"So, you were for the revolution then?" Opal asked in a small voice that nearly seemed to come from some other place in the room; it was timid and seemingly aloof.
Her eyes lingered on his weakened form—the triangular shape of his back, which was currently pointed in her direction—and set the pistol down. "Yes. I was for it."
He released a low sigh of relief. "For some reason I thought...."
"That I might be related to royalty?"
"Yes." He turned over to face her.
She met his eyes, one hazel the other white, blinded by a childhood bout of smallpox. "No," she lied.
He nodded.
"I was fascinated by Francois Mond, the young revolutionary."
"Very young." His voice was wistful.
Her lip curled up slightly into a bit of a crooked smile. "Yes. Very intriguing."
"Is that what you thought?"
"It's what all the girls thought."
He laughed, shaking his head.
"No? I think you're being modest."
Opal smiled at her, "I just can't imagine you were thinking the same things as everyone else."
"Oh, no? I think you might be disappointed to discover how mundane my thoughts can be."
"Doubtful."
She smiled, focusing more on the floor than on Opal's face. "I was rather disappointed when Kyrian handed me that paperwork he believed was one of your speeches, and it turned out to be Bellamy's. I wanted to read it." She digressed, "I have read some of your speeches, but of course that was before I realized you and he were the same man. Now it's imperative that I read one. I was once intrigued, but now I'm completely absorbed with curiosity."
"Oh, really?" his expression was infinitely more inviting.
"Definitely." She touched his arm lightly. "Perhaps you can recite something?"
He stifled a laugh. "Not very romantic."
"Liberty is a romantic notion to me."
"Well," he sighed, "it's been a long time ... and I've tried to forget them."
"You had a wanted poster for Francois Mond in your shoulder-pack," she countered.
He seemed pained as he considered that. "There aren't many images of me around anymore. I just wanted to have a picture of my youth."
She raised an eyebrow. She guessed it was more likely that he was sentimental about the whole affair. "Yes, whatever happened to all of the pictures they painted of you years ago?"
"Burned, most likely, as soon as the distant relatives of the Belfours returned to power."
"You don't remember any of your speeches at all?"
He thought for a moment, "No."
"Your essays? Poetry?"
"It's been such a long time...." Opal seemed to drift off into memory, and then he turned to looked at her more intensely, "You do know a lot about me."
"Oh, do I?" She moved toward the package of clothing she'd left for him two days before.
He smiled, somewhat pleased with himself now, and he was diligently trying to remember something from one of his more popular speeches.
"You haven't had a look at the clothes I purchased for you."
"Uhh, no. I presume you know me well enough to know what my taste is."
She smiled gently at him, her lips marred by the scar of someone else's mouth over her own. "Ostentatious."
"Fashionable," he corrected.
"Well, that's not what I procured for you." She unwrapped the brown paper and revealed a set of rather plain clothes, jacket and pants in deep blue. "I didn't want you to stand out, and we do need to hide you until we're able to get out of Shandow anyhow."
Opal was unimpressed.
"This," she emphasized as she touched the fabric, "should be fairly inconspicuous."
"For a sea captain."
She frowned at him.
He sighed, "I suppose I'll live. Once I'm able to shave and put on some cosmetics I'll feel like my old self again."
"No make-up."
He was indignant, "What do you mean?"
"No shaving either."
Opal laughed. "You're teasing."
"No. You need to look as little like yourself as you can."
He sunk deeply into the mattress, groaning in defeat.
Cameo walked back over toward him and stroked his chin, "That is quite a beard you have going there. You'll make a fine sea captain."
"I must look awful."
"Not at all."
He couldn't repress a smile. "You clearly have some sort of girlish crush on Francois Mond."
She smiled thoughtfully, "That can't hurt you any."
"No," he sighed and reached up to touch her at the same time. Then he caught sight of the foreign thing moving toward her face and realized it was one of his broken hands. He hastily lowered it, ashamed of his appearance.
She sat down on the side of the bed fluidly, supernatural in her grace. "How is the pain?"
"More whiskey couldn't hurt."
She brought the flask to his lips once more. "I'll call a bath for you. That should brighten your spirits."
"All right," he replied, staring down his hands.
Cameo followed his gaze. "How did it happen?" She asked knowing the answer. She had seen him being tortured through her thralls, which were shades, or as she referred to them shadow-men. She could attach them to other people, so she could make certain her friends were all right or keep tabs on her enemies, and she could send them ahead to find things for her.
"With a hammer," he whispered.
"I'm certain I killed the men who hurt you."
Opal didn't move. He could hear the chill in her voice. He muttered thank you, but somehow it still didn't change anything that had occurred. It didn't change the state he was in now.
"Well, I'll go see one of your friends about getting a tub up here, if that's possible."
His head jerked up suddenly awakened by this new concept. "And you will be bathing me?"
Her mouth curved upward into a somewhat charmed smile. "Yes. Unless you would prefer someone else?"
"No.... No one else comes to mind."
"Alright then. I'll be right back." And with that she was gone.
* * * * *
After a bath, she had dressed Opal in his cream-colored silk shirt and a pair of purple breeches, both of which were once the property of Derbec, a young royal related to the Belfour family. They ate dinner quietly together in his room. She combed through his long, blonde hair and plied him with wine and gin until it grew dark, and then she lay down next to him as he drifted off to sleep.
She curled up against his body. He smelled faintly of soap, which mostly masked the lingering scent of the prison within the palace tower that he’d spent time in. A week of solitude and torture. Her eyes traced the injures on his face, a split lip and a dark contusion on the side of his face, wondering what he had been through.
She watched him sleeping. He breathed deeply in a slumber induced by a hot bath and alcohol. Cameo nuzzled against his chest. Sleep was eluding her, even though she had spent the previous night on the floor of a cold mausoleum, weakened by blood loss. Somehow she couldn't wrap her mind around the concept that they were finally together, and safe now.
Opal's shirt was without buttons, and it puckered open, revealing his pale chest as he breathed ... slowly .... She watched the rise and fall of his chest, then lingered for a little while on the curve of his neck and his chin pointed aristocratically at the ceiling. She traced the shape of his lips in her mind; they were turned up at the ends into a permanently peaceful expression.
Cameo sucked in a breath and slowly slid her fingers under the pucker of his silk shirt, caressing his skin, tenderly running the tips of her fingers over the pox scars. The room was cold and his skin was cool to the touch.
Opal's breath caught in his throat. His eyes fluttered open.
"Yes," he uttered breathlessly.
She raised herself up on her elbows, her mouth brushed against his broken lip, tasting the dried blood. It had an odd flavo
r, maybe even more thrilling than pressing her mouth against his. The taste was almost intoxicating.
"I love you," he breathed as he scrambled to wrap his arms around her and pull her close.
"Mmm ..." she purred against his ear, still reeling from the taste of his blood. Was this that little gift Edel had given her? She had some sort of longing to drink blood? She was becoming more and more like the embodiment of the monster that children sang songs about and less and less like a human.
The moon cast a sliver of light across the floor, giving the room a hazy glow, illuminating Opal's cream shirt and making it appear nearly luminescent.
She focused on the infamous revolutionary she had under her. Opal’s soft, golden hair spread out around him beautifully. The man who had written all of those rousing sentiments about freedom and liberty. That man was actually the one-time highwayman who professed to being in love with her. Her eyes lingered on his broken bottom lip. The reddened hint of blood that would've gone unnoticed by human eyes was so clearly visible, and enthralling to her now.
He muttered something endearing, and then, physically out-weighing her, he was somehow able to roll her onto her side. His loose hair swept against her face. She breathed in the scent of it.
Her lips grazed over his rough beard as she sought his mouth, desiring his kiss, and longing for the taste of his blood again.
Chapter Two
Black Opal awoke in disarray. The sun was shining directly into his one good eye, which he instinctively shut. His head was pounding, and then as he brought the palm of his hand up to his forehead, he felt the sudden, sharp, pinpoint of pain directly on the palm of his right hand, emanating from that spot outward over every nerve in his hand, shooting up into his fingers and down with a throbbing thud into his wrist.
He released a harsh yelp. Opal tried to cup his right hand with his left, which resulted in a similar sensation surging over his left hand and ending at his elbow in a dull pain. This time his cry of pain came out in a stream of obscenities.
All the while, he was wrapped up tight in a confusing tangle of bed sheets that had wound their way around him as they slept. Now that it was morning, he was hung-over, parched, nauseous, and moaning in utter despair at his foolish attempt to rub his aching head.
Cameo sighed softly against her pillow.
He startled and turned to find her still lying in bed with him. He had nearly called out for her help, and there she was, their bodies touching. Opal laid back down on his back; he was incredibly dizzy and now certain that he was going to vomit, probably on the floor.
"Are you all right?" she whispered, turning onto her side to face him.
"Why ... why gin?" he rasped, then rolled over and emptied the contents of his stomach.
"I thought you enjoyed gin," she mused, slipping off the bed. "Like licking a pine tree. Weren't those your thoughts?"
Opal rolled onto his back, weak and sweating. "I'm certain I was drunk when I said that."
She poured him a cup of water from the pitcher at the wash basin, held his head up, and helped him to drink.
He moved to take the cup in his hand, but it just batted against Cameo's arm pointlessly. "This is ridiculous."
She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Just drink the water."
Opal drained the cup and wanted more. "I can't even hold a cup," he whispered, "This is ... pitiful."
Cameo held another cupful to his lips. "I'm going to venture out today. I'll see if there's a doctor nearby."
"What of Kyrian?"
"There's no way he's in this area anymore. He said he was leaving Shandow and headed south of Lockenwood."
"He might be here, if the Azez is still frozen."
"Maybe," she smiled, giving him the benefit of the doubt, and then she stood up and crossed the room. "Right now you at least need a doctor."
Opal attempted to straighten his sheet, which was threatening to cut off the circulation in his leg. "What could I possibly gain from a doctor visit?"
Cameo turned around hunting for her clothes. "A tincture for one thing. You seem to be in a lot of pain."
"I wish to remain clear-headed." Admiring her naked form, he said, "Have your scars faded?"
She released a harsh laugh. Opal had poor eyesight at best. He was completely blind in one eye, and the other was worn out from picking up all the slack for years. She shook her head and glanced down at the horrendous scars Clovis Gail DePell had left her with decades ago. A trail of hideous designs that started at her collarbone and ended at the tips of her toes, including his signature. She frowned as she remembered the torture she'd endured obtaining those scars. As she examined the signature, she realized that it was flat against her body, smoother than it had been, and no longer discolored.
"It is faded ... but how could that be?"
"The bite you had on your mouth, that's faded too."
"It has?" She reached for her shoulder-pack and produced a hand mirror. The imprint of Edel's teeth had faded away.
Opal raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't have a mirror."
"I was mistaken."
"Apparently."
Cameo began to dress, wondering why scars that had been a part of her flesh for the last ... few decades … were now healing.
The dandy sighed. He would receive the mirror, and his opportunity for clothing only after Cameo slipped into her leather armor. He pressed his head into the pillow and stared into the cracked ceiling in frustration.
* * * * *
After she had dressed, Cameo left Opal upstairs in the clothing he'd dubbed the sea captain ensemble, leaving him to his own devices for a few hours. She now knew better than to assume he was helpless without her. As she exited the ancient wooden entryway of Hattie's establishment, she was nearly certain he had already obtained new guests.
The ice cracked under the sole of her boots as she stepped down onto the stoop. The wintry wind caught her hair and her cloak and spun them both up and around her, biting briskly at her face, but not being completely human, she was spared the sting of it. Perhaps Edel was right and she should rejoice about her position in life, not quite human but better than human. She looked out at the darkened town before her; trees were bent down to the ground, each limb encased in ice. Cameo took a swig from her flask. It warmed her throat.
"Edel ...." she scoffed, and that nagging thought propelled her forward. Only Edel could think this was better than being human. She frowned. But Edel would probably have preferred to be closer to humanity, too, if truth be told. He probably envied my humanity. "Envy .... Well, who wouldn't envy this?" she asked bitterly.
A man avoided her as she passed him on the road.
Cameo sighed and replaced her flask. There was a sign bearing the markings of a mortar and pestle up ahead, and she proceeded toward it, knocking on the door to what seemed to be someone's home, and then opening the door and letting herself in.
It was small and dark inside, with bunches of wildflowers and the like hanging in bundles from the ceiling, and large jars of powdery substances sitting on the shelves. She closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance of the place, enjoying the spicy, flowery smell intermingling with the smell of icy cold.
"Can I help you?" A young woman's voice roused Cameo.
The assassin opened her eyes slowly, almost unwillingly, and met the woman's gaze.
The young woman's jovial expression dropped. A monster had just walked into her store.
"You're an apothecary?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Do you have some paper and a pen?"
The apothecary motioned to a small work area where she had a bit of paper.
"I need to have a doctor sent to this address," Cameo said, handing the note to the woman.
"Yes, we do have one doctor in residence here in town. I'll send someone to fetch him. Is it urgent?"
Cameo shook her head. "But he is in pain. He needs a tincture."
The woman relaxed a bit, Cameo's tone seemed amicable
enough, for something clearly not natural.
Her skirts swished against the floor as she walked toward a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of brownish liquid that she poured into a ceramic flask, replaced the cover, and handed it to Cameo.
"Thank you." The assassin attempted to pay the other woman, but she waved it away as if her money might sully the energy in her shop. Cameo lowered her head in compliance, saying "As you wish," and then the assassin swept out the door and into the town.
As she moved away from the shop, the tincture in hand, she was astounded to see the dark figure standing on the path before her. Jules. He had followed her into Dinghbrook, probably still hoping to avenge Wick's death. She pulled a dagger, uncertain as to his motives but knowing he'd been pretty annoyed for a while by her murdering his ex-girlfriend, and so that was the most likely reason for his visit.
He glanced at the flask. "Can that be painkiller? A tincture perhaps?"
She raised an eyebrow.
Jules moved toward her slowly. "Does it work? Alcohol never seems to work for me anymore."
She met his eyes defiantly. "I thought I'd seen the last of you."
A pained look crossed his face for a moment. "No."
"What do you want then? More winter clothes?"
He smirked, "No."
Cameo tightened her grasp on the dagger's hilt. "Then let me pass without incident, and stop following me."
Jules watched her as she brushed past him. "I can't."
She turned around to face him again with supernatural speed.
Cameo and the Vampire (Trilogy of Shadows Book 3) Page 2
