4. Chapter 4 #2
“Yes,” he said, keeping his eyes levelled on mine as he brought the lighter to his cigarette. “From the outside, too.”
A warm shiver travelled down my spine. “How fast can you run?”
“Faster than you.”
“And the stake to the heart thing—”
“Absolute bullshit, but I can find one if it makes my wife sleep better at night.”
“Well,” I said, awkwardly patting my palms to the side of my thighs, “since that’s all settled.”
“We won’t be sharing a room, Willow,” was all he said before he left.
The floorboards shifted under my feet, and I glanced down the depth of the dim corridor where they had slightly bowed under phantom weight.
A few seconds later, the bow of the steps moved farther away, a ghastly hand beckoning me into the abyss.
And then they shifted again, vanishing deeper into the dark vacuum of the corridor.
Chills spiked down my neck and a thrill sat at my fingertips as I ran them back and forth across my bottom lip.
Well, there was definitely something lingering in this house, breeding dread in the quiet shadows. And I wasn’t entirely sure it was a ghost.
My new bedroom was almost the size of the entire covenstead, and my eyes were struggling to find a spot to land on.
Between the grandiose canopy bed blending seamlessly into the grain of the dark wooden floors, the burgundy brocade wallpaper woven with golden threads, the empty library next to the gilded seating arrangement at the far corner of the dark windows, and the many mirrors and the many candelabra mounted on all walls, I was spoilt for choice.
But the exploring had to wait after contemplating on how soon I wanted to drop dead in my husband’s arms.
Grabbing the blanket and a pillow neatly laid on top of the plush mattress, I crawled under the bed and closed my eyes.
Someone knocked on my door, and I jumped upright, hitting my head hard against the bed slats. “Mother of Hell,” I groaned, rolling my way out from under the bed, cradling the bump on my head.
No one had ever knocked on my bedroom door before. “Yes?” I asked, still splayed out on the floor and groggy from the deep slumber I’d been dragged from and wondering why anyone would be knocking at my door in the middle of the night.
“My lady, lunch is being served downstairs,” Christof said from the other side of the door.
Lunch?
What lunch?
I did some jumbled mental calculations.
Vampires had their lunch at night? I knew they were nocturnal, but they’d screwed up the times of day to fit their schedule?
Rubbing my eyes hard, I blinked at the dark room, pushing to my wobbly feet to find a curtain. There were no curtains. Papers were stuck to the glass window panes instead, and I almost blinded myself near death when I pulled a piece back.
I crumbled into a ball on the floor when light assaulted my vision. “Blessed be the moon, I’m burning. Withering!”
“My lady?” Christof asked again.
“Coming!” I shouted, crawling to the door and pulling it open just a little.
The butler’s attention dropped down to the floor. “The lady’s maid will bring a few of late lady Duncan’s dresses for you to wear until you’re fitted for your own.”
I was still cradling by burning eyeballs.
“Awesome. I love stuff from dead people.” When he stared emptily at me, I felt obliged to explain myself, so he didn’t think I was weird or anything like that.
“I only meant things like shoes, dresses, flat bones—irregular are fine, too—and hyoids are nice if you have some of those. I was sort of building a humble collection back home.” I gave him a big grin.
“I’m good with just fingernails and toenails, though.
If hyoids are too hard to procure. I know they can be sometimes. ”
Sure, most people had good hyoids, but toenails? A good big toenail? Like searching for a hangnail in a fungal nail clippings stack. It was Ethel’s turn to take joy from my hours upon hours of searching through the markets for the perfect variety.
“I’ll see what I can do, my lady.” The butler just stared down at me, not blinking once. “Might I inquire as to why you’re on the floor?”
Stretching a leg back, I gave him a smile. He was much more agreeable than his lordship. Very kind and wrinkled grey eyes, a soft gray moustache that matched his sparse hair. “Light exercise. A witch must stretch or the curse of contracture will befall upon her.”
He nodded. “I’ll bring you an egg for your forehead.”
Ashamed, I ducked back inside and rushed to get into the hot bath, only stopping when I noticed a massive faucet hanging on the wall over a tiled surface. No. This couldn’t be real.
I held a hand to my chest. Frightened. Alone. “I’ve been sentenced to have showers until my death.”
There was no shower curtain. No curtains anywhere at all. And the towels? They were miniscule. About the size of a napkin.
“What in the name of Lady Death is happening here?”
My eyes widened and my mouth dropped wide open. “He’s penniless.”
My face crumpled up in a cringe with every step I took down the incredibly loud main wooden stairs.
They creaked even worse when I tried not to make a noise.
I’d never been so relieved to touch tiles as I’d been when I stepped into the entry hall towards another open area just across an archway, where Christof was pointing.
I noticed then that the windows were bare and the table was laid without a table cloth, too. All the cutlery and tableware laid against napkins, assaulting the impeccable dark-wooded grain.
My brand-new husband was in a black military uniform with a neat line of awards lining both sides of his chest. His pale blond hair was combed back and away from his face, and it made him even a more devastating sight.
When the tip of my ear itched and burned, I wondered if Moira was badmouthing me for stealing some of her luck.
His eyes lifted over the rim of the newspaper he was reading.
He gave me a long look, starting at the tip of my green flats and ending at the hair sticking out of the lousy updo I had put together at the last minute in a fruitless attempt to look less of a mess.
The dress I’d been given had been clearly made for a shorter woman with ample curves because my ribcage kept rattling against the corset like a penny in an empty can every time I moved.
And the hem? My bony ankles were going to poke someone in the eye.
The red-haired, freckled young man next to him dropped the knife he was sharpening to stare at me. “Why’s your witch bleeding?”
Shit.
I tipped my head up, patting a hand all over the dinner table to locate a napkin.
But the second I extended my arm, the sleeve ripped under my armpit and the high-stand collar dug into my throat, suffocating me.
In a futile attempt to breathe, I inhaled the blood down my windpipe.
Now the witch was choking and bleeding at the same time.
The witch was going blind, too, because the sun vanished for a second. A hand slid behind my head, tipping it forward and letting me bleed into the napkin he held. And a shiver travelled down my spine when he brushed his thumb back and forth my scalp. What the Hell?
His gaze had narrowed on me. “You weren’t lying.”
I sniffled until I felt the taste of blood hit the back of my throat again. “Wait until you see what other tricks I have up my sleeve.”
His hand slid from the back of my head, his fingers pulling through my hair, setting loose a few strands as he stepped back.
“I thought you were a mouse,” the young man sitting beside Logan said, leaning back in his chair and giving me a toothy grin with a full view of his fangs.
I’d not seen him amongst his patronage. He looked no older than twenty, though his hands were callused enough to know he’d been wielding weapons for a while now despite his young years.
Speaking of rodents.
I glanced under the table. “Thomas?” I whispered.
Where had he disappeared to? I was sure I’d seen him hop onto the carriage before we’d left the coven.
Well, he’d find me eventually. All familiars could track their bonded. I was only hoping no one killed him because considering how clean this house was, he’d have trouble finding a new ratty host—his preferred manner of transportation in this earthly realm.
“Sit and eat,” Logan said, lowering the newspaper to pull out the chair closest to him. “Liam was about to leave.”
“No, I wasn’t.” His friend—I presumed—slowly nodded, still regarding me. “You’re not so bad for a witch.”
After giving him a quick glance back, I fixed my hair and settled on Logan’s right.
“And you’re very average for a blood-sucker.
Glad they didn’t make me marry you instead,” I replied, reaching for a pot of some reddish goo and studying it while Liam gawked at me as if I’d grown another head.
“What is this?” They made blood marmalade?
Logan gave me a strange look. “Cherry jam.”
Oh. I pointed to a jug of red liquid. “And that?”
“Grapefruit juice.”
“Where is the—”
“Blood?” he asked, something smooth coating his cold, emotionless words. His golden eyes that looked even lighter under morning light dropped to my neck.
“We don’t usually plate it,” Liam said, pulling my attention away. “It ruins the taste. We drink straight from the source. Wrists, ankles, necks. Some are into toes, too.”
“Liam,” my husband quietly warned.
I gulped, and Logan’s gaze dropped to my throat again. “Do you have a human farm somewhere or something alike?” I asked, shakily filling myself a cup of tea. Was I on the menu? A tall glass of the Willow special? There was enough square meter area of me to drink comfortably at a table’s length.
Logan nearly sputtered his tea and gave me another strange look. “A human farm?”