Chapter Fourteen Saylor
Chapter Fourteen
Saylor
Duffy Dunsin has the smile of someone who can see your future and finds it amusing.
I’m three sips into Duffy’s lavender gin fizz—which tastes like drinking liquid starlight with a hint of garden party—when
she starts casual conversation that feels anything but casual.
“So what’s your story?” she asks, wiping down glasses that already look spotless. “Jazz singer from the big city, right? Must
be quite the change, going from New York nightlife to . . . well, whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is seems pretty charming so far.” I gesture around the bar. “Although I’m starting to think ‘charming’ might
be Grimlock’s specialty.”
“Oh, we’re full of charm here. Sometimes too much for our own good.” Duffy’s smile is easy, but there’s something watchful
in her eyes.
“Well, let’s see.” I take another sip of my gin fizz, buying time to come up with the perfect response. “You’re probably going
to think I’m completely insane.”
“I run an apothecary bar in Grimlock,” Duffy says with a dry laugh. “There’s nothing you could tell me that I haven’t heard
before. Trust me.”
Her matter-of-fact tone gives me the courage to continue. “Jazz singer gets her father murdered in front of her, gets kidnapped
by the Crow, then gets drugged and kidnapped again by her father’s mysterious best friend, then gets stuffed into a steamer trunk for transport, then wakes up in a Gothic mansion where the housekeeper acts like kidnapping is just a typical day.
I tried to escape but discovered I’m trapped on an estate surrounded by a twelve-foot wall in a town I’ve never heard of—and I may have been terrible at geography, but I’m pretty sure I would have remembered a place called Grimlock.
Now I’m drinking gin before noon on a Wednesday because apparently this is what my life has become.
So basically, I’ve had a week that makes you reevaluate your life choices. ”
I vomit out the truth, not expecting her to believe me. To laugh and say “yeah right” or something of that nature. No way
would anyone think all of what I just said really happened, and if they did, they’d be calling the police right away.
Duffy nearly drops the glass she’s polishing. “Jesus. I’m sorry about your father.”
Her straightforward response, without questioning the kidnapping part, tells me everything I need to know about what passes
for normal conversation in Grimlock.
“Thanks. I have to say, the accommodations here are a significant upgrade from my New York shoebox apartment. Nothing says
‘your life has taken an unexpected turn’ like waking up in a four-poster bed after being transported in antique luggage.”
“You’re handling this remarkably well for someone who just described getting kidnapped. Twice.”
“What’s the alternative? Hysterics? I considered it, but crying into Egyptian cotton sheets felt a little too dramatic, even
for me.” I shrug. “Besides, between you and me, I was one missed rent payment away from eviction anyway. At least now someone
else is worrying about the bills.”
Duffy arranges bottles behind the bar with the careful attention of someone buying time to think. “How are you finding Maison
Rouge? Must be quite the step up from city living.”
“It’s . . . grand. Very grand. Like living inside a Gothic novel where the protagonist hasn’t figured out she’s in danger
yet.”
“Blue does like his nice things. Always has, as long as I’ve known him.” Duffy stays focused on her bottles, but there’s something
almost reverent in her tone. “He’s got excellent taste in houseguests too. I have to say, you’re a bit different from his
usual . . . visitors.”
Her tone makes me set down my glass. “Different how?”
“Well, for starters, you’re here. In town. Talking to people.” Duffy stays light, conversational. “Most of Blue’s lady friends
tend to be more . . . reclusive. Prefer the estate to mingling with us common folk.”
“Lady friends?” A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Duffy, I think you might have the wrong idea about—”
“Do I?” She leans against the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something with vanilla and spice. “Because in
all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve seen Blue with quite a few beautiful women. And they all had that same look you’ve got
right now. Like you’re not sure if you’re living in a fairy tale or a nightmare.” She leans closer, and instead of warning,
there’s something like excitement in her voice. “The rumors say Blue’s had seven wives, Saylor. Seven.”
The words hit me like ice water. “Seven wives?”
Duffy glances around the empty bar, checking to make sure we’re truly alone before her easy smile turns knowing. “People love
their dramatic stories about Blue systematically murdering his way through beautiful women.”
“And you don’t think he does?”
“Oh, I think Blue’s perfectly capable of murder—we all are around here.” Duffy shrugs, completely unbothered by the concept.
“But wife-killing? That’s not his style. Blue’s the type who kills to protect what’s his, not destroy it. The man’s got his
flaws, but harming someone he loves isn’t one of them.”
My stomach churns, not because I’m shocked that Blue might be capable of murder—I already know what he is—but because hearing
Duffy dismiss the wife-killing rumors so easily attacks my inner core harder than I expected.
I think about the forbidden third floor of Maison Rouge, the one Blue specifically asked me to avoid. Private, he’d said when I asked about it. Mine. What secrets is he keeping up there?
“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”
“Because I like you.” Duffy shrugs, going back to organizing her bottles. “Blue’s brought women here before, but they never
last long in town. Too nervous, too scared of the locals. You? You walked into an apothecary bar and asked for poison advice
like you were ordering coffee.”
“I didn’t ask for poison advice.”
“Not yet.” Duffy grins. “But you will. This place has a way of bringing out what people really are underneath all the pretending.”
I study her face, trying to read between the lines. “And what if I did want some? Hypothetically.”
Duffy’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “Well, that would depend on your style. Some people prefer the dramatic flair
of immediate results. Others like to sit back and watch the slow burn.”
The casual way she discusses murder methods should horrify me. Instead, I find myself leaning forward. “What would you recommend
for—”
Before I can finish the question, Duffy freezes, her gaze fixed on something behind me. She carefully sets down the bottle
she’s holding, and a knowing smile spreads across her face.
“Well,” she says quietly, “speak of the devil.”
I turn to find Blue filling the doorway like an avenging angel who’s had a rough morning. His charcoal sweater is immaculate
except for a few dark spots across the left shoulder that could be wine stains if you’re feeling optimistic. His hair looks
like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s something predatory in the way he scans the room before his eyes
lock onto mine.
He moves directly to Hans, who’s been lurking near the entrance trying to blend in with the decor. Blue whispers something
in Hans’s ear—something urgent, judging by the way Hans’s eyes widen. The big German nods once and disappears through the
front door like smoke.
The atmosphere in Toil & Trouble shifts immediately, the air itself seeming to thicken with tension. The moment he sees me
sitting at the bar with Duffy, something dangerous settles into his features. Not anger exactly, but something deeper. More
primal.
“Saylor.” My name carries across the sudden quiet, and there’s something in the way he says my name that makes my pulse skip.
“Having a good morning?”
“Fantastic,” I say, lifting my glass in a mock toast. “Duffy here was just telling me about your colorful romantic history.”
Blue approaches the bar with the fluid grace of someone who’s never had to wonder if a room contains enemies that will kill him .
. . which I know is not true. Up close, those dark spots on his sweater are definitely not wine.
When he reaches us, he doesn’t sit. Instead, he stands behind my barstool, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Duffy.” Blue nods to the bartender, who’s already reaching for the whiskey without being asked.
“Blue.” Duffy’s easy charm has shifted to something more respectful, but not fearful—more like the careful attention someone
pays to a celebrity. “Whiskey neat?”
“Please.”
Blue’s hand rests on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing against my shoulder blade. It’s a casual gesture that feels
anything but casual.
I reposition my body to study the crimson spots on Blue’s shoulder. “Rough morning shaving?”
Blue follows my gaze and touches the stains with the casual air of someone discovering ketchup on their shirt. “Small accident
with the razor. You know how it is.”
“Not really. I don’t typically bleed that much when grooming.” I take another sip of my gin fizz. “Must have been quite the
close shave.”
“I’m very thorough in my personal hygiene.”
Duffy slides the whiskey across the bar, and I notice her hands are steady, but there’s an energy about her that suggests
she’s watching everything with keen interest. “So, Blue, what brings you to town? Besides collecting Saylor, I mean.”
“Just making sure she’s settling in well.” His attention ping-pongs between Duffy and me, and I can practically feel him cataloging
every detail of our interaction. “Grimlock can be overwhelming for newcomers.”
“Duffy’s been an excellent source of info,” I say sweetly. “Very informative about local customs and folklore.”
Blue’s hand comes to rest on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing against my shoulder blade. “Has she?”
He reaches for my gin fizz and brings it to his nose first, inhaling deliberately. Duffy watches with growing amusement as
he takes a careful sip, his eyes locked on hers the entire time.
“Really, Blue?” Duffy’s smile is equal parts fond and exasperated. “Gin is gin.”
He sets the glass down, but keeps his fingers wrapped around it. “Can’t be too careful.”
“If that was the plan, it would have happened by now.” Duffy shakes her head, clearly entertained by his paranoia. “Besides,
you know I wouldn’t let you drink it if it was actually poisoned.”
“I know.” Blue’s posture relaxes slightly. “But I had to be sure.”
Duffy gives me a warm look. “I like this one too much to waste good gin on.” She glances between us, then starts gathering
empty bottles from behind the bar. “I should go check on my distillation setup in the back. Take your time, you two.”
She disappears through a door marked Employees, leaving us alone with the soft ringing of wind chimes from outside.
Blue throws back his whiskey in one smooth motion, finally releasing my glass. The silent conversation between them seems
to be over, whatever test he needed satisfied.
“Testing my drink for poison? Really?” I shake my head, though I’m oddly touched by the protective gesture. “What’s next,
a food taster?”
“Don’t give me ideas.” His smile is mischievous beneath that curved mustache of his. “But Duffy’s right. If she wanted you
dead, you’d already be dead.”
“Comforting,” I say dryly.
“I thought so.”
Blue reaches for the whiskey bottle behind the bar, helping himself to another pour. His movement forces him to lean across
me, and I catch his scent. Jesus the man smells good. “What exactly was Duffy telling you about our local folklore?”
The way he emphasizes folklore tells me he knows exactly what Duffy was discussing.
“Oh, you know. The usual small-town gossip.” I watch his face carefully. “Apparently you’re quite the romantic.”
Blue’s hands slide from my shoulders to the arms of my chair, effectively caging me in. “Whatever Duffy told you—”
“Seven wives, Blue.” I meet his gaze directly, then laugh. “Seven! That’s quite the resume.”
For a moment, something raw passes across his features. Then the mask slides back into place, and he almost smiles.
“Small towns love their stories,” Blue says.
I shake my head in amusement.
“You find it funny.”
“I find it ridiculous.” I grin up at him.
Blue stares at me for a long moment, and I can see something settle in his face—relief, maybe. Finally, he straightens, pulling
out enough cash to cover both our drinks plus a tip that will make Duffy weep with gratitude.
“Come on,” he says, giving me space to stand. “If you want to explore Grimlock, I’ll show you the parts worth seeing.”
I want to argue, to insist I can handle my own exploration without a murderous escort. But the way Duffy talked about Blue,
with that mixture of fondness and respect, tells me there’s more to him than I understand. And honestly? After watching my
father die in front of me and knowing the Crow are still out there, having that kind of protection might not be the worst
thing in the world.
“Fine,” I say, sliding off my barstool. “But I want to see everything. The real Grimlock, not some sanitized tourist version.”
“Trust me,” Blue says, offering his arm in that old-fashioned gesture that melts all the feminist-fuck-all-men energy I’ve
nursed my whole adult life. “Grimlock doesn’t have a sanitized version.”