Chapter 13

Thirteen

When we leave the wing of the house where Damien and Kelly’s rooms are, Bran doesn’t take me downstairs. Instead we go to the opposite wing, and deep, deep into the recess, down several more hallways until I’m well and truly lost again.

I guess this is another reason why he put me in the Anneliese when I first came to Duval House. I don’t think I would have lasted a day in the main house. I would be lost in some distant corner like a mouse in a maze.

I snort at my own joke and Bran casts a sidelong glance my way.

“Why are you laughing?”

I wipe the smile from my face. He’s disgruntled, tense, and clearly on some mission he has yet to share with me.

I told him I wanted to make a bold statement tonight with Arion and the rest of the fae community in Midnight. Bran said he had just the thing for it, but he has yet to tell me what the thing is.

“I was just thinking about mice in mazes looking for cheese,” I tell him.

He comes to a sudden stop and I have to backtrack several steps to meet up with him again. There is no hint of emotion on his face, but I can still read the rigidity of his body, catching the barest of annoyance in the fine lines around his eyes.

He’s so fucking hot when he’s annoyed. Sometimes I want to annoy him on purpose to watch him scowl and brood at me.

“What?” I ask.

“My brother nearly snapped your neck just now and you’re making jokes about cheese?”

I shrug. “Damien isn’t the first person to try to do me harm.”

To be honest, I haven’t quite processed how close I was to death just a few minutes ago. I mean, when you live around vampires and werewolves, you’re always close to it. We may have created a treaty of peace between us all, but if the vampires and wolves wanted to take an innocent life, who is to stop them?

Maybe that’s why death doesn’t seem as frightening. Maybe we’ve all been desensitized to it living in Midnight.

“It was a funny joke,” I tell Bran.

He grumbles. “Maybe a little funny.”

“Hah! I knew it.”

“Come on, little mouse. Let me lead you to the cheese.” He beckons me deeper into the house.

I jog to catch up. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

He takes another corner and a long hallway opens up before us. At the end are two large doors, arched at the top, with giant curved handles. There is a golden plaque above the door that reads ARCHIVE.

“You’re so fancy you have an archive.” I gape at it, then look over at him. “The closest thing we had to an archive was stale corn chips in the couch cushions.”

I smile innocently at him.

The next second he has his arm around my waist and yanks me into his side. I let out a gasp, my mouth dropping open.

His fingers apply the barest hint of pressure. “No more jokes, Mouse. And if you don’t stop gaping at everything, I’ll find something to put in that tight little mouth.”

The breath hitches out of me as my pussy buzzes with his meaning.

“You’re teasing me.” I reach between us and grope him. He groans.

“No, I’m telling you what your punishment will be if you don’t behave.”

I demur. “Or my reward.”

“Mouse.”

I apply more pressure to his cock. It doesn’t take him long to thicken beneath the attention of my hand. His eyes still on my mouth, he brings his thumb to my bottom lip and presses down, opening me wider for him.

I dart my tongue out to meet him and his fangs lengthen into two pointed tines.

“Maybe we could slip into a closet somewhere,” I suggest.

“Oh little Mouse, I would destroy that pussy and we’ve no time for rest.”

I squeeze him harder and he leans into me just as the latch on the Archive clanks open.

I lurch away from Bran.

The doors swing open to reveal a woman in a dress straight out of the twenties, with fringe and pearls and glinting sequins.

“I can hear you, you know!” she says. “This isn’t a whorehouse!”

“Ramona,” Bran says. “If you’re here, it’s automatically a whorehouse.”

She hangs her head back and laughs at the ceiling and the pearls hanging from her ears swing back and forth.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to think of this exchange.

“Ramona was a whore in the twenties,” Bran explains.

“I was a successful one too.” She winks at him. “That’s where I found this asshole.”

“I think you mean, I found you .”

Oh god. Did they…did he…

“No,” Bran answers before I can even get the thought out. “Ramona tried. She failed.”

She frowns at him. “Too good for whorehouses. He and his brother both. Not too good to pay me for my time though, were you?”

“I needed information. Whores always had good information back then.”

“That we did.” Ramona beams at him. In appearance, she doesn’t look much older than I am. Maybe late twenties. She must be a vampire. She’s shorter than I am, maybe five feet. Next to Bran she looks like a sprite.

Her dark, thick hair is pinned back in a chignon, not a lock out of place. Her makeup is flawless—black winged eyeliner, smoky shadow, and deep purple lipstick.

She is exactly the type of woman who should be in charge of a vampire archive. I bet she loves every single piece in here.

Speaking of which…

I try to peek around her—the doors are just barely cracked—but I can’t really spot a clue.

“Jessie!” Ramona pulls my attention away from the doors by taking my hand in her cold ones. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It still catches me off guard when people of Duval House know me and I don’t know them.

Up until recently, I thought I was a nobody in Midnight. Or maybe I was and it was Bran who changed that and pulled me from obscurity.

Or maybe there were always whispers. Julian marked me as off limits. The vampires must have known there was something different about me for him to go to that much trouble.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” I tell Ramona. “I love your dress.”

She does a twirl and the fringe on the skirt twirls. “It belonged to Norma Shearer. She wore it to the premiere of The Mummy in 1932. As an aside, The Mummy was not a hit with the critics but was considered a modest box office success. I do believe we have a prop from the set around here somewhere. Oh, where did I?—”

“Ramona,” Bran says. “We’re here for a dress. Not a movie prop.”

She pouts at him, but quickly recovers and twirls away. “Very well! What sort of dress?”

“One from the fae collection.”

She pauses at the Archive doors, hands on the curved handles. “It must be a special night?”

“Jessie needs to look like a fae queen.”

“Say no more.”

She gives the doors a wider push, revealing what’s inside.

When I step over the threshold and into the Archive, I look around and gasp.

I’m not sure what I expected. A department store dressing room? A closet crammed with old garments?

It’s none of that.

It’s a fucking ballroom with glass-topped cabinets like in a museum, and racks of clothing, and printer’s cabinets with thin drawers for documents.

More cabinets line the walls with drawers on the bottom and glass doors on the top, revealing a wide array of treasures beneath soft inset lighting. Feathered hats and giant jeweled necklaces and carved stone objects.

“Holy shit,” I breathe out.

“Holy shit yes!” Ramona claps her hands again and her short legs cart her off down an aisle, and the archives quickly swallow her up. “This way!”

Bran gives me a nudge. I head in the direction Ramona disappeared, weaving through the clothing racks. There are sequined dresses and pantsuits and dresses with pearls sewn into the bodice.

Does Kelly know about this place? She would lose her mind.

We finally come up on another door in the recess of the archive. It’s also arched like the main doors, but smaller in scale. A shaft of light pools at the threshold, warm and inviting.

I enter to find a room done in rich wood paneling. There are built-in cabinets and drawers in a circle around the space, with a sitting area directly to the right of the door.

In the center of the room are five dress forms displaying the most dazzling garments I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“It just keeps getting better,” I say like a huge dork, even though I’m not the least bit enamored with fashion.

Bran sits on the velvet settee the color of dawn and props his elbow on the gilded gold arm, curling his hand around his face.

If we were anywhere else, in any other clothing store, he would look like a bored boyfriend waiting for his girlfriend to finish shopping. But even bored, I know he’s watching, calculating, waiting .

Bran is always playing a game.

I can only imagine what card he has up his sleeve now.

Ramona goes to the third dress on the left and pulls delicately at the skirt. A rainbow of gemstones glimmer beneath the light. “This would fit her beautifully and?—”

“No,” Bran says, cutting her off.

“No? Okay. We have this purple one with the emeralds in the–”

“No,” Bran says again.

Ramona clucks her tongue. “Then which one?”

“Get her the Winter Court dress.”

Ramona goes still.

“Now,” Bran orders.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

“Ramona.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.

My insides spin and dammit, my pussy clenches when he uses that commanding voice.

I cannot fucking wait to have him alone.

Ramona levels her shoulders, bracing for an argument. “Forgive me, but…the Winter Court dress…the message it would send–”

“I know what fucking message I want to send, Ramona,” he says.

She licks her lips, diverts her eyes, and nods as she turns away. “Very well.”

What the hell is the Winter Court dress anyway?

And what message do we want to send?

Ramona opens a cabinet and soft light turns on, activated by the doors opening.

And nestled inside is a dress made of the finest white fabric with a high collar that curves away from the form’s neck, making the collar look like the pointed curves of fairy wings. The skirt is scalloped around the hem, but long enough that it would trail behind me like a train. A heavy belt is secured around the waist, with more jewels and ribbons woven into it.

The dress is beautiful, but it’s damaged. And more than that, it appears to be bloody.

There is a tear above the left breast. Dark red has stained the white fabric and the color spills down the front of the skirt where it pooled at the wearer’s feet.

“She can’t wear that dress,” Ramona says.

“She can and she will.”

I take a tentative step toward it, a cold sweat beading at my spine. “What happened to it? What’s the story?”

“We don’t know the story,” Bran answers, suddenly behind me. “But I bet Arion will.”

My stomach turns sour.

The cold sweat races over my shoulders.

Just because this dress belonged to someone from the Winter Court doesn’t mean I was related to them. I do know that fae courts are just as diverse as the Houses of Midnight. There is some family, yes, but primarily the courts are made up of unrelated fae that came together because of magic, power, and similar beliefs.

But even knowing that, and even though my brain wants to say I am far removed from this macabre dress, something in my gut says otherwise.

Bran reaches around me and lifts a bloody length of fabric to his nose.

I swallow hard as a lump forms in my throat.

Without warning, Bran grabs my wrist and pierces my flesh with his fangs. “Hey!”

There’s no pain though, just surprise as he takes a shallow pull of blood.

“This isn’t time for a snack,” I tell him beneath my breath.

His eyes are bright gold when he retreats.

His frown deepens.

“What is it?” I ask.

“This blood…” He nods at the dress. “Your blood…it smells the same.”

The cold sweat turns to a cold chill as it races over my shoulders.

“Like fae?”

He grits his teeth. “Like family.”