Chapter Twelve #2
I’m not leaving the mansion yet, but at least I feel less trapped, having the chance to get out of my room.
Quietly, I take a step out into the hall, tiptoeing, listening for anyone coming up the second set of stairs.
I tell myself that being here is my choice now that I do have the means to get out.
And perhaps, if needed, I can make an escape.
It brings me some measure of comfort. Mostly, I’m just nosy enough to want to poke around a bit, and perhaps, the rebel within me wants to defy the demon.
It feels delicious, openly disregarding his orders.
I creep down the dark staircase, hover at the bottom step to the second floor.
When a low voice rumbles in frustration, I shrink back into the shadows of the narrow staircase, hoping nobody has noticed me.
I watch, peeking around the corner. The figure comes into view.
It’s the demon, with Mr. Brown trailing him up the grand staircase and toward the bedrooms.
His brows are knit in frustration, and he pauses in front of a door—to his bedroom, I presume—the one I snuck into. The one where I found the shoes. He mumbles something, turning to face the butler, waving one hand in front of his shirt. His white shirt, covered with red splotches.
Blood. I blanche. Even after talking to him about it earlier, I’d hoped to convince myself it was merely a nightmare, not based in reality at all. He’s not actually going out there and murdering people. Is he? He is.
“…because she insisted?” Mr. Brown sighs.
“It couldn’t be helped,” I think the demon answers. I inch closer to hear better, but then my foot catches a creaky spot on the floor.
They both turn their heads toward the staircase door, and I catch just a flash of narrowed eyes before I whip around and run—on feet as light as I can manage—up the stairs and down the hall, slipping back into my room.
I shut the door behind me quietly, relocking it from the inside with the pin—in spite of my trembling hands.
Then I perch on the bed, heart racing, waiting to be caught.
But nobody comes up. They must not have heard me.
The longer I sit, the more confident I am that I’m safe, that he didn’t see me.
Even better, I got out, and I can get out again if this plan doesn’t work.
Remembering how the demon looked, I push up and stand.
Wonder over the bloody shirt. Yet another victim?
And did he mean it couldn’t be helped, as in he didn’t want to kill someone else? Then why do it?
Because she insisted, Mr. Brown said. But who in the world is she?
It’s unsettling to learn he may have committed yet another murder, and more than confusing to try and puzzle out the rest, but what can I do?
My body—the slippers—urge me to move through the emotions, and so I dance around the room.
I dance until I’m dripping sweat. I dance so hard I wonder if I’m wearing holes in the rug. Still, it is hardly enough.
Out of the corner of one eye, I think I catch a flap of black wings at my window. When I look again, it’s gone.
“Your dancing is off tonight.” The demon’s voice lashes like a whip the following evening.
I flinch without meaning to, indignation and anger rising in me as he interrupts my performance, something he’s never done. I fall out of step abruptly, shocked at his interference.
“It is not.” I meet his dark look with a challenge, bravado easier to force when I’m offended.
He pushes up his sleeves with a harsh laugh.
I stare again at his tattoos, trying to make sense of them: his right wrist has bracelets of inked lines, which seem to get closer and closer, thicker and thicker, until they touch, until from forearm to elbow, it creates a solidly black effect, while his left arm is almost entirely solid, only a few bracelets of ink around that wrist at all.
I glance back up as he speaks, noticing the way the sunset’s glow behind him throws his face into shadow and the well-formed features catch the candlelight.
He is handsome. I hate to admit it. He’s been so terrible, not just when we’re face to face, but trying to dig his way into my mind too, bullying me into submission through my dreams, no matter that he tried to imply I burst into his dream—as if I had such a power!
Clearly, he’s behind it all. The double-murder I watched him commit without hesitation, the gryphon in my nightmare last night, sinking its talons into my throat, feathers floating through the air as it ripped me apart, the dream during my afternoon nap today—I was too bored to do anything besides sleep the hours away—where I danced until I died. Those were all him. And now this?
I say, “You don’t have to be so insufferably rude.”
“Rude? Your work is uninspired. You can hardly expect me to grovel at your feet like everyone else, Miss Bell.” His smile is taunting.
“Well, you can hardly expect me to be inspired!” My temper flares. “I’ve got nothing to do. You won’t let me have any books, for one thing! Good food and a pretty room doesn’t change the fact that I’m captive and bored out of my damn mind!”
“You’re not meant to be entertained here, you’re meant to be the entertainment.” He rises from his chair and gets close to me, too close. “And besides that, you’re meant to stay in your room. When I give orders for the door to be locked, it is to remain that way.”
I gulp. I’d hoped I’d gotten away with it, even assumed I had when Jinny came up to do my hair tonight. More pins.
His voice is cold, eyes like shining steel as they cut to my face and then to my hair, the black reflecting the glow of the candlelight…and even me to an extent. I look away. He commands, “Give them to me. Your hair will stay down from now on.”
I lift a hand to touch the beautiful style put in only a half hour ago. It’s her best yet, with even a pink rose tucked into the upswept curls—I didn’t tell her it was my favorite flower. “No. I won’t do it again, I swear.”
“Your promise means nothing. Give them to me. Now.”
I resentfully yank pins from my hair until it tumbles around my shoulders. The rose falls to my feet, and I kick it aside.
“I’m certain you don’t want me to check,” he warns.
Picturing his big hands running through my hair, I shiver. Reluctantly, I take the last hidden hairpin out from the nape of my neck and hand it over with the rest. But I don’t back down, even as he shoots a murderous glare at me. I return the expression.
“I didn’t do any harm, leaving my room. You might let me out more. I need fresh air. I haven’t stepped foot outside in over a week!”
The demon walks along the row of windows, broad back to me—as if to say that I’m so unimportant he doesn’t even care, yet I catch the tightness in his shoulders. I’m definitely provoking him. I steady myself, slow my anger to a simmer instead of a boil. He’s a killer, Corliss. Don’t be a damn fool.
“Dance,” he utters, without turning.
I roll my eyes, but begin, pretending like he’s not even there. Two can play at this game. I finish quickly, and this time, he doesn’t interrupt me. I’m not sure if he even was watching. I don’t bother to confirm.
As I bend low to curtsey, the air seems to sizzle.
I snap up my head, and there, out of nowhere, is a woman.
No, I correct myself. Not with those eyes, soulless as his.
Immediately, I know. She’s one of his kind.
And far in the shadows, standing in a corner, a demon man, built like a brick.
Never in my life did I think I’d see a real-life demon, let alone three of them.
Orrin has turned to see the strangers, offering a stiff bow to her, ignoring the man in the corner—a servant, or guard perhaps.
She waltzes over to Orrin, arms outstretched, catlike smile on her face.
She kisses his cheek in greeting, then turns, her long white dress trailing behind her as she heads my way.
Above the sinfully low neckline, a long pendant rests heavy, a red jewel as large as a plum.
“So you’re the little dancer he’s taken in, mmm?” Her voice snakes in my ear, and I startle. She got so close, so quickly.
I gape at her, open-mouthed. Her hair is not blonde, but nearly white, devoid of color—long and shining down her slender body.
Her features are cold and hard, like she’s been cut from a block of marble.
She’s definitely not the most beautiful woman—most beautiful being—that I’ve ever seen, yet she’s intoxicating.
I could study her for years and not figure out that face.
The rosebud mouth a bit crooked, the cheekbones blades, too sharp. But arresting, all combined.
“I’ve been so curious about you,” the demon woman purrs, eyeing me from head to toe, smirking at the sight of the red shoes. “You must be a wonderful dancer, for him to keep you all to himself.” Here she snickers. “I’ll have to return to catch the performance next time.”
“She’s decent enough entertainment,” he says dryly, lounging in his chair now, languid, at ease.
Yet there’s an edge to his eyes when they look at the back of her.
For once, his resentment is focused on someone other than me.
I catch this in a millisecond, enough to understand one thing: he hates her.
A lightning bolt of realization. This is the she Mr. Brown meant.
I still can’t speak, she’s so mesmerizing, the way the light hits her silvery skin, the red lips that beg to be not just kissed, but bitten, the smell of her—charcoal, tart cherries, and jasmine—and something dangerous underlying it all, like a delicious poison that kills.
When she moves closer, I spy white bones hanging from her ears, so tiny they might have been the finger bones of a child, and a sickening feeling descends upon me.
She brushes her hand against my cheek, crushing the fallen rose with the sole of her shoe. “So pretty. Perhaps I’ll take you as a plaything.”