Chapter 5
Ophelia hugged herself as she walked through the freezing rain, back toward the library.
After visiting the Witchery, her anxiety had waned, but hello, pity party, table for one.
She kept her head down, trying not to think about what Jena had said.
Damn the bitch, but her bullshit words had hit a nerve Ophelia didn’t think she had.
… “Imbolic is all about examining and discard the things holding you back. You know, like your shitty attitude?”…
Fuck her. Ophelia liked her shitty attitude. Besides, she was pretty sure that whatever phase of the moon or made up high holy hoopla Imbolic was, it boiled down to some witchy excuse to dance around a cauldron naked or whatever it was they did. Stupid witches.
Ophelia’s footsteps slowed in front of Fynbender’s Jewelry Store.
She fondled the charm around her neck as her eyes roamed over window display.
They had some decent stuff. Most of it was granny-chic, cameos and scroll-y antique silver, but there were a few nice modern pieces.
Her gaze drifted to a set of platinum wedding bands, not so different from the ones she’d picked out a lifetime ago.
She wiped a hand across her cheek and scowled, catching her reflection in the glass.
Ghandi, she was pathetic. She looked like a drowned rat, her makeup all but gone.
Streaks of mascara bled into the feathering swirls of her tatuaj.
They radiated around her eye sockets like a Venetian lace mask, curling down her cheeks and above her temples.
Or they had. Ophelia frowned, flicking her hair in front of her eyes. Stupid marks had gotten a lot darker since she’d been here, and the thinner, spidery lines had thickened, running together. Pretty soon she was going to have to shellac on pancake makeup to cover them.
She turned away, thankful there wasn’t anyone out here to see her.
The lousy weather had chased people off the streets, and all of Cups’s patrons were inside.
A thick coating of ice glistened over the little wrought iron tables and chairs in the glow from the streetlights.
Inside the café, people laughed. Gossiped.
Did all the shit she used to and had zero idea how fucking good they had it.
She sure as hell hadn’t.
A gust of wind sent a spray of frigid sleet over her, and she shivered, reveling in the way it pinged against her flesh, numbing it.
Wishing it could do the same to her insides.
Her relief at escaping the Citadel was slowly being chipped away by the hard truth that there was nothing waiting for her outside of it.
No family. No friends. And—after this case—no purpose.
… “If you’re stuck here, you might, I dunno, try and make some friends?”…
She stumbled and caught herself against a lamppost. Did she miss having someone to talk to? Yes, but like it was just that easy. First of all, who in their right mind made friends with a vampire, and second, she’d been dumb enough to try that back at the Citadel.
Okay, yeah, that didn’t say much about her, but whatever.
She’d figured she and the rest of the concubines were in it together, right?
Wrong. Each of them was just waiting for the others to show a hint of weakness they could exploit to buy themselves favor.
It hadn’t taken long for Ophelia to do the same, and she’d been way better at it than the rest of those bitches.
Too good. Which is why they’d banded together to get rid of her instead of Kremlyn when push came to shove. Fucking idiots. Ghandi, she didn’t want to think about that.
She stumbled again, her toes totally numb, and laughed. More of that fucking mystique. Vampires could feel cold. In fact, it hurt more now than it had when she’d been alive, but that was the way it should be. She deserved to be punished after all the shit she’d done.
Sin? Yeah, she was lousy with it all right, and redemption wasn’t a thing.
Neither was making friends.
Ophelia staggered across the street, not giving a shit if the headlights slowly rolling down Main stopped for her or not.
She ducked into one of those stupid bus stop booths to light another cigarette, checking out the long black sedan with dark tinted windows as it passed.
Plates were local, not that it meant whoever was driving it was.
She fondled the charm at her breast, wondering if Jena had been bullshitting her about the node protecting her. The car parked across the street from Cups, and whoever was driving it cut the engine. Fuck that shit. Ophelia wasn’t hanging around to find out.
Gideon pulled into a spot on the side of the road, unable to believe his luck.
What were the odds of Ophelia darting out directly in front of his car in this mess?
He cut the engine and checked his rearview, but she was already gone.
No matter, he had her general direction, and she would’ve left a trail through the slop coming down.
He got out of his car and hit the sidewalk to avoid the plow coming through. The temperature was steadily dropping, and the freezing rain turning to snow. The drive home would be treacherous, and dallying here any longer than he needed to, unwise.
Though, it was certainly more pleasant than Fayet.
He rolled his shoulders, looking around.
True, Main Street was touristy, but clean and well lit.
It was also very obviously thriving, if the cultivated displays in the shop windows were any indication—though, he hadn’t a clue what the “wanted” posters featuring a pair of redacted butt cheeks was about.
He shook his head, looking across the street.
The café appeared to be doing brisk business despite the inclement weather, and everything was in good repair.
It was no wonder Fayet was so desperate to absorb the municipality. Gideon frowned, seeing that eventuality playing out poorly, node or no node. Given even half a chance, Jeffries would run Havers into the ground as assuredly has he had Fayet. Gideon frowned, returning to his quarry’s trail.
Because why did he care again? Oh, right. He didn’t.
Ah. As he’d thought, the rambling path of Ophelia’s stilettos had left a clear track through the slush coating the sidewalk.
Gideon followed them, irked by her less than confident stride.
Had she been drinking? He couldn’t think of any other reason she’d be out in this storm or darting across the street so carelessly.
Ophelia had been ever a strategist. Every move she made, professionally or personally, was done to elicit an exacting response from her intended target. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her. Her competence and drive, her poise. His footsteps slowed. This…this wasn’t like her.
But then, nothing had been since her reemergence.
He scowled, shrugging his heavy coat closer to his ears.
He glanced up at the mishmash of her steps dallying before a storefront’s window.
Mmm. Jewelry. She hadn’t been much for it, and Fynbender’s wasn’t what he’d consider her taste, though it looked like quality.
His gaze lingered on a set of wedding bands, and his chest constricted. Was that what she’d been looking at?
Gideon snarled. Or was it what she’d wanted him to look at? As irrational as it might seem, he wouldn’t put it past her and wasn’t about to be led around by the nose. He spun, his long coat furling in his wake as he followed her prints to the street and then picked them up again on the other side.
Here, her steps had become more assured. Purposeful. She was going somewhere—or knew someone was after her. He grinned, hoping it was the latter. That’s it, poppet, I’m right behind you…
Her trail turned a corner onto a small street lined by quaint residences on one side and a wrought iron fence atop a low stone wall on the other.
Tree branches thick with ice hung low, draping over the sidewalk.
Beyond stood a gothic stone building, the inset stained glass above its arched doors occluded by thick ropes of hairy ivy.
A more modern, brick addition had been tacked to its side, ruining any appeal it might’ve had.
Gideon’s gaze flicked to the sign beside the walkway declaring it the town’s library, though the gothic portion was more reminiscent of a chapel.
In either event, Ophelia’s footprints had eschewed its wide, worn stone steps and taken a smaller path around the edge of the building.
His brow furrowed at the scent of tobacco in the wind. What game was she playing?
It didn’t matter. He would win.
He clenched his jaw as he continued to follow her trail, amber light leaking from the ice-encrusted windows and spilling onto the narrow path.
The scent of tobacco grew stronger. Tree roots and canted pavers slowed his steps.
He picked his way across them to a stone-framed opening at ground level, enclosed by a low, latticed fence riddled with ivy.
Gideon stood at its perimeter, hidden from whatever lay below.
The gate was open. Steep stairs led downward to a small, darkened courtyard nestled against the foundation of the building and a large, iron-bound door.
Ophelia sat on a bench in the shadows beside it, smoking.
Gideon took a step forward and rested a hand on the open gate, his mouth dry. She leaned forward, her head dangling, forearms upon her knees. For all intents, unaware of him lurking above her.
A lie. She’d lured him to this spot.
Yet… His jaw tensed at her trembling hand, the unwelcome constriction in his chest increasing.
She raised the cigarette to her rouged lips, her dripping hair framing the smoldering nub.
The cherry flared as she drew upon it, then cast it away, a trail of light streaking through the twilight to die abruptly as it landed in a puddle.
He started forward, and a hand fell on his shoulder.