“Men are a distraction from my purpose,” I said, notching my chin higher, “as are you.”
“But we share a purpose,” he said softly, leaning into me once again. “We could share another.”
“No,” I said as I pulled away from him. “Never again.”
His hand fell elegantly to his side. “We are not all Xandros.”
“I cannot un-know what I know now. I suffered greatly to gain that knowledge, and it has forever changed me,” I said, eyes narrowed with anger as I thought of how I’d been used and discarded. How my life had been little more than a means to an end in a play for power—and how that might be all it was to Zen. As I glared at Zen, all I saw was Xandros’ face staring back; all I felt was the razor tip of his claw carving through my skin as I screamed in pain. I would never fall victim to him, or any like him, again. “I hate your kind,” I said, my whispered words full of venom, “and nothing you or anyone else can do will change that.”
His hand flexed against my chest as coals smoldered in his dark stare. “Hate and sex are not mutually exclusive, Andy my dear. In fact, one can make the other so much more satisfying...”
My mind tried not to picture the promise he sold, but it was rampant with traitorous visions of his hands and mouth all over my body. I took a deep breath to clear my thoughts. “Says the devil on my shoulder…”
His lips curled slowly into a predatory smile. “Perhaps you should heed his words—he knows better than any how to have a good time.” With that, he let me go and wandered to the door. “And speaking of a good time, I shall leave you to get dressed. Unless, of course, you’d like me to stay behind and help. I do have wonderfully deft fingers,” he said, wriggling them for effect. “I could make quick work of that corset for you.”
“I think not.”
His playful expression gave way to one filled with dark promise. “I could make quick work of removing it later, as well, should you require assistance.”
Danger and lust tempted me as I thought of all the things those dexterous fingers could do to my body, if I was willing to let them. And though I’d just told Zen in no uncertain terms that that would never happen, a part of me—something dark and wild and buried down deep inside—awakened at the idea. Welcomed it. Wanted to open that forbidden door and walk right through, with no concern for the consequences.
A knock on the door saved me from my devolving thoughts, and Zen opened it to find a shocked Mrs. Whittle standing there. “Mr. Henderson! What on Earth are you doing in Miss Nightshade’s room? And with the door closed, for heaven’s sake!” She stormed into the room as if she expected to find me naked and bound to the bed (which Zen would have no doubt enjoyed) and let out a sigh of relief when she found me fully dressed and my virtue intact. “I came to see if you needed help dressing.” She looked from me to Zen, then back again several times before he saved her from herself.
“I just asked her the same question when I stopped by to see what time we should leave. She appears quite unfamiliar with some of these garments, so I said I’d fetch you to help, should you be willing.” Zen winked at her for good measure, and the woman turned to pudding in a second.
“Of course I’ll help!” she exclaimed. “Though I admit, I haven’t had occasion to help someone dress in longer than I care to recall. I never had a daughter, and my sister has been dead and gone for quite some time now, but I’m confident things can’t have changed too drastically in that time.”
I looked at the crotchless bloomers lying on top of my gown that spoke to the contrary and cringed. “Thank you, Mrs. Whittle,” I said earnestly. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”
“We’ll get it all sorted, dear. No need to fret. Now Mr. Henderson, if you’d please leave us to it…” She walked over to him and ushered him out the door with an ease that was inspiring. I wondered if she hadn’t thrown more than her fair share of men out of rooms in her lifetime (for myriad reasons).
“I shall wait for you in the parlor,” he said with a bow that nearly sent Mrs. Whittle into a fit of hysterics.
“I’ll send her down a changed woman,” Mrs. Whittle said as she closed the door behind him and locked it for good measure. “Just in case.” She walked over to the bed and laid out the various undergarments, not the least bit fazed by the bloomers with the missing seam. That lack of surprise cast a visual in my mind that I spent the next few minutes attempting to purge while she prattled on about how things were going to go. Then, without warning, she started stripping my clothes off.
“Mrs. Whittle!” I gasped as she yanked my pants down.
“There’s no need to fuss, dear. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before...” But the shock on her face as she took in the scars trailing up my thighs was staggering. She stumbled back a step, her eyes locked in place. Finally, she managed to pull them away from the mess of skin that covered my legs to look at me. “My dear girl—”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Whittle,” I said, pulling my pants up.
Her gentle hands caught my wrists, and she stared at me with the pain of a mother who couldn’t protect her own child in her eyes. “Someone did this to you,” she whispered, her words not really a question, but I replied anyway.
“Yes…”
She nodded in return, a wealth of understanding and realization passing behind her pale blue eyes. “Would you like me to leave you to this?”
“I don’t…I’m not really sure what to do with some of it,” I replied softly.
She handed me the bloomers and stockings. “I’ll turn around, and once you’re undressed, I’ll tell you what to do.”
She made good on her word and stared out the window as I took off my clothes, then walked me through the process until I was covered. “All right,” I said, holding up the corset. “I don’t think I can do this alone.”
She came to my side and squeezed my arm for a fleeting moment before she disappeared behind me and made quick work of the corset. She was a tyrant with the laces, and I feared I would faint from my inability to breathe. “Perhaps a bit looser,” I wheezed. I couldn’t fight a demon like that—or anyone else, for that matter. How terribly women suffered for fashion.
“I’m just trying to accentuate your waistline, Miss Nightshade.”
“I think you can call me Oleander, given how familiar you are with me now…”
“I’ll let it out a bit. See if this is better.”
My breath rushed in and I nearly choked on it. After I steadied myself, I tried to maneuver a bit to see if it would do. Though I wouldn’t be able to wrestle someone to the ground, it would suffice. “It is. Thank you.”
Without skipping a beat, she tied me into the crinoline and gathered up the mound of fabric on my bed. It took more finagling than it should have to get it on me and secured, but after nearly thirty minutes, I was dressed and ready to go.
When I was halfway to the door, Mrs. Whittle stopped me. “Miss Nightshade, your hair!” She swept me over to the edge of the bed and forced me to sit—no easy task in that dress—and began fussing at my head. “The trick to this is following the cues of a person’s hair to fashion it just right. Yours is so thick and silky, it won’t do to try to force it into anything too fancy.” She worked her fingers through my hair, separating and pinning it every which way. “Do you have a decorative comb to finish it off?” she asked. Though I thought the answer would be plain, I told her no anyway. “Stay right here. I have to get something.”
As if I could have chased after her had I wanted to. I stayed where I was until she returned, grinning like the cat in the cream. “Here,” she said, sliding something into the side of her creation, “that should do the trick.” She produced a mirror from behind her back and handed it to me. “Have a look.” I held it out so I could see the wonder she’d created for me. My hair was stunning, and the dress—what I could see of it—was as well. “My husband gave me that haircomb for one of our anniversaries. I don’t have much cause to use it anymore. He’d be thrilled to know someone else did…�
�
I slowly (and quite stiffly) rose and turned to face her. Then my arms, through a will all their own, wrapped around her and hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Whittle,” I whispered in her ear for fear my voice would crack if I spoke any louder. “Truly.”
“Oh, now,” she said, brushing me off. She wiped her tears away so quickly that I barely even noticed them. “Don’t forget a little makeup, too. A girl as beautiful as you doesn’t need much…no need to gild the lily.” I nearly choked on air at her choice of words, recovering quickly with a sip of water. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said as she headed for the door. “And Miss Nightshade?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whittle?”
“Not all men are monsters. Just remember that tonight when you’re with Mr. Henderson.” She closed the door without another word while I stood stunned by her words and how wrong they were.
Because Mr. Henderson was most definitely a monster.
And according to him, I was, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Here she comes now!” Mrs. Whittle squealed at the sound of my approach and smiled up at me the moment I came into view. I stopped at the top of the stairs, and with a deep breath, grabbed the front of my dress and hiked it up in an effort to see. How women like Ivy navigated in delicate shoes with heels and skirts like these on a regular basis was well and truly beyond me.
“I might come down in a crumpled heap if this dress has anything to say about it,” I called down to her.
“Allow me,” Zen said before he stepped into view, looking more dashing than ever, and extended his hand. It took only a second for him to soak in the sight of me in that ridiculous gown, and his eyes went wide in response. At first, I assumed it was with amusement, but the weight of his stare spoke to the contrary, the intensity in his dark eyes too strong to hold an ounce of humor. “My, my, Miss Nightshade, aren’t you just full of surprises—”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said, taking the hand he offered, if only to not appear suspicious in front of Mrs. Whittle and the others.
I stepped off the final riser and stopped before Zen. His eyes dipped to where the dress he’d chosen displayed my breasts quite plainly and smiled. “What an elegant and tasteful gown,” he said, kissing my hand. “Who would have thought you’d have such impeccable taste?”
“You look like a proper lady,” Mrs. Whittle beamed. A few of the other boarders murmured their agreement as they stared at what my dress didn’t cover.
“Or a whore in a brothel,” I mumbled under my breath, much to Zen’s delight.
“There’s such a fine line between the two, isn’t there?” he whispered back. “Thankfully, you look like the former.”
“No thanks to you.”
“All thanks to me,” he countered.
“What are you two conspiring about?” Mrs. Whittle asked, genuine concern in her tone.
“Nothing,” Zen said with a smile. “Just a little harmless flirtation.”
Her cheeks rosied at the thought. “Mr. Henderson, I expect you to make sure our Miss Nightshade makes it to and from this event unscathed.”
No small feat, to be certain.
“I am confident I can ensure her journey both there and back.” How careful he was not to say anything about our actual time there. Perhaps he wasn’t the liar I thought he was. “I’ve arranged for a carriage. It should be waiting for us outside as we speak.” He gave me his elbow, and while I wanted to scoff at the gesture, I wasn’t at all certain I could navigate my way through the door and out to the carriage without his aid. Damned ridiculous dress. “Shall we?”
With a sigh, I took his offered arm, and he led the way through the door, helping me maneuver the massive skirt through the doorway without tearing it. I looked up to find the carriage waiting and wondered if there was enough room for my dress in the small space, let alone Zen and me. If we weren’t careful, we’d suffocate on silk taffeta before we even arrived.
“When will you return?” Mrs. Whittle called to us as Zen helped me into the carriage.
“We’ll be quite late, Mrs. Whittle. Please don’t wait up,” he replied.
Somehow, he was able to stuff me into our conveyance with an elegance I wouldn’t have thought possible. Then he hopped in and sat across from me—and my sea of midnight blue silk. “Perhaps the dressmaker got a bit carried away,” he noted, pushing my crinoline down to see me. “It’s as if it has a life of its own…”
“Hence my preference for pants.”
“I’m definitely beginning to understand the appeal.” He secured my hem under his boot and pinned the skirt down, ending their silent war. Then he smiled at me in victory—or something else entirely. “And I must say, your hips look divine in those pants. I find it most distracting at times. I’m sure they look quite divine out of them as well...”
I suppressed the flare of heat in my belly as it roared to life. “Perhaps I should have worn them tonight, if they provide so much distraction.”
Zen shook his head and reached into his coat, withdrawing something dark and difficult to see in the scant light of the carriage. I leaned forward (with concerted effort) to find him holding two black masks: a lacy one with midnight blue ribbons trailing down and a solid felt one with a long, bird-like nose. “The point tonight, Andy, is not to draw attention to ourselves, but rather to blend in. To go totally unnoticed,” he said as he slipped his mask into place and secured it behind his head. “My amulet will take care of your witches and any supernatural sorts, and now that you’re bound to me, that magic will extend to you, as well. But Xandros and his minions are still a potential problem, as are the humans.”
I followed his head and slipped my mask in place. “Xandros thinks I’m dead.”
“He does, but he will expect me to show, so we must appear as innocuous as possible—as human as possible—like we’re there to bid on priceless items like the others. Nothing more.”
“So, we’re not going to try to steal it?”
Even with a mask on, I could see his incredulous expression. “Of course we are, but that’s not how we’ll present to the crowd. We’ll look wealthy, respectable, and perfectly capable of procuring the item in a legal fashion. And with no suspicion directed our way, we’ll sneak into wherever the Demonheart is and take it.”
“But surely it will be guarded and magically protected. We can hardly just walk in there and grab it, or Xandros would have done so already.” Or Grisholm, for that matter.
“What do you think I’ve been doing all day? Traipsing about town to find you proper undergarments?” That thought had crossed my mind… “I’ve been to every disreputable warlock and druid I could find in preparation.” He opened his black-as-night coat to show the silken inner lining decorated with crystals and talismans—all products of dark magic. All created through sacrifice and blood, though whose blood, I didn’t know. “I can see what you’re thinking, since you’re rubbish at hiding your disdain, but no, I did not kidnap some poor child so a druid could slice their throat and harness their life force into these trinkets. They were made long before I went looking for them, and I didn’t ask the particulars about how. What was done was done; whomever—or whatever—perished to create these has already paid the price. There is no sense in letting their sacrifice be in vain.”
I wanted to argue—to judge him for his actions—but the truth was, I couldn’t. Not unless I wished to judge myself. For there had been a time when I, too, had sought out dark magic; had used it to achieve an end. And I, too, had justified my actions, just like Zen.
“I see,” he said, realization dawning in his shadowed expression. “Not to worry, Andy my dear.” He closed his coat and smiled. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“I needed a talisman to help bring down a druid who was killing women and witches throughout the city,” I said, the words leaving me before I even understood why. What business was it of his why I had employed such tactics? Why did I care that he knew the reason behind my actions? I
had no answer for that; only the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that argued that I knew damn well why.
His smile fell, leaving a stern expression in its wake. “And did you succeed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make him suffer?”
The memory of his death elicited a smile of my own. “Terribly.”
His countenance mimicked mine. “There are only two ways to kill a druid,” he said casually. “I wonder which you chose.”
“I used the talisman to hold him in place so he could not escape. Then I sliced him open—one gash for every girl he killed—and watched him bleed out their blood in an alley.”
“But that alone isn’t enough to kill one.”
“I know...”
He leaned forward, his morbid fascination with my actions plain. “Did you slice his head off?”
“No,” I replied, heat boiling in my veins. “I sparked a fire at the hem of his cloak and controlled its burn, keeping it slow and steady. It took him over an hour to die—or faint from the pain. Eventually, I cut out his heart to ensure his death could not be reversed magically. Then I set the blaze alight and incinerated what was left, leaving nothing but ash and dust behind.”
Zen’s smile widened. “And soon you’ll do the same to Xandros.”
“No,” I said, any hint of satisfaction disappearing from my tone. “I’ll do worse.”
“Of course you will, Andy my dear,” he said, resting back against the tufted velvet upholstery. “I’d expect nothing less.”
I let my gaze drift out the window, the clopping of the horse’s hooves soothing my bloodlust for the moment. Anger of that depth was exhausting to maintain, and I couldn’t allow myself to be weakened in any way before we arrived, despite my connection to Zen and his demonic ring. His strength combined with mine would make us a formidable pairing, but we were not invincible, and I would take no chances. Especially not with Xandros and his minions present.
A Curse of Nightshade (Witches of the Gilded Lilies Book 1) Page 18
