Chapter 31

31

Farryn

Kneeling before Remy, who held up his shirt where he sat at the dining room table, I daubed a small bit of antiseptic from a corked apothecary jar onto the treks of opened flesh across his flank. “I really think this is going to need stitches,” I said, swallowing past the queasiness rising up into my throat again.

“Nah. I’ve had worse.” It was then I noticed the multiple scars across his chest and stomach, some of which appeared to be grisly in nature.

“You get into a lot of fights here?”

“I’ve had a few.”

“I’ve never seen blood so dark before. And thick.” Given where I was, I didn’t question it, though. Perhaps that was what happened when souls crossed over.

“Ah, well. When you’re as healthy as an ox, like me, you need thick blood,” he said, dismissively. A muscle in his pectoral twitched, and when I looked up, he was smiling down at me.

Cheeks burning, I lowered my gaze again.

“You don’t like attention, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“’Fraid that’s how it goes, when you smell as … delectable as you do. Makes a man want to—”

“Okay, I don’t particularly want to know.” Especially not while I was kneeling at the guy’s feet.

He chuckled, still holding his shirt. “When you’re curious, we’ll talk.”

“Sure.” Once I’d cleaned the wound, I placed a fresh, clean linen across it, then wrapped his torso with a long strip of torn fabric that Remy had taken the liberty of shredding from a bedsheet. After a few loops around his waist, I secured it with a knot.?“You’ll want to check this in a couple days just, to make sure it’s not infected.”

“Sure, sure.”

At that, I pushed to my feet, and as I turned to wash the blood and antiseptic from my hands, I felt a grip of my arm.?The unexpected and unwelcomed touch had my muscles tense and stiff, and perhaps sensing my unease, he released me.

“I just wanted to say thanks. For this.”

“It’s no problem. Really.”

“Well, no one’s ever tended my wounds before.”

“It was no big deal.”

Gaze trailing over me, he smiled. “I want to do something for you.”

Sensing the implication in his leering stare, I busied myself by straightening up the linens tossed around the wash basin on the tabletop and cleared my throat. “Uh, really. Your thanks is plenty.” Keeping my back to him, I dipped my hands into the basin of water, and frowned at the way the blood dissipated, the moment my skin was submerged. Where there should’ve been a cloudy pink hue to the water, the liquid remained clear. Only white curls of steam rose up from its surface.

“Thanks is a mere pittance of gratitude,” Remy went on, interrupting my stare. “Tell me what I can do for you, princess. I’m more than happy to oblige.”

As I reached for a linen beside me, I rolled my eyes and huffed. A thought struck me, and I turned around to face him, catching his eyes flicker from where he must’ve been staring at my ass. “There is something you can do, as a matter of fact.”

His brows winged up. “Really?”

“Really.” Once my hands had dried, I tossed the linen aside and took hold of my locket, opening it for the picture inside. “This is my father, Augustus. I’m trying to figure out what happened to him. Have you seen him?”

He rose from the chair he’d been sitting on and held the locket in his palm, his height made apparent by his closeness. “Nah. I haven’t seen him.”

With a sigh, I slid the locket free and nodded. “I figured.”

“Tell you what, princess, I’ll ask around. Augustus is his name?”

“Augustus Ravenshaw, yes.”

“If he’s here? I’ll find him. Any chance you’re offering a reward?”

Scowling up at him, I took a step back. “Yes. My undying and sincere gratitude.”

Hands held up, he chuckled. “Just asking.”

* * *

Athrum of nervous energy pulsed through me, as I stood before the thick, wooden door, fist poised to knock.

“Come in,” the deep voice said from the other side, before my knuckles so much as touched the panel.

I opened the door to an exceptionally large office, with rich ebony wood that darkened the room. Tall bookshelves made up the wall behind where Van Croix sat at his desk, filled with books. A window between the shelves overlooked the cliff and the endless horizon beyond. On another wall hung an engraved plaque that read Blackwater Cathedral, established in 1675.

Van Croix’s eye scanned over me, as I approached and took a seat across from him. Hands fidgeting in my lap, I felt like I was back in high school, called in to the principal’s office.

Didn’t help that he carried a naturally intimidating aura in his sharp, black suit and eye patch.

“I found nothing,” he said before I could ask. “No creature. No caretaker. Only what I guessed to be Remy’s blood.”

“Look, Mister Van Croix, I’m not lying--”

“Explanations are unnecessary, Miss Ravenshaw. I believe you.” Even casually leaning back in his chair, the man radiated the kind of power that electrified the space between us. “You mentioned earlier that you saw this creature before. Where, exactly?”

“The Misty Forest, or whatever you call it.”

“Where Anya found you.”

“Yes.”

“Describe what you saw.”

“It was …. Well, I’m not sure. It was clawed and had dark, mottled skin. Rotted,” I said with a grimace, recalling the way it had crawled out from the bushes. “It carried an awful stench. Like sulfur. Wasn’t human, I can tell you that.”

Eyes narrowed on me, he tipped his head. “Of course it wasn’t human, Miss Ravenshaw. How many humans do you know who have rotted skin and smell like sulfur?” He pushed up from his chair, and as he rounded the desk toward me, my heart kicked up. Resting back against the desktop in front of me, he crossed his arms. “Exactly how much do you know about this place?”

I pondered the question, mentally calculating the consequences of telling him how I arrived. What would he do if he knew that I was not one of the dead? “If you’re referring to Nightshade itself, more than many I’ve encountered here.” Every nerve in my body seemed to hum with his close proximity, like a current moving through me. Distracting and odd, it curled my stomach and caressed my thighs.

“I get a sense of that,” he kept on, as if oblivious to the sensations coursing through me. “Then, you know why many are here.”

I licked my lips that had suddenly gone dry. “I do.”

The subtle dip of his gaze had my thighs twitching with the urge to cross my legs, while an inexplicable warmth settled over me. Jesus, was I coming down with something?

“Are you aware, then, that the scent you carry is quite unusual. A pure and earthly aroma. Living. Which is a mystery, given where we are.” Even his voice had suddenly become deeper.

So deep.

Irritated by the distraction, I cleared my throat and shifted in the chair. “What does that mean? Exactly?”

“It means, while some may be immune to it, I can assure you, others may find it completely intoxicating.”

Desperate to focus on his words, I lowered my gaze to avoid staring at the curious bulge in his slacks that sat perfectly at eye-level to me. My mouth watered. Why the hell was my mouth watering all of a sudden? I swallowed back the saliva on my tongue. Focus. “You’re saying that this … thing … is hunting me?”

“I don’t think it can help itself.” Again, that voice. Something was wrong. Very wrong. My body felt like it was going haywire, signals misfiring inside of me. “So, Miss Ravenshaw, how about if you try a little honesty and tell me how you really got here?”

Surely, he had to have noticed something was going on. “I don’t … I don’t feel … I feel strange.”

“Strange, how?”

The question made me chuckle. As if I had any intentions of telling him that I felt a compelling urge to investigate that bulge in his pants right now. “It’s, um … my stomach, I think.”

“Your stomach,” he said in a flat voice and leaned forward. Resting his hands on the arms of the chair, he caged me in. “Your stomach, or your thighs?” His gaze dipped toward them and back to me. “They do seem to be clenching quite a bit.”

I clenched harder, muscles burning. Trembling. Aching to be gripped by rough hands. “I don’t know what it is. I just feel … not myself.”

“Then, perhaps this other self will answer my question. How did you arrive in Nightshade?”

At soft fluttering at the apex of my thighs, I let out a whimper, clearing my throat to cover up the ridiculous sound. My eyes caught on the small bit of his chest peeking out between the few loosened buttons of his shirt. And his scent. God, that scent. Like everything I ever wanted wrapped up in a single inhale.

“Are you doing this to me?”

“Doing what?”

So frustrating, the sensation coursing through me, like trying not to get worked up while watching a Henry Cavill movie.

He leaned closer, his lips to my ear, warm breath feathering my skin in the most delicious way. “Tell me how you arrived?”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Every time the man spoke in that voice, I squirmed in my chair. Fuck it. “A cambion. A cambion helped me cross over.”

“A cambion.”

The sensation in my thighs eased, the current of whatever had stricken me lessening. When he finally pushed away, it seemed to dissipate all together.

Nails digging into the leather seat at either side of me, I exhaled a shaky breath. “I drank a tea, and …” Fell off a rooftop into another world. “Woke up here.”

“A tea. And where exactly did you find this cambion who helped you?”

“Chicago. And since I’m being honest with you, how about you share a little honesty with me.”

Gaze lifting to mine, he crossed his arms again and rounded me. “Fair enough,” he said at my back.

Head kicked to the side, I only caught his shadowy form in my periphery. “I know you know about the Pentacrux. My father sent me to you. I don’t know why, but he did.” He came around to the other side of me, like a circling shark , as he made his way to his chair. Everything from his unrushed stride, to the way he wore that suit with tailored precision, was predatory. And there I sat, feeling vulnerable. “He felt that I was in danger from them and believed that you would …. Well …that you would ...”

He ran his thumb over his bottom lip, a glint of amusement darkening his gaze. “That I would what? Save you? Protect you?” At that, he sneered. “Do I look like the hero in one of your books, Miss Ravenshaw?”

Certainly not. The heroes in books I’d read were nothing like him. They were normal, colorless and bland. Van Croix would’ve been the crafty villain in the story who saw right through them.

“All I know is that I can’t go back to my old life until I know if this group is after me, or if I’m part of some elaborate prank. I have a theory, however crazy it is.”

“What is your theory?” he asked with an air of boredom.

“I believe Pentacrux might be … the dark ones.”

“The dark ones?”

“The Fallen. Please don’t play with me, Mister Van Croix. I know you’re aware of more than you admit.”

The corner of his lips lifted into an artful smile. “I can assure you, my sense of play is far more sinister than boring conversation about the Fallen.”

“I found a feather in my bedroom. And it had strange symbols on it. A weird symbol my father called Libidine. And another … I can’t remember what he might’ve called it, but it was odd.”

“Perhaps you could draw it.” His tone held a hint of mocking, which only stoked my frustration.

“Sure.” The paper he handed me bore a logo at the top, of a hooded reaper-looking figure with black wings and a sword. Van Croix & Associates. When he offered a pen, I sat puzzling what the logo, coupled to the company name, implied. Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t ease any fears one might’ve had about his reputation being Death.

In the space below the logo, I attempted to sketch the symbol I’d seen from memory. “It’s not the best drawing,” I said, turning it around to face him.

His brows came together in the first serious expression I’d seen since our meeting began. “This feather …. You say you found it where?”

“In my room. I had a dream that I was walking through a church. A message appeared on a brick wall. Find Van Croix in Nightshade. And the feather appeared in my dream. When I woke up, it was lying on the floor. That dream was premonitory in nature.”

“How so?”

“The wall crumbled to reveal two nuns who’d been hanged inside of it.” An unsettling feeling crawled over my skin at the memory of the night Hines had come to the house. “The next night, I learned of their murder. I don’t know who they were. I’d never seen those women before.”

“You’ve had dreams like this before?”

“Not entirely premonitory. I do dream violent things, sometimes, but I’ve a feeling the Pentacrux are behind not only the murder, but that feather, too.”

“And what gives you that feeling?”

“Because what my father believed to be their emblem was left behind at a different murder.”

“How was your father qualified to know it was their emblem?”

“He studied it for a number of years. Lost his mind over it. Literally.”

“Show me what he believed to symbolize the Pentacrux.”

Perhaps it was the way he framed the question as a challenge that kept me from showing him my birthmark. With its rough edges and questionable similarity, I didn’t want him dismissing me as a fool. Instead, I drew the symbol onto the paper beside the first sketch.

The furrow in his brow deepened as he examined the drawing closer. “As illuminating as this conversation has been, I’m afraid I need to cut it short.”

“Mister Van Croix, please. I’m begging you. Any morsel of information you could share would be greatly appreciated. I’m … admittedly lost.”

Stroking the shadow of stubble on his jaw, he seemed to chew on the request for a moment.?“I saw him once.” The words arrived out of nowhere, and at first, I had no idea what he was talking about, until he stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a beautiful silver timepiece I recognized as a gift I’d given my father, when I was about ten years old. One he kept on him at all times.

“How did you come upon this?” I asked, as he handed it off to me.

“He gave it to me. In passing.”

A flicker of excitement jolted me forward in my seat. “Then, you did see him. He did come to you!”

“Yes. Briefly.”

“What did you mean, in passing?”

“I had my dogs chase him off. He appeared rather unstable, chattering on about signs and prophecies.”

The familiar pangs of disappointment needled me again. “Do you have any idea where he went? Did he look well, or sick? Was he with anyone?”

“No.” The tinge of annoyance in his voice told me not to pry into which question he’d answered.

“I don’t understand why he would’ve given you something so important.”

“Seems your father had some premonition that you might end up at my home.”

“I honestly don’t know what would compel him to assume such a thing. Or why, for that matter. He went missing years ago, and I only recently stumbled upon his journal that spoke of Nightshade. And you.”

As if distracted, he stared intently back at me, so deeply that I had to look away.

I’d become so oblivious to the attentions of men that I didn’t quite know how to behave in their presence, and this particular man made all others look like boys. “I’m desperate to find him.”

“Is it possible that he isn’t missing, at all? And perhaps dead?”

“No. I refuse to believe that.”

“Your refusal leaves you exceptionally vulnerable to disappointment.”

“You must be the most cynical man in existence.”

“And is it your fancy fantasies and books that instill you with so much hope? Tell me, what do you believe, Miss Ravenshaw? That love will save you? Or your father, for that matter? Is it your hope that you think keeps him alive in this place, where such things are snuffed like a broken lamp?”

“I’m perfectly capable of accepting the possibility that he’s dead. But uncertainty is more maddening than truth. I need to know … one way, or the other.”

“And I wish you luck in that endeavor. I will impart this, though. What left that feather in your room was not a member of the Pentacrux, but a fallen angel. The two are definitely not the same thing. The Pentacrux no longer exists, Miss Ravenshaw. Whatever gave you the silly notion that they were after you?”

Not willing to tell him it was the notes of my delusional father, and a symbol that’d been drawn on my bedroom window, I shook my head. “I’m not really sure.”

“You’ve been misguided. I am not the white knight your father made you believe. On the contrary, he put you in grave danger by sending you to me.”

“And I was a fool for listening to him.”

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he shrugged. “If there’s nothing more to discuss, I’ll return to my work.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.” I pushed up from the chair and headed toward the door.

“Miss Ravenshaw,” he said, bringing me to a halt before my hand touched the knob. “I’ve an issue for you. I’m not providing you with housing and food so that you can play with my dogs all day. You’re tasked to feed and care for them and nothing more.”

“How can I establish a proper relationship as a caretaker, if I’m only ever barking orders, or feeding them?”

“That’s all they require.”

”Perhaps you might allow more structured play? Say, if I were to incorporate a bit of training and discipline?”

“I am always in favor of discipline.” An unbidden image of lying naked across his lap flashed through my head, and as if he could see the same visual, his lips curved into a smile.

Cheeks hot, I lowered my gaze and nodded. “Then, I’ll respect your wishes,” I said, and slipped through the door.