Chapter 15 #3
Cecil finished fussing with my draped straps, jumped on top of the ottoman and ran a critical eye over me. “I think that’s perfect. I was right all along—the red one was the best.”
I knew it the second I’d seen it; that’s why I told him to get it. He had been planning on making me try on a dozen other dresses. I decided to let that one go. “Oh, it is.”
“I just need to do your hair and makeup.”
I groaned. Getting dolled up was fun, but I always resented the time it took.
Full glam makeup took hours. Life was too short to sit with my eyes half-shut so my mascara wouldn’t smudge before it dried.
And the fun of getting glammed up sort of dwindled as you got older—cakey makeup sank into little wrinkles, making them seem even deeper, and lipstick feathered out from lips that were just a little less plump than they’d been ten years ago. “Just a little, please, Cecil.”
He whipped open the case behind him—trays and tray of pallets, with every shade of lipstick and eyeshadow and blush you could think of in shimmers, mattes, sparkles, and nudes.
Creams and powders and liquids in perfectly clean little bottles.
A hundred soft brushes of every size and shape.
The sixteen-year-old girl within me let out a squeal of glee.
“Stay still,” he ordered, brandishing two brushes stuck between each hoof. “Actually. You better close your eyes for this. You’re new to this, and I don’t want you freaking out.”
I lowered my lids dutifully. A blast of air hit my face, a flurry of movement whirling in front of me.
“Done!” Cecil declared.
I opened one eye. “What?”
“I’m finished.”
“Finished what? Finished applying my left eyeliner?”
“No, you silly cow,” he said, holding out a beautiful antique silver hand mirror.
I took it. “Are you allowed to call me a silly cow?”
“I can call you whatever I like. My sentence is in service, not in politeness. Now, gaze in wonder at the fruits of my labor.”
I looked. “Holy shit,” I whispered. In less than three seconds, Cecil had managed to apply the most exquisite natural-looking makeup.
Smooth tan skin, slightly rosy cheeks, a hint of shimmer on my cheekbones.
My lips were blood-red, perfectly moisturized and lined so they looked as full as they had twenty years ago.
My eyelids were shadowed with dark gold, making my blue-green iris glow in an almost preternatural way.
A thin, expertly applied simple black liner with a tiny wing gave my eyes a sultry look.
My lashes were full and lush and one-hundred percent real.
There was nothing fake, nothing contoured, nothing outrageously sculpted.
Just skillfully chosen and applied colors to enhance my features perfectly.
I’d never looked better. “Wow.”
“The canvas is a little dated, but still good for painting on.” Cecil sighed dramatically. “It isn’t my best work, but it will do.”
“I’d love to see your best— Wait.” Something weird caught my eye. “What… What the hell is this?”
“What is what?” Cecil said, his tone innocent. He reached out with both hooves to take the mirror out of my hands.
I yanked it back. “Cecil.”
We tussled over the mirror for a minute. “Give that here, you uppity bitch.”
“No! Did you dye my hair, Cecil?”
“No.” He pouted.
“You did!”
“It’s not dyeing. It’s called coloring,” he said patronizingly. “And it’s just a few foils,” he sniffed. “Calm down.”
“I will not calm down!” I’d never colored my hair before.
I wasn't necessarily against the idea; I’d always liked my natural color well enough.
But Vincent had loved it—a deep and lush dark chocolate with vivid plum shades in the sunshine.
Vincent begged me not to change it, and since I liked it, I never did.
And when I started to find a few gray hairs sprinkled through my part line, I put a lot of emotional effort into being okay with it.
Vincent had loved my hair. He would spend Sunday mornings winding his fingers through it, stroking me like a cat. Grief stabbed me in the heart all over again.
I was too far gone to try and “process” this grief, so I squashed it down for once instead. This wasn’t Cecil’s fault. I was still pissed, though.
“How the hell did you dye my hair?” I glanced at my reflection in the mirror again.
Not only was my deep chocolate hair now artfully and subtly streaked with caramel and cream highlights, camouflaging my gray hair completely, he’d somehow arranged it into perfect waves draped over one shoulder, with a deep side-part over my left eye.
“I put in a couple of highlights while you were freaking out about your brand-new siren powers.” He yanked the antique hand mirror out of my hand and tossed it carelessly behind him. The ottoman slid sideways by itself and caught it with a bounce.
“How did I not notice you putting foil in my hair?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re just not very observant.” Cecil heaved another dramatic sigh. “You might as well get a proper look at yourself now that you’re all finished. Violet, can we get a full-length mirror over here?”
A gap appeared between the floorboards, and a gold-framed mirror slid out, propping itself up in front of me. I stared.
The red dress had caught my eye from the start—pure silk, the color of freshly spilled blood, with a long skirt that hugged my thighs to the knee and blossomed out like a tulip, giving me a sexy silhouette.
The dress had a deep split to mid-thigh for ease of walking, and was cinched in at the waist, rising up into a structured corset top that shaped my breasts perfectly.
Gathered and draped straps hung off my shoulder, making the sexy gown seem a touch more regal—the kind of thing a former princess might wear to a diplomatic function the week after her divorce.
Considering this was the first event I’d been invited to since I’d been released from the hospital, it was stupidly appropriate.
I was no longer the poor man’s Jessica Rabbit.
I looked like Crown Princess Jessica Rabbit, Duchess of Sultryland.
The door opened, and Cress stalked in, her expression thunderous. Eryk and Nate stomped in behind her. They saw me and paused, eyes flaring wide for a brief moment.
The boys both bowed their heads deeply. Cress lifted her chin, studying me carefully. “Well. If I had known that Cecil could perform miracles, I would have stolen him for myself decades ago.”
Cecil sashayed back to the wet bar and picked up the cocktail shaker, muttering under his breath. I caught a handful of words, mostly swear words.
I laughed. “Do you think I look pretty, Cress?” There was nothing more satisfying than having a lovely young person tell you that you looked nice. Normally, young adults enjoyed nothing more than telling you that you look old, dried up, and crusty.
“You look stunning.” She stared at me. A strange heat bloomed in her eyes, and suddenly, I felt a little awkward.
“Thanks.”
The heat disappeared, and she arched an eyebrow. “But where will you put your weapons?”
“Umm.” I patted my beautiful gown. “I don’t know. Nowhere? I’m not really a weapons kind of girl, Cress.”
“You must.” She marched over, pulling an assortment of blades and daggers out of various sheathes in her skin-tight leather vest and pants.
“Leave her alone, Cress,” Cecil poured a measure of tequila into the shaker and tossed in a shovel of ice.
“No,” she said stubbornly. “It is my duty. I am isanayrin ayawa; I must make sure she is armed.”
“Mistress of the blade,” Nate supplied helpfully.
“The company weapons expert,” Eryk added.
“Right.” I nodded thoughtfully, as Cress knelt before me.
I hadn’t had a chance to figure out the dynamics of their company yet; they obviously had established roles and specialties.
Donovan, the prince, was obviously in charge, and Cress, his scary warrior princess girlfriend was the second, with Eryk, the fire elemental and Nate, the battle mage, deferring to both of them.
It didn’t surprise me in the slightest that Cress was the weapons expert. I let out a little shriek as she knelt before me abruptly and slid her hands up my thigh, caressing my skin gently. “What are you—”
“You will have to wear a sheath,” she muttered, lifting the hem of my gown and getting right in between my legs.
I felt a slap of leather. A cold tingle of a buckle brushed my skin as she fastened something onto me.
“There. You will have room for at least four blades on that sheath. You will have to carry your throwing knives in your purse.”
There was a crash, as Cecil slammed the shaker down on the bar. He spat out the words between clenched teeth. “She’s not putting throwing knives in her Joy Linman crystal-embellished clutch!”
The door slammed. “Cress.” Donovan’s voice was as cold as the grave. “She has no need for weapons. She will be with me.” His tone dropped even further. “Step back. Now.”
Ooh. Donovan didn’t like Cress touching other people, including women. That was interesting. No wonder he took her everywhere. Someone clearly had trust issues.
She stood up and turned to faced him. “There is banwyn excrement all over this city, Donovan,” she said, her voice just as icy.
“Connor is here with at least a hundred of his vicious lower-realm minions. She will need to be armed with at least a crystal blade to repel them, since she is not in control of her own magic.”
He let out a low noise—a gruff grunt of exasperation. “Fine. One blade. Tourmaline.” He checked his watch. “And hurry. We must go now; it is almost time. I am concerned that the scribe stone may be stolen when Ahdeannowyn opens up his Domicile to his guests.”
“The professor’s place isn’t a magic manor, Donovan. It’s just a regular house.”
Cress curled her lip. “It is a Domicile.” She plucked out a small black dagger from a hidden spot at her ribs, flipped it, and handed it to me. I took it.
“Thanks.” It felt cold in my hands. “Can you fill me in on what the hell a banwyn is, so I know what to stab?”
“A demon-like creature from a realm in the Lower World,” she explained.
“They are lower-vibrational, vicious beasts who feed on fear and desperation and thrive in chaos. Connor consumed their spark stone many years ago and imbibed their power. The banwyn now follow him as he offers them a chance to feast in other realms. Like this one,” she added darkly.
“What’s their power?”
“They can sense when someone is weakened, panicked, and easily overwhelmed.”
“That doesn’t seem like much of a magical power. You’d just look for the person with a sweaty brow, a fidget spinner and anti-anxiety medication in their handbag.”
“It is subtle but useful magic. A malevolent person would use it to their advantage to find people who are easy to manipulate, something that Connor already excelled at. The banwyn need the power to select their victims. They are small creatures, not physically powerful by themselves, so they need to choose their meals wisely. They swarm their victims, biting them with small, sharp teeth. They do not imbibe blood nor flesh, however. They feed on their victim’s fear and panic, and if the attack is prolonged, the victim will go insane. ”
I made a face. “Yeesh. So, what do these little demons look like?”
“They look like human children.”
I looked at her. “What?”
“They would appear to your eye as normal human children,” Cress said patiently. “From between four to seven mortal years old.”
“Are you kidding me? They look like kids?”
“They have very sharp teeth,” Eryk added helpfully. “They bite. And they swarm. They run in a weird way, like they’re not sure what to do with their arms.”
“You’re literally just describing human children, Eryk.”
Nate raised his hand. “Their iris will flash ultraviolet when you shine a light in their eyes.”
I huffed out a breath. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Thank you, Nate. And I was starting to worry.”
Cress looked confused. “Why would you worry?”
“I don’t want to go around stabbing little kids by accident, Cress.”
She frowned. “Why not? You cannot do too much damage with the tourmaline blade, Chosen. It is better to stab a few human children by accident than get overwhelmed by banwyn.” She whipped another small, shining black blade out of nowhere and handed it to me.
“Put that between your breasts, just in case.”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. “Okay.”
“We must go,” Donovan said gruffly, looking at his watch again. “Come.”
Over at the bar, Cecil poured himself another cocktail. “Doesn’t the Chosen look lovely, your Highness?” There was a bitchy note in his tone.
Donovan raised his head and met my eye. Apart from a few quick glances, it was the first time this evening he’d properly looked at me. I caught a hot spark deep in the depths of his gaze, then, his expression hardened.
No, not just hardened. His face iced over. He looked like a man who was staring at something he hated.
He hated me. I was messing up his company’s mission, and he hated it. He was forced to deal with a dried-up old bag of a woman with no knowledge, no experience, no skills, and no idea what the hell she was doing.
I couldn’t blame him. I was doing a fantastic version of failing up—somehow managing to secure spark stones against his brother without any understanding of anything.
A long moment passed.
“Her appearance is satisfactory,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”