Chapter Eight
I told Sélie I’m too sick to work today, my lies piling up.
She insisted on staying home with me; I insisted I’d be fine, that it was just the stomachache from the night I threw up back again, and as I said it, my hand shook so hard I spilled the water she brought me, right down the front of my nightgown.
She assumed it was from illness. I knew it was from a bone-deep trepidation.
“I don’t think I should leave you.” She frowned, lingering at the door as I peeled the sopping garment off.
“Go. I’ll be alright,” I croaked, throwing on a clean chemise and climbing back into bed.
“I suppose I could pick up some ingredients to make you soup later.”
“That would be nice, thank you.” I didn’t think I could eat a thing, but I smiled anyway.
Then she went to the shop, and I was left alone with my fear, with my thoughts, and mostly, with the ache of regret over my foolish actions. I run it all through my head once more, twice more, a dozen times more. I’ve been sitting here the whole day, just ruminating over it all.
I stole from a demon. All because of those damned shoes.
Alone in the cottage, I lean over and grab the slippers from where I tossed them on the floor hours ago, and I stare, hating the sight of them, how red they are, how beautiful, oddly enough not even a hint of wear on them, despite all the dancing I’ve done.
Even flinging them into the ocean hasn’t ruined the satin.
Inside, a deep, insatiable hunger grows.
I’d like to put them on and dance away from this fear.
Instead, I deliberately shove them in a cotton sack—I’ll figure out what to do with them later.
For now, I leave the cottage, walk down to the beach for a change of scenery.
But mostly, to get away from the slippers and the hold they have over me.
I pretend it isn’t painful to walk away from them.
Sitting on the sand, I trace my fingers through it, letting myself breathe.
For now, I have peace and safety. But probably not for long.
I gaze at the water, the way it inches closer to my bare, bruised toes, the way the waves keep coming whether I’m ready or not.
I need to think. I have to fix this. Sélie will be home from the shop in an hour or two. If only I could fix this by then.
Some way or another I have to get the slippers back to the Colehart Mansion before the owner comes for me again.
Perhaps I could pay someone to deliver them at the doorstep.
From what I hear, they have a shop boy bringing food from the grocer.
Except it’s too irresponsible pulling anyone else into this mess.
I’ve already put myself—and worse, Sélie—in danger.
I’ll have to do this alone. I could go very late at night, and toss the slippers on the porch?
The thought of even being out in the dark near his home has me quaking.
I still haven’t gone to fetch my nicest boots, the ones I left near there, as though, subconsciously, I knew that it was dangerous.
I knew deep down that I’d made a mistake.
I lean my face toward the hot sun. If Aven and Sélie were here, we’d lie in the sunshine, tracing our names in the sand.
We’d dive into the water, splashing each other, diving deep, pretending, even if I didn’t admit it aloud, that we were mermaids.
I push myself to my feet, and, clad only in my chemise, wade into the warm, salty water, dropping onto my back, closing my eyes, and letting the gentle motion of the waves soothe me.
I drift, living in this moment. I am safe, the ocean reminds me.
The feel of my own beating heart is steady and calm.
The world is big and wide, and I am oh, so small.
In this moment, my problems feel small too.
Instinct warns me—danger!—the sea shifting around me, and I open my eyes the same moment I gasp at the sense of someone near. Too late.
Strong hands grab me about the waist from behind, jerking me through the water, and I suck in a cry of terror. As I struggle, shocked, I go under, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater, swinging my arms wildly.
I’m dragged to the surface again, choking and sputtering. I scream as I’m yanked up, and a rough hand covers my mouth. I bite down instinctively, tasting the tang of blood.
Too desperate to be disgusted, I rasp out another cry, “Help! Help me!”
A low voice grumbles in a frightening sort of laugh, a sound I vaguely recognize. I can’t see his face; his arms are wrapped around me from behind as he hauls me away, out of the beautiful sea and to who knows where. “Scream all you like.”
Immediately I place the stranger’s voice—the one from the theatre. Oh, God. I’ve run out of time. It’s him, isn’t it?
Scream all you like, as though no one will save me anyway.
Even if someone were near enough to hear me—he’s a demon.
He could end us all. But I do scream, ragged and breathless.
Flailing violently, I’m dragged off the beach, gagged, and my face is covered with a thick dark cloth.
My entire body seizes up in fear. I’m going to die.
He’s going to kill me. Sélie will find my murdered carcass when she gets home.
He carries me up away from the sea, away from the safety of my home.
Before I know it, I’m tossed onto something soft and upholstered.
A carriage seat, I’m guessing. Then my hands and feet are tied—like an animal, I think, enraged.
If I focus on this deep anger my heart won’t stop from sheer terror.
I’m helpless, wet, in nothing but my shift, tied up. My chest is tight, almost painfully so.
“Where are you taking me?” My voice comes out strangled through the cloth around my mouth, so much so I wonder if he’s able to make out what I say. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Don’t worry,” he mocks me, clearly able to decipher my stifled words. “Better than you deserve.”
A door slams. Then movement.
Muffled sound or no, pointless act or no, I scream as loud as I can.
My cries for help drown out any other noise that might be audible, yet I can’t help that voice in my nightmare, echoing through my mind.
I’m coming for you.
And he did.
When the carriage halts abruptly, I am nearly thrown off the seat.
As I wait for the door to open, I ready myself to fight for my life.
Though what can I do? An awkward kick? The ties around my hands are too tight, my wrists already raw.
I start to feel dizzy and remind myself to breathe so I don’t pass out. I clench my jaw, my throat dry.
The door opens, and I’m lifted up and out of the carriage without a word.
It’s quiet, just the stifled sound of breath as he carries me, slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
I hear more doors open and shut. After a few minutes, with a grunt, I’m deposited onto a chair.
My bare feet are untied, and then my hands too.
I prepare to strike, though he’s surely ten times stronger than I am, but before I even have the chance, the hood is lifted from my head and the gag removed from my mouth.
Immediately, I jump from the seat and blink as the light hits my eyes.
“What do you want?” My hoarse voice comes out small in the large room; it’s empty save a piano in the back and the chair I was placed upon.
Unlit candles line the paneled wall on gold sconces, and three elaborate chandeliers hang overhead.
There are tapestries on the walls. It looks like a ballroom, or as close to one as I’d imagine.
I spin, reeling with disbelief. I’ve always wanted to go to a ball, spend time in a majestic room lit with the glow of soft flames and the sparkle of romance.
I’ve never thought about dying in a ballroom.
I try again, searching for anyone else—someone must have untied me—“Why am I here?”
Behind me comes a harsh laugh. Shrinking around, I shift my eyes to the tall male figure at the head of the room who I either just missed or who only now appeared, along with another, grander chair.
He stands with his back to me. Long seconds go by without him turning.
It’s him—the demon. I know it’s him, even though he’s not how I pictured.
He has a thick mess of black hair that brushes his shoulders.
Even facing away from me, his power radiates my way.
When the figure turns around, my heart jolts.
I give a low gasp of shock. With a stifled breath, I take a step back, tripping over the chair behind me.
His eyes are black as ink, with no whites at all.
I stare back at him for what seems like eternity.
It’s ghastly, but hard to tear my gaze away all the same.
I vaguely register other details, the dark slashes of his eyebrows, the slightly tapered, elegant shape of his eyes…
but it is the unsettling lack of whites, the hatred within them that captivates—horrifies—me.
I finally notice the rest of him, the great height, the control, and my shock wavers into confusion.
Because apart from the uncanny eyes, apart from the general fright of him, he looks oddly, unexpectedly human.
No tail that I can see. No scales or wings or horns, though a forked tongue isn’t beyond the scope of possibility.
Still, he is so human-looking. He stalks around an upholstered chair at the front of the room as if it were a throne.
Instead of robes like a king, he wears black trousers, a buttoned white shirt, crisp and snowy, the sleeves pushed up slightly on his arms, but no vest, no coat, no tie.
His clothing is dry, so he must have quickly changed between stealing me from the water and now.
His movements are easy, casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way his lip curls at me, the way he glowers.
Not only does power exude from him, but fury too.