking is such a harsh word.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on the table. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation.”
“If my cousins see me with you, shit is going to hit the fan.”
He shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“Have you ever met Fennick? He doesn’t cross bridges, he blows them up.”
He grinned and laid his arm across the back of the booth. “Eat with me, and I’ll tell you why I was there that night. Unless you’re too scared.”
The bastard pushed all my buttons by challenging me and piquing my curiosity. A server came by to take our order, and I didn’t look at the menu or take my eyes off Drakos. “Hey, Cid. I’ll have the medium meat lovers, pineapple on half, breadsticks with blue cheese dressing, and a glass of the house red.”
Drakos’s lips quirked, and he turned to Cid. “I’d like the risotto alla Milanese, and bring a bottle of your best Aramone instead of a glass of the house.” He handed his menu over and thanked her as Cid hustled away.
My eyes involuntarily soaked up his muscular frame in his beautiful custom-made suit. Several women in the restaurant gave him an appreciative side-eye, and I didn’t blame them. The man oozed testosterone.
We needed to keep this meal brief. Leaning forward, I set my hands on the table. “Tell me.”
He bent toward me and lowered his voice. “When he stole the bike, he maimed one of our employees and shot his dog just for the hell of it. Sasha was an eleven-year-old golden retriever who didn’t have a mean bone in her body. The fucker deserved a painful death.”
I studied him in the dim light. “You seem more upset about Sasha than your employee.”
“I like them both, but unlike Sasha, Todd does have a mean bone in his body. Now, he also has a traumatic brain injury and months of rehab ahead of him.”
The server set two glasses and a bottle of wine on the table as I absorbed what Drakos told me. “I’d have done the same thing,” I admitted. When the server left, I watched him deftly pour the rich red wine.
He handed me a glass and held his up. “Here’s to creating our own justice.” I clinked my glass against his and took a sip. Damn it, I could not start liking this man.