Chapter Sixteen Saylor
Chapter Sixteen
Saylor
Wren’s hands are steadier than mine will ever be, and I’m trying not to blink because apparently that ruins everything.
“Stop twitching,” she says, dabbing tiny silver stars along my lower lash line. “You’re making this harder than it needs to
be.”
She’s been working on my face for the past hour, transforming me into something that belongs in a fantasy novel. The eyeshadow
shifts from shimmery copper to deep bronze, and the eyeliner extends beyond the corners of my eyes in delicate swooping lines
that trail down my cheekbones like cosmic tears. Little flecks of glitter catch the light every time I move, and the stars
she’s adding make my eyes look celestial.
“This is insane,” I mutter. “It’s just a dinner party.”
“Honey, this is not just a dinner party.” Wren steps back to examine her work. “Blue invited all of Grimlock. The whole damn
town is coming to meet you.”
My stomach drops. “The whole town?”
“Every last soul.” She picks up another brush. “When Blue throws a party, people show up. Trust me on this.”
The burnt orange dress she picked out for me is hanging on the wardrobe door, and just looking at it makes my chest tight.
It’s beautiful silk, something I could never afford on a jazz singer’s tips. Dad would have loved seeing me dressed up like
this.
The thought steals my breath. And here I am, letting Wren paint my face like I’m going to prom.
“I can’t do this,” I say suddenly. “I can’t go to a party and pretend to be normal when his killers are still breathing.”
Wren pauses, her brush hovering near my cheek. “And what exactly would staying locked in this room accomplish?”
“I should be hunting them down. Planning their deaths. Not worrying about whether my eyeliner looks good.”
“And then what?” Wren sets down her brush. “Storm into Crowshaven alone with nothing but rage and a death wish? Get yourself killed before you can make them pay?”
I want to say yes, because that’s what feels right. What feels honest. I’ve spent five years building a life in New York,
but underneath every smile, every song, every normal moment, the fury has been growing. Festering. Turning into something
dark and hungry that demands blood.
“I should be doing something,” I whisper. “Anything other than playing dress-up.”
Wren comes around to face me, her eyes sharper than I’ve ever seen them. “You think your father would want you to waste the
chance Blue’s giving you? The training, the resources, the connections? You think he’d want you to throw away your shot at
real revenge for some half-cocked suicide mission?”
“I want them to suffer,” I say quietly. “All of them. I want them to know exactly who’s killing them and why.”
“Good,” Wren says simply. “But first, you need to be smart about it. You need allies. You need to understand how this world
works.” She picks up her brush again. “And tonight, you’re going to meet every person in this town who can help you destroy
the Crow properly.”
I should probably be horrified by this. Instead, I feel something that might be hope.
“Now hold still,” Wren continues, returning to my makeup. “We’re going to make you so gorgeous that every person in that room
remembers exactly who Saylor Mitchell is. And when word gets back to the Crow that Peter’s daughter is alive and thriving
under Blue’s protection, they’re going to shit themselves.”
This time I do smile. “You really think so?”
“I know so.” She adds the final touches to my face. “Your father was proud of you, honey. He talked about you constantly when
he’d visit. How smart you are, how talented, how you could make a room full of strangers fall in love with you just by singing.”
She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Tonight, you show this town exactly what those bastards took from the world when they killed
Peter Mitchell.”
“Tell me about the version of my father you knew,” I say suddenly.
Wren’s hands still. “Peter was genuine. Complicated, but genuine. He’d come here maybe four times a year, always bringing Blue some new problem to solve.”
“Problems I clearly was never made aware of.”
“Good, because they kept Blue awake at night.” Wren sets down her brush. “People in trouble. Women mostly, running from bad
situations. Peter would find them, bring them to Blue, and between the two of them they’d figure out how to make the danger
disappear.”
I think about Dad’s vague explanations of his work, the way he’d brush off questions about his trips. “He never told me any
of this.”
“He was protecting you. The less you knew, the safer you were.” Wren turns to face me fully. “Your father loved you more than
his own life. Everything he did was to keep that love pure, untainted by the darkness he dealt with.”
I look at my reflection and barely recognize myself. The woman staring back at me looks fierce, untouchable. Like she could
walk into any room and own it completely. Like she’s never been afraid of anything in her life.
I look like someone worth killing for.
The thought should scare me. Instead, it makes me feel powerful.
“Wren,” I say as she helps me into the dress, “do you think Blue will really help me go after them? The Crow?”
“Honey, Blue’s been wanting to destroy them for five years.” She zips up the back of the dress. “Now that he knows what you
want, the only question is whether you’ll make it quick or take your time.”
A knock at the door interrupts us, and Wren opens it to reveal Blue. He’s wearing a three-piece suit in onyx black with subtle
pinstripes that nearly glow like captured starlight. The vest is cut perfectly to emphasize his lean build, and his pocket
watch chain glints silver against the dark fabric. His shirt is crisp white with a high collar and onyx cuff links that match
the single black rose pinned to his lapel. But it’s the details that make him look like he stepped out of a Gothic fairy tale.
The way his dark hair is slicked back with just enough wave to soften the severity, how his blue-tinted beard is groomed to
aristocratic perfection, and the mustache that frames his mouth like calligraphy.
When he sees me, his entire persona shifts from controlled composure to something raw and hungry that makes my pulse pick up speed even though I’m trying everything I can to not allow it.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“Is that good or bad?” I ask, smoothing the dress nervously.
“That’s dangerous.” His statement is rougher than usual. “You look like the type of woman men start wars over.”
Wren makes a satisfied sound behind me as she gathers her stuff. “I told you I do good work.” She then leaves the room so
it’s now just the two of us.
Blue steps fully into the room, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything. The way he fills the space, the sound of my own
heartbeat, the warmth radiating from his body. “Are you ready to meet all of Grimlock?”
My stomach does a little flip. “How many people is that exactly?”
“Every soul in town. Shopkeepers, artists, the old families up on the hill, even Jasper from the cemetery.” Blue straightens
his cuff links, the movement casual but somehow deliberate. “When I send out invitations, people show up.”
“Why does that sound ominous?”
“Because it is.” His smile turns wicked. “Tonight isn’t just a party, Saylor. Everyone’s going to see exactly where you stand
in this town.”
“And where exactly do I stand?” I ask, turning to face him fully.
Blue’s smile is enigmatic. “That depends on how you handle tonight.”
“Handle what, exactly? Small talk and hors d’oeuvres?”
“Questions. Lots of them. Grimlock’s residents will want to know who you are, why you’re here, how long you’re staying.” His
eyes travel slowly from my face down to my feet and back up again, lingering on the way the silk hugs my curves. When his
gaze meets mine again, there’s heat there that makes my skin flush. “They’ll be polite about it, but persistent.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No.” Blue straightens, offering his arm. “You should be yourself. That’s always enough.”
As we prepare to leave the room, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror one more time. I look like someone who could survive in Blue’s world. Someone who deserves whatever protection he’s offering.
Most importantly, I look like someone the Crow should be very, very afraid of.
“Ready?” Blue asks, offering his arm.
I think about Dad, about how proud he’d be to see me holding my head high instead of hiding in my room. I think about the
Crow, and how satisfying it will be when they realize they picked the wrong family to destroy.
“Let’s go show them what a Mitchell looks like,” I say, taking Blue’s arm.
I can hear voices and laughter drifting up from downstairs, the sound of a party in full swing. My party. A celebration of
the fact that I’m alive, that I survived, that I’m here to stay.
When we reach the top of the grand staircase, I stop completely. The main floor has been transformed into something that belongs
in the most exclusive gothic nightclub in Manhattan. Hundreds of candles flicker from candelabras, mantelpieces, and even
the windowsills, their flames creating a living tapestry of light and shadow that casts across the dark wood paneling. The
massive chandelier overhead has been dimmed to amber, bathing everything in honey-colored warmth that makes the floors gleam
and that turns every guest into a figure from a romantic oil painting.
Musicians have claimed strategic corners. A violinist near the fireplace draws haunting melodies from her instrument while
a pianist at the black Steinway weaves jazz standards into something darker, more seductive. The bass notes seem to vibrate
through the floor itself, creating a pulse that matches my heartbeat. Servers in crisp black uniforms move between clusters
of guests, offering champagne in crystal flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres arranged on silver platters.
The guests themselves are a study in elegant darkness.
Women wear rich jewel tones—emerald velvet, sapphire silk, deep burgundy that looks almost black in the candlelight.
Men sport perfectly tailored suits in charcoal and haunting blue, their pocket squares and cuff links catching the light.
Everyone moves with the unhurried grace of people who know they belong exactly where they are, their conversations creating layers of sound that rise and fall with the music.
It’s beautiful and mysterious and exactly the kind of place I would have killed to perform in back in New York.
“It’s perfect,” I breathe.
Blue’s smile is pleased, almost proud. “I thought you might appreciate the atmosphere.”
“Did you do all this just to impress me?”
“Maybe.” He adjusts his tie with deliberate nonchalance. “Did it work?”
“I’m standing here in a designer dress about to meet an entire town full of strangers who probably think you’ve lost your
mind.” I glance down at the elegant crowd. “So yeah, I’d say you’ve made an impression.”
“Good. Because once we walk down there, there’s no taking it back.”
“Taking what back?”
Blue’s eyes meet mine, serious for a moment. “The fact that you’re mine to protect.”
Before I can process what that means, he’s offering his arm again. “Ready to make an entrance, Miss Mitchell?”
“As ready as someone can be to meet an entire town of strangers in silk and heels.”
“That’s all anyone can ask for.”