I drop my clothes on the floor, leaving a trail to the shower, and step inside. The water is immediately hot and I jump back with a yelp. It's a little too hot. I adjust the temperature and ease under the spray, turning on the other shower head so everything steams up faster.
They have full-size shampoo and conditioner, this is a classy joint after all, which I use to lather up my hair. It's unscented. I wonder if that's something Reilly requested or something they did for the Summit. It'll clean my hair either way, so I don't really care.
Some of the tension leaves my shoulders as I rinse the shampoo from my hair, but I don’t feel as safe in here as I had hoped. I thought I had won something when I convinced Reilly to let me have a private room, but apparently, he still has a key. He still controls my life. I’m still about to be outed to the vampire council.
Reilly had not seemed overly thrilled to hear of his sire's imminent promotion to the council, which was unexpected. I wasn't sure what to make of his reaction. It's possible he hates his sire, but he still does everything his sire asks of him. I can't imagine someone as strong-willed as Reilly showing that kind of loyalty to someone he doesn't believe deserves it. Then again, I've been wrong about people before.
I press my forehead against the cool glass and trace my finger behind a rivulet of water. At least Martinez has been captured. Dead would be infinitely preferable, but at least if he’s in jail he won't be able to hurt anyone else. We're one step closer to seriously crippling the NWR. I sigh and push away from the shower wall and hurry to finish. As much as I don't want to do this, I don't want Reilly showing up in my room before I'm done getting ready.
I step out of the shower and wrap my hair in one of the towels, then grab another to dry my body. I leave a trail of wet footprints into the bedroom. My hairdryer is at the bottom of my bag, so half the contents end up dumped out by the time I stand triumphantly with it in my grasp. My towel starts to slip, so I re-tuck it around me and walk back into the bathroom.
There is a small vanity with a stool on the wall the bathroom shares with the bedroom. I sit down and plug in the hairdryer, then unwind my hair from its turban. A few quick strokes of the brush get rid of the remaining tangles. I sigh at the mirror then set about making myself presentable for a ball.
I know how to do my makeup, and well. I painted it on every night for six months when I was stripping for a living, and that's just not something you forget. The makeup I wore for that isn't entirely appropriate for this event though. I go for something a little more elegant this time.
My skin is clear, I don't make all those cosmetic brews for nothing, so I keep it simple. A smoky eye, tinted brows, and a dark red lip that'll match the dress perfectly. I always tried for a sultry vibe when I was stripping, but I was young, and I tended to overdo it. I've done good tonight. I won't look out of place in the dress.
My hair on the other hand, well, I don't have many options. Down seems too casual so I decide to put it up. The curling iron is hot, so I begin twisting pieces around it. I only burn my fingers a few times and the marks are easily healed. I pin the curls up, pulling a few strands down to frame my face and drape down over my collarbone. It's not perfect, but it looks good enough. I stand and drop the towel.
The dress is still laying on the bed, taunting me. I pick up the slinky dress and unzip it, then step into it carefully. This isn't the kind of get up that allows undergarments. The silk slides sensually across my skin reminiscent of the kind of touch I've gone so long without. I shove my feet in my heels and turn to face the tall mirror next to the bathroom door.
The dress is even more low cut than I realized. It dips down between my breasts, precariously close to reaching my belly button. The waist is tight, a piece of fabric on the bodice wraps around to the back. There is a slit on the side that comes all the way to the upper part of my thigh. The back is low as well. The zipper doesn't even reach halfway up my back.
I trace my finger over my shoulder that still has the tracker embedded in it. There isn’t even a scar thanks to my healing magic and the salves. The welts from the Finding magic are on full display like this. They look strange under the dress, like bad tattoos.
I haven't dressed up like this since, well, I guess I never have. It was never this fancy. The dresses I wore were always short. This should be a fairy-tail moment, but instead its a nightmare.
The door to my room opens behind me without so much as a knock.
"Are you—" Reilly's question dies on his lips.
I roll my eyes at his slack-jawed reflection and turn to face him.
"Am I ready? Yes, I am."
It's my turn to stare as I take in his appearance. He's wearing a sleek black tuxedo with a white bow tie that is perfectly tailored to his frame. The black fabric makes his auburn hair appear even more red. He has managed to tame it as well. He looks, dare I say it, debonair.
Reilly clears his throat, and the silent assessment ends.
"It's time to join the party," he says, extending his arm toward me.
"Grand," I say, striding past him and out the door. I have to go to this, but I don't have to take his arm. He catches up to me and we walk in silence down the hall. A few couples of varying races step out in front of us. Reilly glances at me without turning his head.
"You look lovely, Olivia," he says quietly enough that no one else should be able to hear him.
"I look like your whore. Or a candy cane,” I say, pointing at my arm.
This is the kind of get up a man puts his escort in. Not his coworker or whatever it is that we are. I didn't intend to sound so angry, but his compliment makes me want to kick him.
"An expensive whore though, at the very least," Reilly says with a smirk. “Possibly like a candy cane as well.”
The elevator dings and Reilly presses his hand to the small of my back to encourage a little haste. We slip inside just as the doors begin to close. The other guests chat amongst themselves, but I'm distracted by the line of heat from where I am pressed against Reilly. We should have waited for the next elevator. This one is cramped and there isn't room to turn around, much less stand apart.
The elevator swoops upward, slowing to a smooth stop, and the doors open again. I step backward and turn quickly, taking a deep breath now that I can smell something other than Reilly's scent. This area of the hotel is very different from the floors with the rooms. The walls stretch up into arches at least thirty feet high. The ceiling is painted like an old cathedral, complete with clouds and fat cherubs fluttering around dimpled women who can't seem to find a shirt and men with swords.
In the alcove between each arch are statues carved from marble. They are striking. Each one conveys some extreme emotion. The one closest to me is a woman in anguish, her hand reaching out toward me as though I could save her. I pull my eyes away and quicken my pace. Reilly keeps his hand on the small of my back and I wrestle down the impulse to shove it away. In a place like this, his presumptuousness is a claim, and that claim is protection. I'm an unknown nobody here, but based on the glances Reilly is getting, he is not.
I get a few glances of my own, but they're all lecherous. No one thinks I'm a threat. To most people here, I'm probably not. I might have learned a few new tricks hunting terrorists, but that doesn't make up for years of inexperience. I don't have the kind of control over my stolen magic someone who was born with it would have.
The hall of arches opens into the kind of ballroom I've only ever seen in movies. There is a wide staircase with a plush red carpet laid down the center. The ballroom has two levels.The bar is on the top level, while tables are on the lower level. The people milling around lean against the ornate balcony that extends around the top level. There must be five hundred people here at least. There is room for more as well.
On the lower level, there is a clear area for dancing and a stage in the center of the far wall. There are twelve chairs on the stage, though they’d be better described as thrones. Three red for the vampires, three black for the wi
tches, three white for the werewolves. The remaining three on the far right are a stone. They must be for the goblins.
"Would you care for a drink?" Reilly asks, his breath tickling my ear.
"God, yes," I say, not resisting as he nudges me toward the closest bar.
As we walk I can tell the race of most of the people we pass. Another vampire with a necker, his hand around the back of her neck, his thumb brushing up and down on the vein in her neck. A pack of werewolves barking in laughter.
The goblins are the easiest to spot, of course. Their green skin stands out as inhuman. They are huddled together in small groups, keeping to the edges. Most of them look like they want to flee. A few stride around with their bulbous noses held high, daring anyone to question their presence here.
We arrive at the bar and I lean my hip against the edge and wait for the bartender to look up so I can catch his eye. Reilly leans past me and waves him down. I roll my eyes. He's so impatient.
"What can I get for you?" The muscled, blond bartender asks Reilly.
"It's for her," Reilly says gesturing at me.
"Do you have tequila?" I ask with a bright smile, leaning forward just far enough to almost show him the goods. Reilly frowns at me, but the bartender smiles.
"We got everything," he says, spreading his hands wide. His name tag reads 'Devan'.
"Give me a double of your best stuff, Devan," I say, setting my chin in my hand.
"With pleasure,” Devan says with a wink. He grabs the bottle, spinning it around with practiced ease before tipping the spout over a sparkling glass.
"You cannot get drunk tonight," Reilly hisses in my ear.
I glare at him. “You’re the one that asked me if I wanted a drink.”
“A cocktail, not shots. This isn’t a bar in Las Vegas.”
“You worry too much.”
His fingers bite into my back. "I cannot watch you every second, and these people are all dangerous. Do not let your guard down just because we're at a party."
"You almost sound like you care, Reilly," I say, patting the front of his jacket.
Devan slides the glass across the bar to me, his smile fading a little as I touch Reilly.
"Enjoy, ma'am."
"Oh, I will," I say, turning my smile up a notch. I grab the tequila and throw it back, drinking down the burning liquid with relish. I drop the empty glass back on the table with a loud thunk and spin away from the bar. "So is there going to be food, or what?"
Reilly wraps his arm tightly around my shoulders.
"Quit acting like you're incapable of being a lady. There are people I need to introduce you to. Dinner will be served in a couple of hours."
"Hours?" I gasp. My stomach growls on cue. "You could have warned me to eat a snack beforehand."
"Stop complaining."
He scans the room and I look longingly back at the bar. I wonder if I can sneak another later when he isn't paying attention. I need something to fill my stomach if they aren't going to feed us for hours.
I spot a waiter carrying a small tray making the rounds and make a beeline for him. Reilly scrambles to follow me.
"What are you doing?" He demands.
"Sandwiches. Little fancy ones," I mutter, keeping my eye on the prize. He huffs out a sigh behind me but follows without further complaint.
I come up a little fast on the waiter and he startles slightly, then extends the tray. I grab two petite sandwiches and contemplate grabbing a third, but Reilly tugs me away with a nod at the waiter who doesn't hesitate to escape.
"They're so small," I say before stuffing the first one in my mouth. A bitter taste overwhelms me and I spit it out in my hand, trying not to vomit.
"What the fuck are you doing," Reilly hisses, scrambling for a napkin to grab the half-chewed food out of my hand with. "When I said you needed to act like a lady, that wasn't a challenge for you to act even more ridiculous."
His eyes are snapping with genuine anger, and his jaw is clenched tight.
"Sorry, that was disgusting though, I think it's rotten or something," I say wishing even more that I could get another drink to get that awful taste out of my mouth. My stomach is rolling.
"If you're done, I've spotted someone I need to introduce you to. Do us both a favor and be polite. If you offend him, there is nothing I can or will do to protect you. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving my hand at him.
He grabs it and holds it tight, grinding the bones together.
"This is not a joke."
"I understand," I say slowly, looking him in the eye.
He releases my hand and I resist the urge to rub at the ache. He takes a deep breath and his features smooth out to calm indifference, like a mask slipping into place. I had joked earlier about him caring, but the concern really is unexpected.
He presses his palm into my lower back and guides me down the wide staircase. We weave through the tables, passing mostly vampires in this section. A few nod at Reilly as we pass, but we don’t stop.
It becomes apparent that Reilly is leading me toward a group gathered around a dining table near the stage. There are a few men that don't seem part of the group. They are facing outward, their eyes constantly scanning for anyone approaching. They tense at our approach, but visibly relax when they notice Reilly. A few people that seem to be waiting for an audience move out of our way as we step up to the table. I guess we don't have to wait in line.
Seated in one of the chairs is a man with black hair streaked at the temple with silver. There are lines around his eyes and mouth, but those are the only signs of age on his face. His eyes are sharp as steel, and the color of steel as well. He doesn't look at Reilly, only at me, taking a long breath with slightly parted lips as though he is tasting my scent. Reilly bows deeply, and pushes me down into a bow as well.
The man stands, unfolding from the chair. He's taller than I expected, and while lean, every movement seems like controlled violence. He turns his cold eyes to Reilly.
"Introduce us, passerotto mio, or have you forgotten your manners?" The man says, his voice slipping into an accent when he uses the strange endearment. Reilly straightens and I follow suit.
"Sire, this is Olivia Carter, the half-breed I have spoken to you about. Ms. Carter, this is Council Member Cesare Sangiovanni," Reilly says taking my hand gently in his and extending it toward his sire.
Cesare takes it and presses cold lips to my knuckles with a short bow.
"You defy expectations, Ms. Carter. My imaginings of what you might be all revolved around a twisted creature born of some strange experiment. I am pleased to discover that you are instead a beauty our Reilly here does not deserve."
I don't know how to respond. My heart is beating fast in my chest, something that won't escape Cesare’s notice.
"You’re too kind, though you are right. Reilly does not deserve me," I say with a smile that I hope makes up for my nerves.
Cesare laughs unreservedly, throwing his head back. The people around us chuckle along. I wonder if they're obligated to, or if they just find me hilarious as well. Reilly is notably silent beside me. He's probably going to kill me later.
"I like this one Reilly," Cesare says pointing his finger at him. "Her heart is racing like a hummingbird, but she does not cower.”
“I’m not certain she knows how to cower, Sire,” Reilly says in a resigned tone.
“Have a seat,” Cesare says. He still has my hand and he leads me to the seat directly to his left. I sit down hesitantly, for once comforted that Reilly will be sitting right next to me. Cesare scoots my chair in for me and I sit stiffly in my chair, my hands in my lap.
“The two of you have had an eventful week,” Cesare comments. “I must say, from the description of your injuries I did expect you to show up looking at least a little battered.”
“Healing salves work wonders,” I say with a tight smile.
He reaches over and smooths his thumb across my shoulder. “There isn’t a scar fr
om the bullet wound or the GPS tracker. Whatever brews you are using must be very well made.”
“The healing magic helps prevent scars as well,” I say. It takes all of my willpower to not flinch away from his touch, but again, my heart is racing. I think he likes it, or perhaps he likes testing me to see at what point I’ll visibly react.
“Yet these linger?” He asks, his thumb dropping down to press into a welt just hard enough to make me grit my teeth before he moves his hand back to his lap.
“Magical injuries are different, harder to heal. I’m working on it though,” I say.
“Tell me,” Cesare says, leaning back in his chair. “What do you feel at the point whoever you are draining of magic dies?”
I glance at Reilly, but he is looking at his sire, his posture relaxed and his face blank. I clear my throat and twist my fingers together. Maybe this is the reaction he was hoping for.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking for,” I say finally.
“You killed Ryan. You didn’t have enough time to drain him in the few seconds you were latched onto his neck, so I assume you must have killed him by ripping away the magic that keeps him alive,” he taps his fingers against the table, looking at me intently. “In that last moment, what do you feel?”
I square my shoulders.
“They become empty,” I say. “With—with a witch it’s different. There’s something I can’t take in them, but I didn’t feel that in Ryan. He just ended, and turned to ash.”
Cesare hums to himself, his expression turning thoughtful. I hope he’s amused or whatever by that answer. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I’m not sure I have a choice.
I grimace. Ryan turning to ash in my mouth was awful. I can still remember the bitter taste of his blood. I reach for my glass and freeze. This isn’t just a memory, that same bitter taste is in my mouth right now. I stand abruptly and search the room for a waiter carrying a plate of hors d'oeuvres.
Blood Magic: Witch’s Bite Series Book Three Page 20
