Chapter 10
Penelope
My cheeks still feel like they’re a thousand degrees.
I was completely frozen, unsure whether I should scream at my mother to stop, or stay quiet because, let’s face it, how was I going to explain to her that she couldn’t shake my bodyguard’s hand unless I told her why?
And gods know there was no way I was going to tell her I just let a vampire finger fuck me to an almost-orgasm in the middle of Morrigan’s hen do.
I’m about to open my mouth and give Dahlia a load of shit when someone knocks into me.
“Watch it, blondie… ah, Penelope, about time we had a chat…” Lord Brinkley says, but Dahlia is lightning fast and closes her hand around his throat.
“Apologise. Now,” she demands.
“S… S,” he tries to choke out.
“You stink of booze,” Dahlia growls and shoves him away. “Pay attention.”
He swallows hard, wiping his hands down his suit jacket—who wears a full-blown suit in a nightclub? He must be sweating his tits off. His hands have left filthy smear marks on me. Vile.
“Wait,” I say, having an inkling of an idea. Roman never gave me any dirt to force one of their hands, but maybe if I can scare them into compliance, I can force the deal to completion and hopefully stop whichever one of these idiots is sending the letters and terrifying the palace.
I lean into Dahlia’s ear. “Play along with me, will you?”
She cocks her head at me but nods her assent.
“Lord Brinkley, have you been sending me letters?”
He frowns, shaking his head.
“Are you sure about that?” The shaking turns to a nod. The fear gouging deep lines across his brows makes me think he’s being genuine. So be it.
“Have you ever met a vampire?” I ask, pouring as much sweetness and light as I can into my tone.
“N-no,” he says, drunk enough to slur.
“Allow me to introduce you to Dahlia St Clair, my vampire bodyguard.”
His eyes are so wide, I swear they’re going to pop out of his head.
“Dahlia has been in New Imperium for a couple of days now, and given they’re here for very important political talks, she’s been unable to eat anything. Do you know why that is, Lord Brinkley…?”
He shakes his head, his face paling.
“Because she only drinks blood. Now, you and I have some unfinished business, don’t we?”
He blinks at me as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“Mr. Brinkley, I think you should use your words,” I say, trying not to laugh as I strip him of his lordship.
“Unfinished… Right. Yes. Well, it’s a big risk, none of the other players are offering to hand over the promised goods,” he says, his eyes darting between Dahlia and me.
“Yes, but someone needs to go first, don’t they? That’s going to be you, isn’t it? Mr. Brinkley?”
He makes to shake his head, but Dahlia, Gods bless her vampire soul, takes a step closer and smiles at him, full-fanged, every ounce of malice and venom I know she possesses poured into her glinting gaze.
Lord Brinkley stops shaking his head and nods very aggressively at me.
“Oh, wonderful,” I say, exaggerating every word. “That’s simply wonderful. Isn’t it, Dahlia?”
She closes her lips over her fangs and winks at me.
“See to it that Mosel gets the fae contracts by the morning. Good evening, Lord Brinkley.”
Dahlia shifts forward suddenly. Brinkley about shits himself as he jerks away, scampering back into the nightclub.
A bone-deep smile settles all the way into my belly as we head towards the exit. I finally did something useful and all by myself. I’m feeling entirely smug until Dahlia opens the door.
Then, I scream.
* * *
Mother paces back and forth up and down the now empty nightclub.
It’s odd being in a room painted black but with the house lights on.
A bit like knowing how a magic trick is done, it spoils the illusion of the club.
Mother’s eyes carry a fever as she flits between me and the dead body in the middle of the dance floor.
I sit in a booth, my legs tucked under my chin, my arms wrapped around my knees to try and stem the trembling.
But it doesn’t matter how tight I grip myself, my teeth still chatter, and I can’t seem to get warm.
I keep giving the corpse furtive glances.
Every time I do, bile claws at the back of my throat.
I bury my head in my thighs. The flashing memory of Dahlia unhooking the woman from the doorway keeps replaying over and over.
She was hanging by her neck, her head limp and lolling to the side. But that wasn’t what made my skin crawl. It was the fact she was dressed to look like me: long blonde wig, short pink dress, a face full of makeup. They even put blue contacts in the woman’s eyes.
Gods, it was the way she stared out at nothing. I shiver.
Maybe it wasn’t Brinkley, Mosel or Jeremiah fucking with me.
Brinkley was here tonight, after all, and after the warning we gave him and how terrified he looked, I really doubt he’d have the balls to kill a girl.
I mean, it could have been one of the other two.
But who the hell else could it be? Bane isn’t capable of murder; he’s a useless prick at the best of times.
But then, he seemed desperate enough to harass me the other night.
And as for Lavinia, I always thought her more of a queen bee bitch.
But what if I pushed her too far? I did sleep with her boyfriend.
Maybe she’s trying to terrify me out of pure revenge, a kind of public humiliation at the most crucial of royal events.
I wouldn’t put public humiliation past her, but murder?
I trawl my memory trying to come up with anything else I may have done to Lavinia or her family that might have pushed her over the edge.
Whoever it is that has a problem with me, they are escalating. They fucking killed a girl, for gods’ sake.
Dahlia shucks her jacket off and slings it around my shoulders.
“Here,” she says and strokes my leg. The movement is slow and measured. Despite the cool touch of her skin, a warming comfort swirls through my limbs, and after a couple of minutes, my nervous system responds and the trembling ceases.
“Thank you,” I say, and she slides her hand into mine, squeezing.
Morrigan’s friends are huddled around her. She’s super pale and keeps glancing at me. Octavia and Scarlett chat in quiet tones a little way off. They occasionally point at the body and then cover their mouths as they discuss what I assume is strategy.
Dahlia doesn’t leave my side. She’s tense, her entire body rigid and on high alert. Taut lines of muscle strain her neck as she scans and rescans the room.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“Nothing about this is okay, Penelope. I have a job to do. What if that had been you?”
“Is that all I am? A job?” I hiss.
Her jaw flexes. “That’s not… I didn’t mean it like that. But clearly this threat is real.”
The nightclub door slams open, making us all jump. Dahlia leaps in front of me, her arms out wide, only to see Mother’s head of security, Daria, storm in and halt when she sees the body.
Her eyes drag across the room until she finds me, still living, still breathing.
Her lips purse. “What the fuck happened?”
“We don’t know,” Mother says, sidling up to Morrigan. “Morrigan, you should head home. You need to get out of the city and back into the safety of the palace. I’ll send Pen after you.”
Morrigan nods and then approaches me as she weaves her way through the club. When she reaches me, she just stares, blinking and examining my face.
She takes my hand. “It wasn’t your fault. Whoever did this is sick.”
I nod. We are so rarely kind to each other that on top of everything that’s happened and how tightly wound my body is, my eyes well up.
“Okay,” I manage, but my voice is small.
“I know we fight, but I don’t know what I’d do if that was you. I’m so grateful you’re okay. Can I… Umm. I’d like to hug you.”
Tears finally spill over, but I am already untangling myself and shuffling along the booth seat to wrap myself in her arms.
“Fuck, Pen,” she breathes into my neck. “Thank god it wasn’t you.”
I whimper into her embrace as she rubs my back, letting me cry.
“Daria and her team won’t let this go. You know that she’ll investigate thoroughly. We’ll be okay.”
“I’m not letting this go either,” Dahlia says. “Nor is she being allowed out of my sight.”
“And for that I’m grateful,” Morrigan says, giving Dahlia a polite smile. Her eyes flit between us, a small furrow between her brows. But she doesn’t say anything before heading out. Her group of friends follow after her, as does Mother. Only Daria, Octavia, Dahlia and me remain.
“Come on, I want to examine the body.” Dahlia tugs me out of the booth and towards the corpse. She leaves me a couple of feet away when my fingers tighten so hard around her grip that I think I might pop a knuckle out.
She kneels by the body, tilts the head this way and that, and then picks up the arms, examining the hands and wrists. Brushing her thumb over a set of two small bruises, she glances at Octavia. Something passes between them, and Octavia’s face hardens.
“Any thoughts?” Daria says.
Octavia glances at Dahlia but neither of them offers anything. “I should be leaving,” Octavia says and strides off to find the rest of their group.
“Really? Nothing?” Daria says, her tone as sharp as her expression.
Dahlia purses her lips and stands. “She wasn’t killed here. She was brought here after the fact. Are there any security guards you can question? See if they saw anyone milling around or looking suspicious this evening?”
Daria folds her arms. “They’re being questioned as we speak. Is there anyone who might want to hurt you?”
I shrug. “Sure, loads of people, but pissed enough to actually murder me? I’m not sure. I think I’m more of an irritant than anything.”
Dahlia, the wench, nods in agreement. I want to tell her to fuck off but her eyes curl in delight, as if she knows she’s jabbed at me. She peers at the woman’s face, runs her finger along her lips and freezes. “There’s something inside her mouth.”
She wrenches open the jaw, a sickening crunch as the bones grind and pop under the pressure. She pulls a note out. It has a single word written in blood on it.
TOMORROW.
Daria unfolds her arms and takes the paper.
Her nostrils flare. She holds it up in one hand and bends and contorts her fingers in the other.
The note hovers in the air, and she makes some sweeping movements with her fingers moving in rapid patterns.
The blood letters lift off the page, dissolving into a million tiny particles.
They spin like a tornado and siphon down to the woman’s mouth, vanishing inside.
“It’s her blood,” Daria says, her words heavy. “I was hoping it was someone else’s, and that maybe we’d have another clue. If that’s everything, I’m going to do a forensic deconstruction on her body and sweep the club for evidence. Unless you have a strong stomach, it would be best if you left.”
Daria holds her hands out and begins bending and twisting her fingers. A shimmer erupts from her fingertips and blooms around the room.
“Come on, let’s let her focus,” Dahlia says and pulls me away. As we pass Octavia, the pair of them share that same look that sets my teeth on edge.