Chapter Eighteen #2
He gives me a nod and takes me down to the second floor. We walk into a sitting room, clearly Orrin’s private sitting room, which feels oddly intimate.
“Why here?” I turn to the butler.
“You won’t be bothered in here. He’ll be along shortly,” Mr. Brown says, then takes his leave.
We’re never bothered in the ballroom, but I just shrug.
Alone, I walk around the room, taking it in.
It feels like Orrin, dark and moody and rich.
The wood walls, the shades of deep blue and forest green, and hints of black.
It’s entirely masculine, from the stately fireplace to the furnishings.
I peek through one door at what I already know is on the other side—his bedroom.
“Looking for me?”
I don’t jump when he speaks; I already sensed he was here.
“Not at all,” I say in a cool voice, turning. “I was just, uh—”
“Spying?”
A smile starts, I can’t help it. “Fine.”
“Do you want to sit while we talk? Or would you like to go through my drawers next?”
I purse my lips and take a seat in one of the fine, heavy chairs.
He sits across from me and glances down at the sack I’m still clutching. “What’s this?”
My mouth softens. “Mr. Brown said you told him to bring some of my things from home. I wanted to thank you for that. I’ve been so worried for my younger sister—I’m glad he was able to make sure she’s okay.”
“Oh, yes. I just thought you’d be more comfortable if you had word of her and some things of your own. I have a bit of time now before I must leave, so we can talk. Do you want me to call for coffee?”
“Why not tea?”
“You don’t drink tea.”
“Now who’s spying?” I find myself teasing.
He looks away but not before I catch his wry smile. He looks brighter, more alive. Maybe having a goal means more to him than he’s said. Maybe taking Aven from Elisavet is a way of him hurting Elisavet without doing so outright. I know he hates her, after all.
“Can you explain more now? I don’t think I can wait a minute longer.”
Only silence threads itself between us. I freeze, holding my breath. Is he going to back out of our deal? A part of me still doesn’t understand why, after everything, he is finally going to help me. I won’t rest easy until I have Aven alive in my arms.
“Yes. You’ve been patient,” he says, breaking the silence. Relief fills my heart. Hesitating, he goes on, “You like books. So I will tell you a story, part of one. Then perhaps you will understand a few things.”
“Once upon a time…” my words are laced with a sudden, light mockery. I was never one for fantastical tales, but obviously, now, some of them aren’t quite so unbelievable.
His stare has me shifting in my seat, abashed. “This is no fairytale, but there is a villain.”
“You mean two?” I challenge. He and Elisavet, of course.
His lips pull up just the tiniest bit, cracking his hard facade. “Yes. Many, in fact.”
“Tell it then.” I try not to look as intrigued as I really am.
“Very well,” he obliges me and begins his tale. “A long time ago, many decades back, I was a desperate man, just like any other desperate man.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons, which I don’t care to explain to you now.
Then I met Elisavet. She has a knack for finding desperate souls, you see.
She hears them calling to her….” He seems to recall some distant memory, then goes on, “We made a deal. She gave me power in exchange for taking my soul, which is how I became what I am. Though,” he adds, thoughtfully, “still a sliver remains.”
“A sliver of soul? I thought you were entirely soulless. All of your kind are, no?”
“No. Even with my kind, a small bit remains. If it was all gone, we would cease to live. In any case, in return, I became a subject of hers, tasked with her messy errands. A puppet, if you will. And a symbol of our trade was a certain pair of ballet slippers.”
I lean forward. “Really?”
He grimaces. “They’re a reminder that hurts…for many reasons. I don’t care to get into all of it now. But they have their own sort of magic, and it seems to be connected to whatever is left of my soul.”
My mind races. I ask, “Why do the slippers affect me? Or am I not the first one to have wanted them?”
After a long moment, he admits, “No, you are. I don’t know why they’ve attached themselves to you.”
“That’s exactly how it feels.” I scrutinize his face, and add in wonder, “It’s as though they want me as much as I want them. But why the slippers in the first place?”
“That doesn’t matter,” he replies in a way that indicates it very much does matter. When I open my mouth, he shakes his head curtly. No more questions about that. “I’ve gotten an invitation for Elisavet’s next party, the evening of the full moon. You’re to dance for her court.”
I have to dance for her? Remembering her dangerous smile, the bone earrings she wore, the way she supposedly had a man ripped to pieces for merely annoying her, I’m not sure I’ll survive such a performance. What if I don’t please her? “At the Court of Death? What is that, like hell?”
“In a sense, yes.” He nods. I count the number of eyelashes as he blinks. “It’s her domain. She moves as she likes, and the court moves with her.”
“But how can hell move?” I fidget with the straps of my bag, trying to comprehend this, trying in my frail, human way to understand the ways of demons.
“Hell is anywhere that people suffer, and death is anywhere that death resides. The court isn’t a location, and neither is the hell you are thinking of—a tale created by churches and men.
Hell is misery, and it happens in our human world.
It’s wherever she is, holding residence.
Wherever she goes, wherever the queens like her go, only suffering and rot thrive. ”
Dread fills my thoughts. We’ve picked quite a formidable foe. “What is the plan, exactly? I’m assuming we’re going to get Aven out at the party, yes?”
“No. I will.”
“How?”
“I’ll do something to lead your sister to the door. While you dance, and Elisavet and everyone else is distracted, I’ll take Aven away and Mr. Brown will bring her here.”
“That’s it?” It’s too easy. “What if Elisavet knows? What if she finds her here?”
At my frown, he says, “Why would she look for her here? I’m hoping hiding Aven here long enough will enable any connection between them to fade, and Elisavet shouldn’t be able to track her, especially with my magic muffling their connection, so to speak. Then, when it’s safe, we will move her.”
“Oh.” His plan is not exactly failproof. “What do I do? Besides dance? It hardly seems that important.”
“It will distract everyone, which is extremely important,” he corrects.
“Another crucial thing is you must conduct yourself perfectly at the party. You must not speak to anyone, not about your sister, nor anything personal that may give you away to Elisavet. If she knows anything, she won’t hesitate to dangle your sister in front of you in the worst way, or to try to trap you in a bargain.
Be polite yet reserved. And if you see Aven before we enact the plan, you’ll have to pretend like you don’t know her, in case anyone is watching, otherwise someone may become suspicious. ”
“I can’t do that!” I argue. “It took all my strength not to ask Elisavet about her, to beg her to give Aven back! If I see Aven in the court, I’m going to carry her out of there my own damn self!”
“You think you’ll steal her right from under Elisavet’s nose?” His doubtful frown is infuriating. “Why is it, with all the super senses you have, you lack common sense?”
I shoot a glare at him.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“Why not?” I lift my chin defiantly, though I find my indignation fading. Despite my frustration, what he says makes sense, and at least we have a plan—one he seems confident in.
“Because, for now at least, we’re on the same side.” He stands, as if restless.
I watch him walk around the room leisurely, perusing the antiques and beautiful furnishings. I find it spellbinding, the way he walks as though he owns everything—not just the belongings in the room but the whole world.
“Will you join me for supper tomorrow evening, as discussed? We can talk more then. I’ll be leaving shortly.”
I accept, rising from my seat. “If that’s all for now then. I’ll leave you.”
His voice stops me. “Actually. There is something else. Before I go…”
“What?”
“You’re not frightened of me anymore.” He runs his perfect fingers along a vase, and I find myself staring at his hand, the way he strokes the glass.
It’s a statement, not a question. I confirm, “I’m not.”
“Then what would you say if I asked you to dance right now? If I told you to?”
A smirk spreads across my face. “I’d say the red slippers are in my room, and I don’t feel like fetching them.”
He looks at the bag Mr. Brown brought, the bag I still hang on to, then back at me, one dark gaze. “I’m curious, then. What if I asked you to dance in your own shoes? Would you do it? Now? Here?”
The words escape me before I can think. “Yes.”
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak. But I can tell he is pleased by my answer.
I warm up, roll my shoulders back with a sigh, sink into deep pliés well aware of his eyes on me.
It is just the two of us. The walls of his sitting room seem to inch closer to us by the minute, though he’s scooted the furniture to the perimeter of the room.
I’ll have enough space to move if I forgo grand leaps, however, I can’t ignore how his eyes are pinned on me in such a close space. Nerves zip through my body.
“I’m ready,” I say, soft, and he nods.
For him, I dance. In my own worn shoes, I move to music that is not there.
It is rougher without the red shoes, it is more raw, less elegant.
Yet, it is me, laid out and flayed open for him.
My steps are not perfect, yet there is a softness and hardness I’ve missed these past months of dancing in the red slippers.
With those, I don’t fear imperfection because it doesn’t exist. With those, I am brave but a bit of a liar, if I’m being honest now.
Because there is a beauty in being truthful, in baring myself and my insecurities.
In my own slippers, I can’t lean on magic, on enchantment.
I can only do my best, and if it’s not my best, I know that is only because I am an imperfect human, and that’s alright.
I can still be proud of myself—in fact, I’d argue, I should be even prouder on my own.
Look what I can do. Look at me trying, I say with my body.
All my senses tingle as I catch his eyes on me, as he sits there watching my vulnerability.
Why I’m allowing it, I can’t say. Only that perhaps, no longer being afraid of him, I’m ready to be unafraid in other ways.
When, and if, he finally releases me from captivity, when and if I can go back to the Clover, would I have the courage to do this?
Dance as myself, without the aid of the magical slippers?
Would I dare to think myself good enough?
I thought I was nearly naked in the bath the other evening, when I cried in front of him, when I stood bloodied and broken after being attacked. But I’ve never been as open as this. I am truly naked as I dance for him. I spin, and though he blurs, I know his eyes are still scorched into me.
When I finish, he rises. Clearing his throat, he walks over to me as if he’s about to say something, frown on his face. I brace for his critique. My resolve to be proud fades, doubt overwhelming me. I know the performance was flawed. I shouldn’t have said yes.
Then he is right before me. He leans down, voice rough, “Corliss?”
His skin is so beautiful, I bite my lip, staring at his mouth, inches from mine, then his eyes. I couldn’t look away if I wanted. When did I decide they were mesmerizing instead of monstrous? Just this very second? “Yes?” I breathe.
A moment’s hesitation, then he tugs my body in, holding me in place. I stare back, swallow hard, heart hammering as I try to make sense of the way he digs his fingers into my hips. I’m frightened…I think.
Or frightened by how much I want him.
“Corliss,” his voice is a whisper against my neck, my ear, then my mouth. His arms tighten around me, then he pauses. The words are unspoken.
They hang between us. His eyes search my face, and I give a small nod.
I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to surrender.
He pushes me back against the papered wall, gently but so sudden, I catch my breath.
Orrin. Demon. I war with myself. But he’s not a demon, not the way I thought.
All at once he leans down and brushes his lips against mine. I curl my fingers into his hair and pull him down again. Yes, another yes. Kiss me.
First, soft, exploring my lips with his own, then he increases the pressure, slanting his warm mouth on mine.
I gasp at his skillful kisses, the feel of his desire, and I kiss him harder, arching my body against his.
He responds with a low groan, tugging me up higher against the wall so that my feet actually come off the floor.
His hands support me, lifting me under my thighs, his hardness presses into me, and I gasp yet again.
He tangles his fingers into my hair, dragging his lips across my throat.
I take his face to bring his mouth back to mine with a greedy tug. I want this. I need this.
He kisses me until I can hardly breathe. I can’t think, can’t hear, can’t see. Can only feel in this moment, every nerve in my body pulsing with need, blood firing through my veins, pooling in one aching beat between my quivering legs.
And then, just when I can hardly stand it any longer, when I’m slick with need, when I’m about to pull off my own dress to make him take me against the wall, to beg him to do it, he backs away, breath ragged, sliding me so my feet touch the floor again.
Orrin rubs at his chest, his eyes wild. “Fuck.”
Then he hurries away, slamming the door behind him. One of the paintings on the wall falls to the floor with a crash.
I slump down to the carpet, chest pounding, heart beating out of control.
Closing my eyes, the expletive echoes. Fuck.
I try to think of every reason this kiss was ridiculous, mad, foolish, twisted. After everything we’ve been through. After everything he’s done. I still hate him. Don’t I? We are allies, unwilling even in that, and that’s all. Right?
I try not to want him, try not to wish his lips were back on mine.
I fail.