"Can you keep a secret?” I ask.
Monica clears her throat. "What kind of secret? Are you in trouble, Millie?"
"No! No…I'm just trying to make sure that at least one person knows where I am. I don't want to put you in the middle of this so if you're worried it might cost you your job then I won't tell you and you can remain in ignorant bliss." I drag one hand up to my mouth to bite at my nails.
"I think we both know that I live vicariously through you, and I won't be in this house forever. Your father has already requested that I follow you to your new home.” She smiles softly.
Monica has been picked to come with me after I married because I insisted. Because I wanted to have just one person around my age who isn’t expected to be exactly like me with me to keep me grounded in some way.
"I'm leaving tonight."
The smile falls from Monica's face and she clenches her hands together tightly in front of her, but she doesn't move, listening intently.
"I'm going to look for someone who will help me find my brother. I cannot just sit here and wait until someone tells me he’s dead. Every day that goes by is another day that's wasted." I take a large breath and launch into my brief explanation of my evening. "I'm going to go to the bars downtown. I am going to each one until I find a man named Rumi Williams."
The moment I say his name her expression falls flat as if she suddenly lost herself in thought. She shakes herself gently, blinking, and asks, "I'm sorry what was that name?"
Yes…there is something about that name. The way that no one seems to remember it. It's not a particularly forgettable name. William is quite popular but Rumi? I've never met anyone with that name.
"His name is Rumi Williams." And I remind myself to jot it down on a piece of paper and leave it somewhere in my room. Monica's expression glazes over once again. I sigh but continue. "If I do not come home in the morning or during the day, you have my permission to tell my father."
Would he even go looking for me? Or would he sit back and wait for me to come home like he has Boston.
"Have you got any weapons, Miss? Anything to protect yourself from the men who are out at this time? I know someone who makes shanks. It's better than nothing." She keeps her voice low as if she's nervous someone might hear us even in the safety of my room.
"No, but don't worry. This is not the first time I've done this. I will be careful, I promise."
Monica chews on the inside of her lip, silent for another moment before she speaks. "Okay," she agrees. Then she clutches the small cross necklace on her neck. "I will be praying for your safety as I've been praying for your brother’s."
"Thank you." I wondered since we took Monica on our staff if she had a crush on my brother. Even though, to me, he has a goofy face with two big ears and a slightly crooked nose it wouldn't be the first time I've heard girls my age whispering about how handsome he is. Plus, I've always thought Monica seems like the type of person who could fall in love with anyone if they gave her enough attention.
Boston is kind to our staff. I've often found him playing cards in their sleeping quarters after Father has gone to bed for the night. That could also be because Boston doesn't have very many friends. Of course, if you asked him, he’d list off the four or five boys he always seems to hang out with when we're called to parties or other events where the men are scouting for their future brides. But I know better. Those men are just props. They don't know Boston and Boston doesn't know them.
The closest thing he has to friends are the people that work on my father’s ship. And even them, he has to keep at arm’s length. The door clicks shut softly behind her and she leaves me alone. I take off the pretty day dress and walk in my underclothes into my closet. I push through the gowns that hang there, wanting for something that looks the most plain.
It's very obvious as I weave through the materials that my father likes me to stand out. Finally, I settle on a navy blue dress with ruching down the middle and sleeves that are supposed to be fluffy caps at my shoulder but are too big and slip down my arms. I’ve never worn the dress and it sits here waiting for adjustments because of that detail. I would never be caught dead at an event with my shoulders bare. However, it isn’t entirely uncommon for someone of a lesser status to wear gowns with that style. It remains my safest bet.
I take a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my vanity as I make my way to my bed, looking as if the night has wrapped me up in itself, and make sure to tie my cloak around me. It makes my skin look ghostly pale in comparison. I leave my hair up allowing the shorter strands around my face to fall forward, trying not to think about the many times Desmond has tucked them behind my ear as if they too are something that needs to be trained to stay in the position he thinks it needs to be in.
My boots sit under my bed, a purchase I made without my father knowing. They are what I wear when I go out on my late-night adventures, sometimes the early ones too. I reach for them still deep in thought.
This might be the first secret I'm trusting Monica with. I already know that Hilda is a great secret keeper. Dutifully she has hidden my boots or claimed they were hers. After I’ve pulled them on and laced them up I blow out the lanterns in my room. My eyes adjust to the dark, and I walk as quietly as I can, though my shoes are incredibly heavy compared to any other pair I own. My feet fit perfectly inside of them. The silhouette of my feet’s shape formed long ago.
Opening my window, it doesn't make a sound. I asked for it to be greased a long time ago. The branches of the tree stretch out, the smaller ones still tapping and scratching at the side of the house.
I perch myself inside the window for a minute. To anyone looking up, I would probably just look as if I'm romanticizing the night. I glance down, I always do and I always regret it, before carefully lifting my feet from one side to the other. My legs dangle out of the house, my feet brushing a branch that I can stand on if I just stretch enough. I hold tightly to the edge of the windowsill and place my boots on the tree. The branch dips at the pressure of my weight. Somewhere in the tree, it gives a small crack.
I've done this enough to know that it'll hold my weight just fine yet the small sound still sends my heart pounding inside my chest. What little bark is left at my feet is ground away by the tread of my boots. I urge my top half forward pushing my momentum so it’ll carry me into the trunk.
It's not far enough to be too risky but far enough my palms are sweaty the minute I let go. I clamp my mouth shut to hold in a squeal as my body shifts from one position to the other. When the bark bites through my clothing I relax. I lower myself from branch to branch to branch until I land in the dirt around the base.
Lamps are still lit in the neighbor’s house, the light flickering behind their drawn curtains. There are no faces to watch me climb down from my window and disappear into the street. The only lanterns on in my three-story home are in the sitting room where my mother stays awake.
The sky is clear above me, the wind at my back urging me forward. Something in my chest warms. Both destiny and fate call to me with outstretched hands. All I can do is answer.
I hurry, pulling my cloak tighter when the chill of the night creeps through the material. The streets in and around my neighborhood are empty and quiet. I walk leisurely, enjoying the way the night feels like velvet against my skin. There's nothing but the sound of my breathing and the scuff of my boots.
When the houses begin to fade, they are replaced by businesses. Many have crooked signs saying they are closed. A few are still open with customers lingering inside. People stay well away from me and I do the same to them.
A ruckus of laughter erupts somewhere behind me, the voices of men carrying down the street, filling me with unease. My hands tighten into fists at my side and I hurry forward with the feeling of their presence not far behind me.
After several minutes of rush down the road, a row of street lamps light up the three bars. The Goblin, Harrod's, and The Devil's Cup. Each one is smaller and scarier than the n
ext.
I set my jaw with the sound of whispered slurs somewhere behind me. One catcall and I'm nothing but a trembling girl in the middle of the street. Rumi Williams could be in any one of these bars but I won't know until I go in. Some invisible tether between me and the universe goes taut and I follow my gut into the smallest, darkest bar.
12
After The Deal
Millie
Shadows linger in every nook and corner of the ship even though the sun still shines overhead. Most of the crew avoids the curling inky strands of smoke, and their faces go pale when they get too close. I sit on the same bench by the helm as Jac stares off into the ocean. Tendrils of the shadow tickle at the smallest bit of skin that's exposed just above my boots.
I stretch myself across the bench, lying flat on my stomach. My skirt falls down to expose my calves. Dangling my arm, I reach down into the shadow allowing the smoke to curl around my forearm. My skin tingles and the darkness leaves behind a trail of goosebumps. My lips part, the corners teasing at a smile.
"You must have really set him off." Jac scowls down at the darkness under me.
"Why do you say that?"
The smoke stops where the sun hits my arm, it edges around the line and curls like a snake. Fresh air fills my lungs, my eyes feel heavy, and I have the briefest want to curl up with the shade.
"All the darkness." She points. "It comes from him."
My fingers fall open. "Is that why everyone is scared of it? It seems friendly to me."
"I've heard stories of what it can do. Those are not friendly at all."
A heaviness settles in my chest. Not the devil but a son. What he took from those bodies...he took their souls. Boston had been right about one thing. Some legends are real, but he isn't here to tell me he told me so.
"I should talk to him."
Her lips curl in disgust. "I wouldn't. He's moody."
"What? Is he a teenager? I'm not scared of him." I twirl a finger in the smoke before drawing my hand back. It chases after me until it hits the light then retracts.
"You should be."
"You don't seem like you're all that scared of him."
"I know his limits. I know when to be afraid and when not to be."
I push myself up off the bench, standing, then smoothing out my skirt. The smell of smoke clings to the material from our trip through the burning village. My hair has long since fallen out of the pins that had once held it up and is now settled over my shoulders in loose curls.
The days without a break to wash the dirt from my body have left my skin feeling grimy and made me only more nervous of any sort of smell I may be putting off. No one here seems to be as worried about smells as I am, and there isn't so much as a single perfume bottle aboard to help mask the stench of the sweaty crew members.
"I'm going to talk to him." If I'm the one who upset him—though I'm not entirely sure how—then I should help resolve the issue. What if I offended him enough that he doesn't want to keep our deal?
"That's a bad idea."
"So was making a deal with the devil's son, yet here I am." I look up at her from under my lashes.
"Well, go on and be a stupid girl then." Jac turns away from me and back to the helm.
I start toward the door that leads down into the captain's quarter, where black smoke rises and dissolves around its edges. For a moment, I pause, twisting to ask Jac one last question.
"What exactly does the shadow stuff do in these stories?"
Jac smiles then, a wide and toothy grin. "It drowns people."
"Drowning. Hmmm." I clump my skirt into my hand. "Well, I'll let you know if he tries to drown me. Do you think he can feel us when we touch it?"
"Don't know."
"I'll find out." Because I have to know. I need to know how this magic or power or whatever the heck he has works. What can he do to me? What can he do to other people? How much of the world can he change?
When I reach the door and haul it open with a loud grunt, a few members give me questioning looks. Even Nathaniel, a certified killer. Where the sunlight cascades down the first few steps the fog recedes. I nod encouragingly to myself and begin my descent, pulling the door closed behind me.
A wisp of smoke is captured by the movement of my skirt. It tastes the bare skin of my leg before the shadows jerk away from me and cling to the walls allowing a clearer path.
"Rumi?" I call out.
The shadows that have taken over the upper deck are nothing in comparison to the black clouds of it that make his room heavy with fog. There are no lanterns lit and the only light in the room comes from his small round window that outlines his shape from where he sits at the desk at the back of the room. His chair is tipped back, his feet propped on the desk. Rumi sits so still I wonder if he's fallen asleep.
"Why are you here?" Rumi's voice is deep and scratchy.
"I was under the impression that I upset you."
I wave my hand through the air but nothing clears it, the farther I walk into the room. The long table is empty of everything except empty liquor bottles that line up like an odd centerpiece. From the smooth wood of the table to the desk with papers scattered under Rumi's boots, I make my way to him.
His eyes are half hooded when I get there, his features almost blurred between us. He turns his head, running a hand through his hair before settling it behind him. The ties on his shirt have been loosened and his chest is exposed. Blond hair, almost too white to see, curls along his pectorals.
Moving aside a bottle with only a sip of clear liquid left, the stench far too bitter to be water, I perch myself on the edge of the desk and let my feet dangle below me. I settle my hands in my lap.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I try again.
He smiles but it's tense. "Let me get this right. You think that you upset me?"
"Well, that's what other people think and I don't know you well enough to know any better." I lift my chin, squinting to get a better look at his face.
"I'm nearly fifty years old and I'm more powerful than any being you've ever met." His voice rises and the shadows only draw nearer to him. "And you think a twenty-year-old...girl—"
"Woman," I interject.
"—can upset me?"
"What’s with all the smoke then?" I wave my hands through the air again. Two hands take shape out of the fog and grab my wrists. They squeeze. I take a deep breath in, my thighs pressing together, as the touch makes my skin burn in a surprisingly pleasant way.
"Don't do that," Rumi whispers and the hands quickly fall away.
"Don't do what?"
I look down at him and he finally meets my gaze. His brown eyes have gone black again, mirroring my reflection back to me. They're a challenge I can't back away from. A war I want to fight.
His boots slip from the desk, one thudding below him followed by the other. Without his legs next to me, I turn myself until I'm facing him. Muscles in his jaw cord as he watches me. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. And I find that a small part of me does want to... it's quiet but the urge is still there. I remember how his hand had felt so human even though he isn't. Would the rest of him feel human too or would he dissolve into his smoke?
Rumi leans forward. His attention crawls down my body, and my heart skips as he stares. He takes his time placing his hands on either side of me, paper crunching under his palms. The legs of his chair scrape against the ground as he pushes himself out of the seat until he's leaning into me, until our breath is mingling between us. I don't move, I can't move, somewhere between spite and an animal caged by a predator.
"I saw the way you looked at me. I could see your thoughts as easily as if you were speaking them out loud."
Is all of this because he's worried because he thinks he upset me? I hold his gaze, unflinching. "Can you read my thoughts?"
One half of his smile lifts slightly. "No, you give it all away on your face, Millicent. You think..." He gets closer, till his nose is teasing against mine. Involuntarily
, my eyes close, lips parting at the contact. "I'm a wicked evil thing. You thought I was the devil himself."
I snap my eyes open, leaning back to put space between us and it's an effort not to lean into him instead. "I'm not afraid of you."
His black eyes flash with a new sort of intensity. Both palms slap against the desk with a smack so loud I jump inside the cage he's created with his arms.
Rumi only gets louder. The black clouds pull in, circling until I can't see anything around us. There's only him. Only the perfectly straight line of his nose, the sharp cut of his cheekbones that make his face look almost sunken, the wisps of long hair untamed framing his features, and his mouth open in a snarl that reveals all of his very human looking teeth.
"You don't know the blood on my hands."
"I can imagine."
"Do you not see the way men shy from me? I could eat you for breakfast." He snaps his jaw shut, his teeth snap together audibly as if he's taking a bite of me.
Please. My mind begs. I don't know what to do with this piece of myself, the parts of me that want to feel him, want to get close until I'm the only person who truly knows him. Rumi is everything a girl like me should stay away from and that only makes the idea of this...this monster of men more appealing.
"I'm not afraid," I repeat. My chest lifts and falls unevenly. Every hair on my body stands on end.
He lowers his face to my neck, his hot breath damp."You will be one day," he growls, and the sound trembles down my entire body until I can feel my breasts peak and toes curl in my boots.
Teeth scrape along the sensitive skin at the base of my throat. A sound, too akin to a moan, passes over my lips and then his mouth is on me. His tongue trails the places his teeth had been only seconds ago, a kiss and a taste.
I straighten and he hovers against me. My hands move of their own accord, trailing over the muscles of his stomach and up to his chest till my fingers brush the soft curls.
"I am more demon than man." Rumi speaks against me, his nose drawing a line up my throat. "There is only a black hole where a heart should be." He pulls away, trailing shadows between us, hiding his face. "The blood in my veins is made up of poison and if you get a taste of it you'll regret it."
Chasing Boston Page 9
