“Sure.” I watched her lonely eyes inspect a frizzy lock before flattening the loose hairs. Part of me feared what dresses she had chosen. Hopefully they’d be loose enough to breathe. “You’re not too bad, Delia. You liven up this place.”
“Oh, I do know. I’m going to start throwing parties one day. Errol doesn’t know yet, but it would be enchanting to have evening cocktails, piano music, guests mingling about on the patio outside. And if you and I threw them together, could you imagine the fun?”
I gave my freckles a once over. “I don’t think I’d fit in. I’m more of a tomboy.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Tomboys are pretty, too. I suspect your earthy nature is why Brent Hume is so smitten with you.”
I spun around and nearly got a red fingernail in the face. “You know Brent?”
“Most definitely.” She whirled me back around so our conversation could continue through the mirror. “He and I had a…relationship many years ago.”
I clenched my fists at my sides. “What kind of relationship?”
“Well, silly, if you want particulars, we met in Las Vegas when I was a showgirl. It was a hot-and-cold type of fling, though. Brent was too focused on saving Styx from bad deeds.”
In the mirror, I watched my neck redden. “He still is.”
“Well. Errol is a superb lover. I enjoy his company, but Brent has something wild in him that I miss. Something feral that makes a girl weak in the knees.” She leaned forward and put her red pout inches from my ear. “But you must know what I’m talking about, you lucky thing.”
No matter how excruciating I knew it would be, I stood up and ripped her fingers from my locks. “Is this what you came up here for? To fight over Brent?”
Her glossy lips turned down. “Not at all. I wanted to make you feel like the beautiful woman you are.”
“I feel beautiful on my own, thanks.”
“My, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She put a hand to her chest. “Was it something I said?”
“You can’t say anything to upset me, Delia.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Oh, dear, when was the last time you were with Brent?”
I avoided her eyes. “It’s not important. Marin won’t let us see each other so…no action…in two years.” I couldn’t believe I admitted this to her.
“Darling, that’s vile. You must be itching to ride a horse bareback.” Her voice was toneless as she placed her hands on my cheeks. Too weak to pull away or punch her, I gazed into her perfect face. She passed her pink tongue between her parted lips and, before I had sense to know what was happening, put her mouth to mine in a kiss gentler than any I had ever had. The scent of strawberry lipstick lingered when she backed away, smiling.
This wasn’t about Brent, was it?
“It took me a long time to learn that love comes in many forms,” she purred, raking my face with her russet eyes. “Give me a wink when you need a horseback riding lesson.”
I gawped as she packed her box of beauty. I had nothing to say. Air didn’t seem interested in working for me at the moment.
She hip-bumped me when she passed by. “Toodle-oo, Shortcake.”
Chapter Fourteen
“In a gentle way, you can shake the world.”
—Mahatma Gandhi
I spent the remainder of my day at Wrightwick buried in the tiny library, poring over manuscript after manuscript as I waited on the news from Errol’s interrogation of Chad and the others. Since Delia was not as focused on books as she was beauty, I was positive she wouldn’t find me here. The library was a safe haven from rogue lips—male or female.
The library held a wealth of Scrivener history and information. Countless portfolios of drawings I had presumed to be tattoos lined the bookcases of the room. Some shelves held glass shadowboxes of preserved skin tattooed by Scriveners long past—some pieces predating human history. I could spend hours perusing the collection and absorbing whatever I could about my kind and Styx.
Something struck me while reading Scriveners: A History. Mindreading was an advanced-level Scrivening skill. I had intentions of finishing the chapter to learn more. A mind-reading rebel would make an excellent weapon, after all. And there were other skills—healing, persuasion—that came with Master Scrivener powers. Each person manifested different talents once at full power. I wanted to learn about them all.
But there was one distraction I could not discount any longer.
Since Dudley was fond of Nicodemus, I had expected to see the old man more regularly. Apparently, however, he was an introvert, seeking solitude in the orchards. This was a sentiment I understood well. So it was particularly strange to watch Nicodemus, silent and stoic, enter the library and sit down across from me at a table covered in thick, moldy books.
Eyes trained on my book, I asked the old man, “How was your walk?” He’d sat silently, waiting to steal my attention. Nicodemus and Dudley, different species, held more behavioral similarities than opposing ones.
“I am worried,” he said, avoiding my question.
“What about?”
Nicodemus folded his hands and carefully set them on the pages of an open book. “Marin is a sleeping giant. He has destroyed Stygians here and there by accusing and punishing them for any Class of Offenses. This attack on you was ordered; I am sure of it. And that means Marin wants to weaken us from the inside, and now he is going to do something else, something worse.”
This idea had not crossed my mind until this moment, and I felt a ten-ton mass slide into my stomach.
His bony knuckles turned shades of white. Communication between us was effortless, even though I was still learning the wrinkles on his hands and face, and the exact color of his white beard. “I expected to be voted in as Head Reaper before Marin assumed the role,” he said in a way that sounded sheepish. “However, Marin stole the election from me. I can only assume the election was rigged, knowing his history.”
Saying that somebody stole your rightful throne was ballsy. Hell, it was downright arrogant. I didn’t find Nicodemus’s confession out of line, however. Styx needed a gentle hand, not an iron fist. If anyone other than Brent was fit for the job of Head Reaper, it was Nicodemus. After all, Death, though frightening in and of itself, shouldn’t impart horror. I was sure that good, honest souls didn’t receive an amicable hug when they passed by Marin’s desk on the final leg of their journey to the Afterlife. With Nicodemus at the helm, they would.
For that reason, I did not scoff or think of him differently after his proclamation.
“What do you think he will do if he does attack?” I asked, keeping Nicodemus from explaining himself further, because I was on his side and already believed in him. “He has his Eidolons, but there are few of them. Three are in our custody, and three others are in alliance with the rebels. That doesn’t leave many left. Maybe a hundred at the most.”
His hands unfolded and dropped to his sides.
“You don’t look convinced that we can stave them off,” I said.
He wagged his head with deliberate subtlety. “I’m not entirely convinced that we can, but there are ways in which we can fight,” said Nicodemus.
“Like what?” Wrightwick had weapons tacked up on the walls, but did it have cavalry and cannons and tanks and scud missiles?
“Like Matching,” he said, as if I was an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.
“What’s Matching?”
“That’s what I was fearing all along.” He gave a disappointed sigh that left me feeling like a school kid who failed a pop quiz. “Matching could be enough to thwart a small attack, but if Marin uses everything he has, we might find even with our Scriveners’ assistance, we will fail.”
With the mention of “Matching,” Nicodemus lost me. What came to mind was not a chat I was interested in having with him. But seeing as it was tied to the subject of defensive measures, I had no other choice but to go against instinct and inquire.
“Sorry, but what’s Matching?” I as
ked.
“When a Scrivener and Eidolon unite forces, they make one formidable warrior,” Nicodemus explained. “It is a form of Half-death, which I read on the rebel blogsite was how you and Brent snuck into Lethe in the first place.”
I knew more than I needed to about Half-death, thanks to Brent. My experience had nothing to do with uniting to fight in some wicked battle. Brent had once Half-deathed me to move us both through a locked door inside Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City. The sensation was about as pleasant as sitting naked in a bathtub filled with ice, while vile, disturbing emotions consume your awareness.
Matching sounded like a more extreme form of Half-death and, quite honestly, something I would not want to subject myself to. Yet considering that Marin might come at us with Eidolons and his own personal rage, I might not have a choice. So if the only Eidolons I had to choose from were Nicodemus or Chad, my decision was easy.
“How do I…we…do it?” I said.
“It’s simple, really, though entirely unpleasant.”
There was a quiet knock on the door of the library. Nicodemus shuffled over to answer. With a wrench of the knob, he welcomed Errol inside. Surrounded by a group of his Trivials, including Murray, Errol stormed across the room with an expression I hadn’t ever seen on him. The little library, stuffy with one or two bodies inside, was oppressive with eight.
Errol planted himself next to me on the wooden bench, nearly crushing a history book about Scriveners beneath his backside. “I’m in a hurry, so please forgive me if I seem curt. I need you to tell me everythin’ that happened when Percy visited you in Montana. Give me the details.”
Unsettled by his temperament, I carefully shared what I remembered about Leo’s head, Chad’s appearance, and—most horrifying of it all––the Trivials unleashing their spiderlike prowess against me. Throughout my narration, Errol’s eyes steeled.
When I concluded my story, he bolted off the bench with enough force to rock my balance. “I saved Percy from Erebus. All I asked for was her loyalty. The only explanation I can think of for this behavior is that she has been promised a reward better than anythin’ I can give her. The only Stygian capable of that is Marin!”
“Maybe she didn’t mean to betray you.” I felt, strangely, the need to defend the girl.
“She’s workin’ for the enemy, but I canna prove it if she’s not here to question.”
“Why would she work for Marin?” I asked.
He circled to me. “Marin has wanted Wrightwick destroyed for as long as he has been Head Reaper. Years ago, he outright attacked us. Now he’s gettin’ underhanded. He’s infiltrated my people. If Percy has joined his side, who else has?”
That was a rhetorical question, right?
“Have you talked to Chad yet?” I was on my feet.
He stalked to the door to the basement, his back to me. “I am goin’ now. Chadwick has been loyal to Marin in the past. I canna be assured he is nae a mole. He stays in our holdin’ cells with the other two Eidolons until I straighten things out.” As Errol spoke, the Trivials closed in around him as protectors, but it seemed silly. Errol didn’t need protecting. Wrightwick did.
“Anythin’ you need—food, linens, clothes…anything—inform my servants.” Errol said after a pause. “They will gladly assist you. Make Wrightwick your home, Olivia, because it will be for quite some time.”
I flew across the room, trying to shove between Trivials. My fingers barely curled around the hard muscle of his left bicep before a Trivial threw me back against the little wooden table covered in books. “You can’t be serious? I won’t be a prisoner!”
Over his shoulder, he stared down at me with eyes as cold as ice. “If you walk off Wrightwick property, half-ferried or not, you’re at risk, and I canna bear the thought of you hurt any more than you already are.”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re lovers,” I hissed. “We hardly know each other, and it’ll stay that way, because you’re going to let me leave today.”
He circled around and set his jaw. The Trivials moved aside. “Are you daft, Scrivener?”
I rooted my stance.
“Marin ordered those Eidolons to permanently incapacitate you. I canna be certain Chadwick is nae out for the same blood. And Percy is likely spy.” He seethed, redness trickling from his hairline down his forehead. “I dinna know what else is out there waitin’ to have your throat, but it’s a sensible assumption that you’re not in high favor with Marin’s loyalists. You will stay here until I decide it is safe.”
If I’d had a boot or an ashtray or something other than ancient, delicate books, I would’ve thrown it out of rage. Since I didn’t, I quivered, readying to explode Olivia-bits all over the motherfucking library walls. “I didn’t come to this part of the world to have you dictate what I can do or when I can leave. I have more freedom under Marin’s rule than yours, for Hades’ sake!”
Errol’s penetrating glare didn’t lessen my fury. I didn’t fear him. He had said that if he did anything to hurt me, he’d have more to contend with than breaking diplomacy. He’d have to deal with Brent Hume, someone who would always be my greatest defense.
“Take her cell phone,” Errol said.
“No! I haven’t gotten a hold of Papa yet,” I snarled.
Murray didn’t hesitate to use force to take my only connection to the outside world. I didn’t have time to stow my phone inside my bra or panties. My phone was handed over to Errol and subsequently melted in his hand. He dumped the pieces of plastic on top of a book titled Stygian Decorum.
Before I could think or say anything else, Errol and his Trivials descended into the basement where the prison cells held the enemy Eidolons. And Chad, whatever he was.
At least my prison was filled with books and orchards.
Chapter Fifteen
“We are coming for you, Head Reaper.”
—HermesHarbinger.com
“Look at it this way, Teacup. Everyone debates the existence of the G-spot, but if a woman has ever had hers tickled, she knows it’s no fairytale. The same is true for Scriveners. We have a happy spot, but we have to find it before we can use it.” Delia swung her long, thin arms at her sides, batting the fanned skirt of her floral sundress. Her salmon-colored stilettos sank into the grass of the fruit orchard, but she hadn’t once stumbled or gotten a heel stuck.
I walked beside her, observing Wrightwick, the mass of peach and nectarine trees around us, and Dudley trying to catch the Painted Lady butterflies. Delia had decided that hours of sitting amid cases of preserved skin and stale, rotting paper in a windowless room hadn’t treated me well. I was suspicious that Errol had sent her to make up for his behavior earlier, so I went along with Delia with an underhanded motive.
I would sway Delia into letting me use her or someone else’s phone to call Papa. He—and somehow Brent—needed to know what was happening, even if Marin did not.
“You made me put on this dress to tell me that I have to find my happy spot?” I said.
She stopped and batted her lashes. “Do you not like the dress?”
How could I not? She had gifted me with a Bohemian frock with bell sleeves and a short, ruffled hem that showed off the slight curve to my inner thighs. The fact that she had brought me a dress that I’d actually wear and not a haute couture gown so tight my knees rubbed together had been enough to quell some of the bad blood between us. Even so, I kept her at arms’ length, and my lips out of reach.
“I don’t think playing dress up and walking through the orchard is sitting well with me. I don’t like being a prisoner,” I said.
“Errol is doing what is best for everyone, Teacup.” Her words held more of a command than I expected from her. “If it makes you feel better, I will take it upon myself to see that you don’t suffer while you are here.”
“Thanks.” I resumed our leisurely pace. “I never asked. What’s your Deathmark?”
“My Deathmark is a rose,” she said with pride. “I’ve never learned on that tattoo gun
thingie or the hammer. A carving knife works just as well.”
“You mean you—”
“I carve drawings into people’s skin. I don’t get much work.”
I shuddered. “That’s…that’s horrifying.”
“How is it any worse than what you do?”
“What I do is humane. I don’t cut into people with a knife.”
She shrugged. Delia’s flippantness didn’t put me off like it had a day ago. She had quickly grown on me, even if I still wanted to break a chair over her head. Every time jealousy crept in, I reminded myself that Brent had given up everything for me—he hadn’t for her.
Dudley danced around us with his tongue flapping out one side of his mouth. I ruffled the fur of his neck. His eyes glazed over in pleasurable submission.
“Look at what the mountains blew in,” Delia grumbled.
A flash of gilded hair drew my attention from Dudley’s contentment. I stood up, slow but tall, and squinted at the approaching figure as she came into view.
Percy regarded us with a sneer as she came closer, her short hair flipping in the breeze. I knew in my bones she wasn’t coming over to entertain us with where she had been.
“Where’s Errol?” Percy’s face was stained with splotches of tear-streaked dirt and—could it be?––a black eye.
“My, you look as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.” Delia’s scowl could’ve melted kittens. “What’s with that shiner?”
Percy swatted her hair over part of her face before turning on me. “I thought you’d be paralyzed by now, Olivia Dormier. We were all betting you would,” she said in her high-pitched voice.
“Yeah, well, I’m not easy to take down.” The damned truth, too.
Dudley made a strange yowl as he paced behind me.
“What’s its problem?” she hissed.
I strode toward her, squaring my shoulders to remind her that she was much smaller than me. “He doesn’t like snotty kids, I’m afraid,” Delia interjected.
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