Chapter Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
Eleonore let out a final triumphant shriek from her position on the ceiling and dropped back down to the stage as the spotlight went dark. The main lights came up a moment later, and she beamed at the clapping audience in their rows of folding chairs. “Thank you,” she said, bowing. Her hair swung with the movement, crimson with fake blood and matted in long tangles that would take forever to comb out, and her skin was sticky and itchy, but it was all worth it. She’d never felt a rush like performing before.
It was the third outing of her one-woman show and the Saturday night crowd was even more raucous than Friday’s had been. Cornelius Crabapple was in the front row again, beaming as he applauded.
Ben brought two chairs onto the stage. He gave her a smile that launched a giddy fluttering in her chest. “You did great,” he mouthed.
“Thank you,” Eleonore said, wondering if her cheeks were as pink as they felt. She unhooked the microphone from its stand and sat in one chair. Cornelius trotted up to take the other, hooves clicking on the floorboards. Ben handed the faun a second portable microphone, then vacated the stage with another flutter-inducing smile for Eleonore.
“What an amazing performance!” Cornelius said into the microphone, eliciting further applause. “I got chills when you screamed at the end.”
The faun was taking his role as the discoverer of what he’d deemed “an important new talent” seriously and had decided to host a moderated question and answer session about her art.
“Good,” Eleonore said. “It’s meant to be visceral.” She crossed her legs at the knee, foot jogging with excitement. The sequins covering her jumpsuit glittered, flashes of light peeping from beneath the blood spatters. This costume wouldn’t survive many more shows—already some of the stains had been impossible to get out—but she had decided her show was going to be an evolution. Whatever she replaced it with would be colorful in a different way.
“Your show is abstract, but the theme of pointless societal violence and the importance of individual free will to combat it comes through clearly in the metaphor of an immortal assassin doomed to kill again and again for a faceless master.” Cornelius leaned in, eyes sparkling as he gave her a charming smile. “Can you share the inspiration for this piece?”
“Well,” Eleonore said slowly, “I have been chained to a crystal for six centuries, forced to do the bidding of whoever wields it.” She shrugged. “There was a lot of murder.”
Cornelius blinked, smile fading. “What?”
“And I drew inspiration from Kesha, the movies Carrie and Cats , and performers like Ana Mendieta, Joan Jonas, and Isadora Duncan,” she continued. “All raw performances in their own ways. I think there’s a lot to be explored at the intersection of sequins and blood.” She was obsessed with Kesha’s eclectic fashion and message of surviving and thriving despite trauma, and Eleonore certainly wasn’t the first artist to gyrate oddly or douse themselves in blood, real or fake, to make a point.
Cornelius chuckled, face relaxing. “I see. You don’t want the audience to draw a distinction between the artist and the art. As far as we and your message are concerned, you might as well be the character of the assassin.”
She squinted at him, confused. “Is that a question?”
A chuckle went through the audience. She wasn’t sure why, but she smiled at them anyway.
“Fair point,” Cornelius said. “Here’s a question: Why ‘Barbie Girl’ by Aqua?”
Ah, the song choice. She’d thought it a perfect metaphor. “Dolls have no free will—they are mere objects to be played with,” she explained. “?‘I’m a Barbie girl in a Barbie world’ sounds fun and upbeat, but there’s a dark truth beneath the synthesizers. A Barbie girl has no say in her fate. In fact, the singer addresses her unknown master directly in the lyrics: ‘life is your creation.’?” She paused to let that sink in. “ Your creation, she says, not my creation.”
It had infuriated her the first time she’d heard the song courtesy of Amy, the high school thespian running the sound booth, who had shared her music library to help Eleonore choose a song to accompany her dance.
Cornelius’s jaw dropped as his gray eyebrows rose. “Brilliant,” he exclaimed. “I hadn’t even considered the lyrics. I thought you were just trying to startle the audience with the contrast between blood and sequins, as you said earlier.”
She nodded. “?‘Make me walk, make me talk, do whatever you please . ’ Isn’t that a sinister lyric?”
One of the visiting journalists was scribbling notes on a scroll while another was softly dictating into a recording device. Eleonore looked offstage toward Ben, feeling nervous. What if they wrote horrible things about her?
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but at her look he straightened and gave her two thumbs up. He looked cozy in jeans and a frankly incredible green shirt apparently called a Henley that highlighted his shoulders and chest. He’d pushed up the sleeves to reveal his forearms, and she sighed at the sight of them. What a treat he was.
Feeling better, Eleonore looked back at Cornelius. “Next question?”
The rest of the question and answer session flew by with Cornelius asking about her dance training (none, though she’d incorporated sword fighting movements and studied GhoulTube videos of high school show choirs), her theatrical training (it was mainly instinct), and plans for future shows (no plans at present, though she would be delighted to have a full-time theatrical career). Even saying the word career into the microphone gave her a buzz of excitement. A career implied stability, the time to stay in one place and dedicate herself to something for her personal, financial, and artistic enrichment.
The Witch in the Woods owed her a lot. Time and sanity and a life, yes, but also compensation. Now that Eleonore was earning money from her performances, she felt a burst of outrage that none of her kills or human-acquisition quests had been rewarded with money. The internet had informed her that Americans shared a countrywide hobby of “suing” people. Maybe she could sue the Witch in the Woods for back wages.
Then she’d disembowel her.
When the session ended, Eleonore bowed again, thanked Cornelius for his time, and hurried backstage to wipe her face. The fake blood had started to itch under the spotlight.
She was standing in the small dressing room closet, scrubbing her cheeks with a wet wipe, when her ears caught a familiar voice amid the conversation beyond the door.
“How embarrassing,” Cynthia Cunnington said. “I would be surprised at your choice of entertainment, but I already know your family lacks class.”
Eleonore stiffened. What was that despicable witch doing there?
Ben’s voice followed, low but firm. “Don’t talk about my family or Eleonore like that.”
“Don’t tell the truth?” Cynthia laughed, light but ugly. “Do you really think these people enjoyed that performance? They’re here to laugh.”
Hurt arrowed through Eleonore’s chest. She crumpled the wipe in her fist, glaring at the door.
“I said,” Ben repeated, “don’t talk about Eleonore like that. People like her performances. Her shows are sold out for the next month.”
“People are laughing at your sister, too,” Cynthia said, undeterred. “So young and inexperienced, yet so sure she stands a chance of being elected.” She scoffed. “How humiliating it will be when she fails.”
“Is there a reason you’re here?” Ben asked with more patience than Eleonore would have mustered in his place. Yes, he sounded angry, but Eleonore would probably have the mayor pinned to the wall by her throat by now.
“Since your sister won’t take my calls,” Cynthia said, “you can tell her I’m prepared to offer her one last chance to withdraw from this race. After what I’ve seen tonight, I’m certain the lot of you are only going to embarrass yourselves worse in the next two months.”
“That’s it,” Ben said flatly. “Get out. You are no longer welcome in the Emporium.”
“And what will you do?” Cynthia asked, sounding amused. “Your hands are shaking. Do I make you nervous?”
That’s it , Eleonore whispered to herself, echoing Ben’s words. Cynthia Cunnington could insult Eleonore all she liked, but she would not stand for the woman making Ben upset. She marched toward the closet door—all of two steps—and flung it open. “If you don’t vacate this establishment right now,” Eleonore announced loudly, “I will rip out your spine and beat you with it.”
Ben and Cynthia were facing off five feet away. Ben looked distressed, while Cynthia seemed smug. Considering her lack of surprise at Eleonore’s sudden appearance, she’d known Eleonore could hear each insult.
Most of the audience had filed out, but a few curious onlookers remained. “You, too,” Eleonore said, pointing at a young man who was aiming his phone in her direction. She’d learned her lesson about antagonistic encounters being filmed and placed on the internet. “Out.” She emphasized the order with a snap of her fangs.
The remaining onlookers fled. After the shop bell tinkled a final time, Eleonore strode forward and inserted herself between Cynthia and Ben.
“Hey,” Ben said, resting a hand on her shoulder—no doubt preparing to take her place confronting Cynthia, but Eleonore was having none of it. His hands were shaking, and he was too kind for a confrontation like this one.
Eleonore wasn’t.
She grabbed his hand from her shoulder, but instead of tossing it off the way she would have if anyone else had tried to stop her from engaging in a fight, she found herself lacing her fingers through his.
Cynthia’s blue eyes darted down to their interlaced hands, then back up. “And so the reason for your ridiculous show being allowed onstage becomes clear.” She wore a pale pink pantsuit today, and her blond hair was put up in the same chignon she’d worn at their first meeting. “I suppose it’s in character, considering the Rosewood lack of taste.”
God’s right tit, this woman was annoying. Eleonore was tempted to punch Cynthia hard enough to take away her sense of taste, but she took a deep breath. Be more like Ben , she told herself. Think this through. Ben had somehow managed to maintain his composure in the face of this provocation.
She remembered what she’d told Gigi after that first meeting. A woman like Cynthia had one deep vulnerability.
“Now look here—” Ben started, but Eleonore looked at him and shook her head.
I’ll handle it , she mouthed. Then she tipped back her head and forced herself to laugh.
Predictably, Cynthia stiffened, the amusement dropping from her face. “What’s so funny?”
“You are,” Eleonore said. “So afraid you’ll lose the election that you feel the need to come in here with your insults and threats.”
“I’m not afraid I’ll lose,” Cynthia gritted out. “I’m just giving Gigi—and the two of you—an opportunity to save yourselves future humiliation. Political campaigns are high-profile. It’s not going to reflect well on the Rosewood name.”
Eleonore shrugged one shoulder, clutching Ben’s hand tighter. “All I see is an insecure woman with no compassion and even less sense. Do you think you reflect well on the Cunnington family name? Your sabotage of the rally aside, this is a pathetic display.”
Cynthia’s nostrils flared. “That is slander ,” she spat. She grabbed the beads of her pearl necklace and started rolling them in her fingers, muttering something.
Eleonore yanked Ben out of the way just in time to avoid a concussive blast of air that made the open closet door slam shut so hard it rattled. If Ben had been standing there, he would have been thrown into it.
Fury blazed through her, hot and unforgiving, and she gave up trying to think things through. Eleonore didn’t have magic, but she did have warp speed and good upper body strength. In an instant, she was holding Cynthia off the ground by her throat.
The woman kicked and struggled, clawing at Eleonore’s hand, but Eleonore didn’t budge. She carried Cynthia to the front door of the Emporium, opened it, and threw her out on her ass—straight into a puddle.
“I’m going to be laughing at this all night,” Eleonore called out as Cynthia sputtered and thrashed. “Maybe Ben should hire you as entertainment next. A comedy show!”
Then she yanked the door shut, bell jangling in an agitated cacophony, and flipped the lock.
When she turned, Ben was gaping at her. Was it a good gape or a bad gape?
She heard Cynthia shrieking through the glass, and a look over her shoulder showed the muddied mayor screaming into her cell phone as she stomped toward a car. Eleonore bared her fangs. “Good riddance,” she muttered.
“Eleonore,” Ben said, drawing her attention. “That was—” His throat bobbed, and then he began striding toward her, an intense expression on his face.
“Are you angry?” she asked, unable to interpret the feeling in his eyes. “She had it coming—”
She broke off when Ben yanked her into his arms. “That,” he growled, “was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.”
Then he lowered his head and kissed her.
Eleonore gripped Ben’s upper arms for support as he kissed her with mind-scrambling thoroughness. His lips were soft, though they moved over hers with purpose. His beard was softer than she’d expected, too—there was no rasp against her skin, only a pleasant friction that added to the sensation.
She’d wondered if he’d be a tentative kisser, but he wasn’t. He seemed downright hungry .
Eleonore pressed into him, reveling in the sturdy strength of his body. Her nipples stiffened, and she rolled in a sinuous wave, seeking more contact.
In response, Ben groaned into her mouth and pulled her tighter against him.
This was what she wanted, she thought hazily as lust built between them. A person who could be soft and strong. A person who didn’t care that she had hard edges or her own strength. A person who kissed her like both offering and demand.
She groped upward from his arms to sink her fingers into his hair. It was thick and slightly coarse, perfect for gripping. Their height difference meant he was leaning over her, spine stooped slightly, so she stood on tiptoes to meet him.
Stars, she loved this. The slick slide of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the soft puff of his breath. The feel of another living person so close and so caught up in the attraction burning between them. Eleonore widened her mouth, meeting his tongue with hers. She gently nibbled his lower lip, careful not to pierce him with her fangs. The thought of drinking blood from his mouth while their tongues tangled caused a fresh surge of wetness between her thighs, but she would never do that without asking first and she didn’t want to stop kissing him.
Ben broke away with a gasp, and Eleonore made a noise of complaint, following his mouth to nip at his lower lip.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” she growled, grabbing his shirt collar to keep him from escaping.
He let out a breathless laugh. “I’m not sorry for kissing you,” he said. “But I think we should probably go back to my place so we can shower and change into something less…sticky.”
Oh. Eleonore noticed the state he was in after kissing her. His shirt and pants were wet with the gooey fake blood she’d been covered in, since she hadn’t changed out of her costume before confronting Cynthia. “Good point,” she said. She would have liked licking real blood from his skin, but this corn syrup concoction was not an adequate replacement.
Still, loath to let go and figuring the shirt was already compromised beyond help, she tugged him against her once more, sliding her tongue into his mouth.
He groaned and returned the stroke with one of his own. Oh, she liked the way he kissed. Bold but not too forceful; sweet but still sexy.
His hands slid into her hair, and then he grunted and pulled them back out. Eleonore laughed when he grimaced at the red, sticky fluid now coating his fingers.
“Didn’t think that one through,” he said.
She grabbed his sticky hand. “Take me home? We can shower together.”
Ben’s eyes widened, and then he was tugging her toward the door, long legs eating up the space. “You don’t have to say that twice.”
Eleonore grinned as she followed, excitement sparkling through her like fireworks. Her werewolf had apparently concluded his thinking from the morning, and she couldn’t wait to taste every inch of him.