by Lori Adams
A dark scowl passed over Dante’s features as he began rearranging his living room, of sorts. He tossed a shirt to Vaughn, who’d lost his on the way to the gate. “Of course I didn’t send word to him. You know the depths of my detestation toward my father. And my uncles, for that matter.” He quickly changed his own clothes, having found something reasonably suitable tangled around a chair. Black pants and a black collared shirt open at the neck.
“So, they’re still bound to the third kingdom? They haven’t crossed into the fifth?” Vaughn stripped out of his tuxedo slacks and replaced them with a pair of black jeans he found on the floor.
Because the five kingdoms had been cut out as giant pie-shaped territories, they all intersected at the center. The Order’s inner sanctum resided at the five points. It was possible to cross from the third kingdom directly into the fifth, however dangerous and unlikely. To go about it in an official capacity, a noble had to seek permission from The Order to visit another kingdom. If denied entrance, there was always the suicidal alternative of trying to sneak in. Walls were high and borders maintained. The guards were of the homegrown Philistine variety and lacked the ability to show mercy.
Dante shrugged his indifference at the suggestion of his father crossing kingdoms. Truthfully, the idea made his blood boil. Made his personal demon claw at his insides. The news that Lord Giano had paid for the guards at the door had been shocking enough; Dante had felt his demon rising then, too, wanting to lash out at someone. Only for Sophia’s sake had he remained calm. He’d wanted her safely in his chambers before he and Vaughn discussed things.
“I believe that Julian Wexler said Lord Brutus sent men into the third kingdom looking for us. I would guess that’s how my father was informed of our escape. Assuming he knew we’d been locked up in the first place.”
“Lord Brutus thought you’d run back to your family for help,” Vaughn stated, watching Dante closely for a reaction. He thought back to the years he spent hearing about Dante’s overbearing family. His father had been one of the richest, most powerful men in northern Italy during the fourteenth century. Growing up in the household of a brutal man who argued with kings and manipulated popes had been traumatic and frightening. Dante’s only reprieve had been to die before the rest of his family. Secretly, he hoped his father had been devastated by the loss of his only son. But he doubted it. Of course, Dante had gone to Hell, but at least he was away from his father’s control, the daily threats and beatings. The personal, demoralizing humiliation that rode on every word the old man uttered.
Then came the day when Dante learned that his father and uncles had been Taken as well. Their place in Hell was the third kingdom. From that day on, Dante refused to speak the family’s name, Montecchi, referring to them only as “the family.” For a time, he lived in fear that someone in the fifth kingdom would make the connection between himself and Lord Giano.
“You know I have always worked to stay removed from my father’s awareness,” Dante said bitterly. “I even changed my name. But we know nothing stays secret in Hell forever. He has known exactly where I’ve been for centuries. You recall that message he had smuggled in ages ago? I refused to read it or even acknowledge knowing the sender. I later learned that the carrier made a positive identification to my father. So you see, he’s known where I’ve been all this time.”
Dante curled his lip with a look of pure disgust. Not long ago he thought his father had men watching him and Vaughn. Spies in the fifth working for a noble in the third. The cost alone would have been unimaginable. But Dante knew his father well; Lord Giano had probably perfected the art of manipulation in death, just as he had in life. In the early years, gossipmongers in the fifth would whisper that a powerful lord in the third was looking for ways to negotiate a trade for a damned commoner. No doubt Dante’s father had wanted him back under his control.
It had been the stuff of Dante’s nightmares so he threw himself into playing the “politics of Hell.” Playing the nobles’ games to climb up their ranks and obtain his own power. He gained The Order’s trust and respect, eventually becoming one of the Chosen. Earning a personal demon to live inside him made Dante a Demon Knight—something to fear. If ever came the day when they tried to sell him like a slave to his father’s whim, he would be ready.
“I have lived under my father’s rule once already. Never again. If he has interfered by hiring the guards outside our door, there is nothing to be done about it. Yet. My concern now is Sophia. If my father learns that she is really Lovaria, he’ll search for a way to take her from me. Just to spite me. And I’ll lose her all over again. We must turn her dark before that happens. She must bond to me, sooner rather than later. It will be the only thing to save her from The Order and my father.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?” Vaughn asked.
A loud knock interrupted their conversation and they locked eyes in a moment of panic. Vaughn glanced around for a weapon and found none, then opted for his tattoo daggers and quickly unsheathed them. It might set off Julian Wexler’s alarms but it couldn’t be helped. Dante also slid his dagger down into his palm and opened the door.
Grayson loomed in the threshold with a Marrow Man at his side. The guards, Loaden, Mahl, and Korse, were posted in the corridor.
“You are summoned by The Order,” Grayson stated the obvious. Marrow Men served only to fetch others for The Order. They were mute because their presence was telling enough. The servant lifted his skeletal hand beneath a dark cloak and pointed deeper into the chamber. “They want the girl, too,” Grayson said.
Dante felt his blood grow hot, his veins thickening with it. His demon urged him to compel the Marrow Man and send him away. An impossible task, Dante knew. He was not prepared to bring Sophia before The Order just yet. The state of dividing factions was unclear, since loyalties had not been defined. He had wanted to gather information before she left his chambers.
Vaughn checked the corridor for himself and found no one lurking in the shadows. “I thought Lord Brutus would send a pack of heathens to drag us out. Looks like it’s just a Marrow Man. What do you think he’s playing at?”
Dante couldn’t guess what Lord Brutus or The Order might be conspiring to do. Things were moving too quickly. Dante rarely did anything without a plan or two. But he dared not refuse the servant; dismissing a Marrow Man was an active show of rebellion. Dante worried that he’d rebelled too much lately. If others were loyal to him, he couldn’t risk angering them now. Especially if he wasn’t sure who they were or how many they numbered. All that aside, he wasn’t particularly fond of hiding either.
Movement across the chamber brought Dante and Vaughn around. Ka sauntered casually into the room. She appeared refreshed after a quick bath, the soot gone from her face, her hair woven into a long braid that hung over her shoulder. Her eyes stayed on Dante and she favored him with a warm smile.
Dante felt a thrill race through him. Already his Sophia seemed at home. He was especially pleased that the clothes he’d collected for her fit perfectly. He’d put a great deal of faith in Isatou’s fashion sense. The witch had connections to the finest personal shoppers on the surface. Sophia looked lovely in the Tory Burch black tunic with muted silver trim, black leggings, and flats. Sophia couldn’t possibly know that her colors matched The Order’s personal liveries. Hopefully, it would evoke a sense of loyalty to any nobles still on the fence about things.
“Do we have company?” Ka asked brightly, noticing the servant standing in the corridor. The chalky skeletal frame shifted at the sound of her voice. Ka failed to react to the hollow-eyed creature staring at her.
Dante guessed that fighting the graveyard demons and killing Wolfgang had desensitized her. In any case, he had liked the sound of confidence in her voice. Her chin was high, her spine held erect, and she walked with the grace of a noble lady already.
He retracted his weapons and then took her hand, drew it to his lips, and softly kissed it. “You look lovely,” he whispered, and
was rewarded with a coy smile that made him chuckle. “It seems we have been summoned by The Order.” His mood had shifted and he almost sounded playful. “Well…shall we?” He placed her hand in the crux of his arm.
“Just like that?” Vaughn demanded. “You’re going to go waltzing in there without a plan? What if they take her from you?”
“They won’t,” Dante and Ka answered in unison.
Vaughn’s face went still. He looked at each one in turn, considering things. Sophia, he didn’t understand at all; she was taking her descent into Hell far better than anyone had expected. And Dante was being uncharacteristically careless. Unless…
“I know the ways of my father,” Dante said, if only to ease Vaughn’s suspicions. He regretted speaking about his father in front of Sophia but he couldn’t avoid it forever. “I know how he deals with those he wants to use. How he maneuvers people into places that best serve his needs. If he has procured guards for us, I’m sure he’s put some price of protection on my head—with specific instructions. If I am harmed, others will answer with blood. That will include Sophia now, as she belongs to me. And nothing would make me happier than knowing that my father has paid for our protection—for her protection—so we can finally be together. Something I plan to tell him personally. Someday. When all this business is finished.”
Vaughn grunted with approval. “Personally, I like the idea. Sticking it to the old man. But I still think we could be walking into an ambush.” He pushed ahead of them to take the lead down the corridor, his weapons resting lightly in his palms.
Chapter 8
Sweet Confection in the Air
Christmas morning. Church services are over, and breakfast has been cooked and devoured. Dad and I sit among the carnage of torn gift-wrapping at the base of the tree. It’s a sea of red and green crumpled paper and bows. Dad is trying on the sheepskin UGG slippers that Ka picked out. I was just as surprised as he was when he opened his gifts from me. I had no idea that Ka had found time to do all the Christmas shopping but I’m glad she did.
I’m fiddling with my new iPad, trying to load apps and transfer info. A bellyful of pancakes and bacon has me lethargic. Fresh air would do some good. I contemplate going for a walk when my phone pings. It’s a text from Bailey reminding me that she wanted to drive out to the mansion today. I slump with disappointment. I’ll go, of course, but I know what we’ll find. Nothing. I hate for her to get upset all over again.
“They fit!” Dad declares as he shuffles through the paper debris. He is like a kid in a mud puddle. “It’s the first time you’ve actually gotten the right size.” He laughs without a smidge of concern; as far as he knows, the worst of our problems are over and all our troubles have vanished with the demons. I know if I don’t fix things with Ka, and quickly, I’ll be forced to explain things to him. Something that’s sure to knock his smile off, again.
“Go figure,” I mumbled. I climb to my feet and start cleaning up. I tell Dad that Bailey wants to take a drive, if he doesn’t mind that I go for an hour or so.
“Just be careful. Stay where the snowplow has been. Some roads might have ice under the snow. And if I’m not here when you get back, I’ll probably be at the theater.”
I’m stooped over, filling my arms with paper and boxes, but I stand up and look at him. “What? Why would you be there? Isn’t it closed on Christmas day?”
“It’ll be open,” he mutters while shoving wrapping paper into a plastic trash bag. “I was told they have this local tradition here. On Christmas afternoons. Folks go over to the theater to watch It’s a Wonderful Life on the big screen.” He shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “I might not even go.”
I sigh and add my trash to the bag. We stuff it like a turkey. “This town has a tradition for every— Wait, who told you?” A funny feeling comes over me. Dad mumbles “Connie,” and I follow him to the back door where he tosses the bag into a trash can outside.
“Connie Caulfield? That Connie?” I ask.
There is surprise in my voice so he grumbles, “It’s nothing. She just mentioned it and…” He still sounds indifferent and shrugs it off again. He’s right; he probably won’t go in the end. He’ll park himself in front of the TV and watch something until he falls asleep.
We troop into the kitchen and start cleaning up there. As I hand-dry the dishes that he washes, I think about Dad’s heartfelt confession last night when he talked about Mom and the first time they met. I remember the slow thickness in his voice, the love that weighed it down even after all these years. I think about when she died, and all the space between Dad and me that grew like a living, breathing thing. We suffered on separate islands. And Mom, always the bridge between us, has brought us together again. I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want Dad to ever be unhappy again. I may be only seventeen years into life but I know what awaits a man who grows accustomed to pain and the habit of loss: a lonely, regretful existence. Dad must learn to leave the memories behind, to sweep aside the broken pieces and use up the love he carries around. It’s a good and necessary thing. I know Dad will never love anyone like he loved Mom. He couldn’t possibly. Every love is different.
So much has changed now. I’m going to be married soon, and I want that kind of happiness for him again. Dad is thirty-eight years old and not getting any younger. He has so much love left to give. I couldn’t bare it if he denied himself a chance at happiness just because he’s grown accustomed to worrying about me.
“So, Dad, I’ve been thinking,” I say gently, as if I’m approaching a skittish animal with one hand full of treats and the other holding a rope. I don’t want him to bolt. “It might be fun if, you know, you called Connie and told her you were going to the show.”
“Hmm?” Dad murmurs. It’s his noncommittal sound but I know he’s listening.
“Yeah, so you should call her. Ask her to go with you. Like a date.” I bite my lip and watch his profile for a reaction.
He stops scrubbing a plate and looks at me. “You mean like a date date?” He sounds like he’s been spending too much time with the church youth group.
“Sure, why not?”
He frowns at me with a fair amount of confusion and then returns his attention to the plate. It’s perfectly clean but he keeps scrubbing it. Around and around and around he goes until I reach over and lay my hands on his. “Dad, it’s fine. There is nothing left to clean up.” I give him a pointed look, and he lets go of the plate. He watches in silence while I rinse and dry and put it away.
After a minute he murmurs, “But what would I wear?” and I break into a smile.
—
Regardless of my good intentions and rather mature understanding of things, the words Dad is going on a date feel uncomfortable in my mouth. Like that first time you try an oyster to see what all the fuss is about and realize it’s not for you. You don’t want it there and if you just grin and swallow, it’ll be over soon. This might be harder than I thought. Dad on a date?
Connie said yes so it’s official. Dad is going on a date. On Christmas day. With Connie Caulfield.
This is good. This is necessary.
This is about all I can take. After telling him to have fun, I head upstairs. For some stupid reason, I feel like I might cry. Like I’ve just lost something. My childhood maybe? I don’t know, but it feels like a weakness and it’s pissing me off.
I change into warm clothes I don’t really need and then drive over to Bailey’s house. The bed-and-breakfast has a few guests remaining from the Winter Carnival, an elderly couple who is taking tea in the parlor. Bailey’s mother is coming from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits for her guests. She sees me standing in the foyer and stops.
“Maybe you can talk some sense into her,” she says by way of hello. “She hasn’t even opened her presents.” She gives me a frustrated scowl and then turns to her guests and plasters on a fake smile.
I slip out of my snow-covered boots and pad quietly up the old wooden staircase. Bailey’s music reaches me
before I turn the corner on the landing. She is blaring “Heaven Knows” by The Pretty Reckless, and I know she’s in a funk.
I open the door without knocking and find her splayed out on the bed, fully dressed, and staring at the ceiling. Waiting. She doesn’t hear me come in so I tap her iPod and turn off the music. She raises her head.
“Hey,” she says, sitting up. I start walking over but she stands and heads for the door. “Let’s go.” She sounds irritable.
“Bailey, wait. You know they won’t be there, right?”
“You don’t know—” she starts to argue and then cuts herself off. “I just have to know for sure. Okay?”
And so we go. All the way to the edge of town. When we turn down the long driveway, it’s packed with several inches of snow that make me nervous. It’s treacherous and slow going because I don’t want to slide into a ditch and disappear forever. Bailey unbuckles the moment the house comes into view.
“No sign of life,” I say, thinking the place looks abandoned. She smirks at me and I feel bad. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She climbs down and no amount of arguing will stop her. She has to knock on the damned door before she’ll be convinced that they are really gone.
No one answers. She tries to peek in a window. I think she hollers something. Then she stomps back to the Jeep, climbs in, and slams the door.
“Go,” she snaps.
“Bailey, I’m really sor—”
“Just go.”
I drive. We don’t speak. My mind sifts through every uplifting phrase I’ve ever heard, every Hallmark haiku for the brokenhearted. I seriously doubt there is a sympathy card for being dumped by a demon. Sadly, there are no philosophical gems in my repertoire, so we’re all the way back into town before I look over and offer my best.
