Chapter Thirty-Four Wren
Chapter Thirty-Four
Wren
The powerful fight and bicker over trinkets. Some even kill—but the records of those crimes have long been sealed by authorities. No one wants to know the truth of humanity’s ruthlessness.
—Pages found in the banned book Questioning Fate by Alexandra Collette, Andalay historian, location unknown
I barely recalled the walk to the Black Dahlia. People shoved into me and I faltered but never fell. Some catcalled. Others yelled lewd words. It was obvious that I was an outsider. That I didn’t belong.
I didn’t belong anywhere.
I approached the entrance with silver in my pockets and glowered at the two burly men guarding the two-story black building. Only an embossed crimson dahlia so dark it shone black in the sun hung above the men.
When they made to stop me, I sighed. Every bone in my body ached. Each step a chore. I didn’t care. Not about the fear these men were attempting to radiate. To frighten me. Nothing could frighten me anymore.
Without answering, I shoved a silver coin into each of their meaty hands and nodded once more to the double doors. Without flinching, I waited as they sized me up and inspected the silver I’d given them.
“She must really want trouble.” One of the men laughed as he opened the door for me with an exaggerated flourish.
I did want trouble. But first, answers.
The club was all but empty at this time, and the stage was lit by gas lamps, the dais surrounded by black carpet.
It rose from the ground floor, glittering with fake gems and plated gold trimming, empty leather chairs set before it, just awaiting a warm body.
A few hardy patrons sat off to the side at a winding bar of obsidian, silently drinking from their crystal glasses.
The real show wouldn’t begin until the sun set, and only the desperate sought out their vices now.
I scanned the room, my eyes reaching the upper floor, enclosed by a golden railing.
No stairs could be seen, but that wouldn’t be a problem.
I aimed away from the bar and farther into the club.
Another large man eyed me from head to toe, but he said nothing as I passed, seeking a darkened corner to gather myself.
As the shadows enfolded me, my eyes adjusted, and I made out a narrow corridor.
I wasn’t Wren Hayes anymore. Not the optimistic, stupidly na?ve girl who thought she could mend things.
I wasn’t anything but a tangible fury that had sunk into my core and spread into my limbs like poison.
My mind lacked the capacity to conjure theories about why Mother or Callie had this card.
I couldn’t even focus on Damien, who I’d spent the night with, who betrayed me from day one.
I didn’t think about my father or his crimes.
I just…walked. I walked until the hallway enclosed me, and I took in the many closed doors on either side.
At the end, a larger door tempted. I’d nearly made it to the door when stairs beckoned to my left.
I took them up to the second story, the darkness, my friend. A welcome oblivion I desired to sink into. At the landing, I surveyed the slip of a hallway overlooking the first floor. More doors lined it, some shut, some open.
The opened ones revealed matching rooms—a large mattress, onyx sheets, and several candles. I easily guessed what they were used for. I passed them, aiming now for the closed doors. Inside, a faint flutter caused my heart to skip several beats, and a scent wafted to my nose.
Floral and soft. Feminine, yet with a hint of musk.
I chased that smell, more sweat soaking my spine the closer I grew to the source.
The last door, unlike the others, had a knob in the shape of a single flower. The scent I recognized clogged my nostrils, almost making me gag.
My hand trembled as I grasped the flower and turned.
Locked.
It wasn’t shocking, but I’d come prepared, and I’d watched Damien closely enough when he broke into Lord Saridon’s home.
Kneeling, I plucked the two pins hidden in my tangled hair and went to work. Without Damien’s years of experience, feeling around for the mechanism took longer than it should have, and I was surprised no one came upon me.
Nearly thirty minutes of agonizing desperation passed before a telltale click greeted my ears. My breath froze in my lungs as I stood. If I had been able to pick the lock, it must not be a good one.
Now or never.
I couldn’t hold the truth at arm’s length any longer. Couldn’t hide from it.
I turned the knob and sighed in relief as it twisted.
A low groaning sounded as it creaked open, revealing a room painted in soft pinks and black.
A blush velvet lounge took up space beside a grand arched window, a desk with pink-accented knobs beside it.
The massive four-poster bed dipped in black paint to match the walls stretched out as if in welcome, the covers shining beneath a single lamp bracketed to the left wall.
A dresser sat below the lamp, only a brush and bottle of perfume taking up space.
Shutting the door behind me, I absently swept my hand across the dresser, noting the hairs stuck to the bristles. Lifting the perfume to my nose, I sniffed, immediately regretting the action as more of that sickly scent assaulted me, my headache growing worse.
The drawers were filled with fine clothing.
Neatly folded trousers, some silky and lacy undergarments, and a drawer devoted to black nightclothes with hints of pink undertones.
I abandoned the dresser and located a spacious closet.
Inside were a dozen or more dresses, all simple, mainly black with a few pink selections.
They were stunning and alluring, and I ran my hand across them, the quality unlike anything I’d ever touched.
Below, shoes had been lined up in rows; a few with fashionable heels, mostly tall lace-up boots.
My attention snagged on a pair of pink ones.
My mother owned a pair like this, I recalled.
She’d worn them to tea once. I flipped to a dress hanging to the left, a small red stain marking the pink bodice; the exact one Mother wore to tea with Lady Lovett.
So unlike her—the design cheerful, not like her usual attire of deep autumn colors.
She’d claimed they suited her hair best.
Shutting the closet door, I wandered to the desk next.
Taking a seat in the chair before it, I perused the first drawer.
Inside, I discovered not makeup or vanity products, but pens and parchment and ink.
The second drawer was larger, filled with black folders.
I removed one and gingerly spread it out.
Inside, a picture of Lord Lovett stared back at me.
He wasn’t smiling as he usually did. This was a simple black-and-white photograph attached to the folder with a cheap clip.
Beneath his grimacing face, several addresses were listed beside women’s names.
I scanned the page, noting the ink marks scribbled next to each one. They were dates and times.
I turned to the next page. This one showed another stark photograph of Lord Lovett and a woman who certainly wasn’t his wife.
He had his arms wrapped around her, the younger woman succumbing to his kiss.
My stomach twisted as I eyed page after page of him with different women, all in compromising positions far worse than the first.
Blackmail. Just like Damien and I had uncovered from the rug at Lord Saridon’s.
I shut the folder and slid it back in place, my focus on the third and final drawer.
This one had a golden lock in the shape of a broken heart.
Grabbing my pins, I worked at the lock, more sweat trickling down my spine as my nerves frayed, as I fell apart at the truth that would truly and wholly break me.
The click came, and I yanked it open.
Necklaces, rings, ribbons, knives, scissors, pins, glasses, and…
A locket.
My body hummed in tune with the magic seeping from the drawer, the power of so many gifts together in one place causing bile to rise in my throat. My hands could barely grasp the locket, they shook so hard, but when they did—
I arched back, a spark of light igniting behind my eyes. The draw of the object consumed me, called to me, demanded I place it around my neck. It sang a song only I knew, a melancholy tune that fit with my shattered heart.
After the light faded and I clutched at my stomach, I garnered the strength to pry open the clasp.
I wished I hadn’t. Wished I’d been too frightened to break in here. Wished I had left the damned locket shut.
Damien’s face stared back at me, his cold eyes ones I’d lost myself in so many times. His hair was styled in the same nonchalantly messy way, the same strands I’d recently run my fingers through. It was him; his picture inside a gift he had stolen.
Without thinking, I put it around my neck, the call of it lessening once I fastened the clasp.
I grabbed the closed locket in my fist, tears welling in my eyes.
Betrayal speared me better than any knife, and Damien’s face, his loving words from just last night, looked and sounded more mocking than tender.
I snapped the locket shut and wrapped the pendant in a tight grip, uncaring if I was being rough. All I could think about was—
Everything blinked away. The room, the club, the truth. Blackness engulfed all until a murky figure took shape, wisps of gold dancing at its feet.
No, there were three figures, three women, the gold flourishing until it chased away the black.
They lounged beside a stream, their gleaming bodies shimmering like the sun.
People wearing clothing I didn’t recognize drifted over to them, offering them plates of food and drink.
They smiled, their grins more haunting than reassuring.
Another flash and the scene melded into another.