Andre leaned his head against mine. “You were right, as usual. I never should’ve agreed to this celebration.”
I laughed—one of those thick, choked ones you let out after a good cry just so that you can hear the sound of happiness again. Because you need something to shake off the terrible sadness within you. “I think I could use a break from all this fighting and fleeing.”
One of Andre’s eyebrows arched. “I could help with that. You know, I have some really good ideas when it comes to these things.”
I bit back a reluctant grin. “Oh, I’m sure you do, and I’m eager to hear about them.”
“Good.” Pressing a firm kiss to my lips, Andre scooped me up and took me back to the bed.
Several hours later I pulled on the backless white gown laid out for me, my hands shaking as I did so. Someone had left it on the bed while I’d been in the shower. The material clung to me, exaggerating every pleasing line of my form.
That painting of Andre watched me the entire time. I swear tonight his eyes seemed sadder than usual.
There I went—projecting.
I could hear the sounds of conversation drifting in from the front of Bishopcourt, where guests gathered. Andre was already out there welcoming them; he’d insisted I take my time, and I was grateful for it. I had business to get in order before I made my appearance.
I slipped on the shoes and undergarments that went with the dress then headed into the bathroom.
When I caught a glimpse of my reflection, I paused. I looked unearthly—more so than usual. My features were exaggerated. My cheekbones were more pronounced, my alabaster skin exceptionally pale from lack of blood, my spooked eyes a bit wider than they’d been before. All of it shrouded by a mane of loose curls.
Death suits you. The voice that brushed against my ear wasn’t my own.
I gritted my teeth. The devil was there, lingering just beyond my reach. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting … until I was his.
And tonight I had to go to him. Tonight, I had to die.
I snuck into Andre’s study, using his private line to place a call to the U.S. I fingered the Egyptian statue perched on his desk. The line rang and rang.
I squeezed my forehead when I remembered that my adoptive mother would still be at work. Perhaps it was better this way.
My heart was in my throat when her recorded voice came on the line, asking the caller to leave a message. It held none of the beguiling beauty that my biological mom’s did, but it was so beloved. It was the same voice that had spoke soothingly to me when I was sick and scolded me when I was being a little punk.
Was this the last time I’d ever hear it? And was it twisted that I actually wished it might be? Because I hoped never to see a loved one in the place I was going.
The phone beeped, indicating that I was to begin my message.
“Mom—” I croaked. I cleared my voice and began again. “Hey Mom. Sorry I forgot to call you on New Year’s”—I’d spent it dodging arrows and fleeing attackers—“I just wanted to tell you that I love you so much. I haven’t told you that enough, and I miss you like crazy.” A tear trickled out. “I hope your New Year’s went well. I’ll talk to you … later. Bye.”
I hung up the phone, breathing heavily. I wiped the tear off with the back of my hand. That message was totally going to freak her out. She’d be on the phone in an instant, calling me back, only to be sent directly to voicemail … because that phone had been destroyed. It would only wig her out more. Rightfully so—she’d never speak to me again.
I ran my hands through my hair, pushing strands away from my forehead. Don’t go there.
I needed to pull myself together. I still had one more person that I needed to leave a message with.
I blew out a breath and grabbed a sheet of paper from one of Andre’s desk drawers and searched for a pen.
Instead my eyes landed on an ink well.
Damn.
“Stupid fucking quill,” I cursed as another globe of ink obscured the “A” in Andre’s name.
Already I was regretting this note.
Why Andre kept quills around when there was such a thing as computers, or even—hey—ballpoint pens was beyond me.
He wanted to channel his inner geezer, apparently.
And to think I needed to scribe an official plea using the angelic quill waiting for me back at Jericho’s Emporium. I was done for.
Shut up, brain. No one asked you for your opinion.
I bit my lip and scribbled the rest of the note as fast as possible.
By the time I was done, I had ink on my fingertips and some lines of text had smeared onto my dress. Nailed it.
I appraised the letter. It was a train wreck. Smudged letters and giant globes of ink made the thing almost illegible. Almost. But not quite. I read over the words. This was all he’d get—a final, parting note.
On it I divulged everything I’d kept from him up until now. My deal with the devil, and the gift kept under lock and key that I was to collect only once I died. I even mentioned the possibility that my death might not be the end of me.
I bit my lip. Perhaps it was cruel to give him hope when I really had no idea what the future held.
It’d have to do because time was up.
I eyed the stick of red wax and the partially burnt candle resting next to the ink well.
Not even going to attempt it.
I headed back to our room and propped the note on the bed. I stared at it, biting the inside of my cheek until I drew blood.
Keep it together. I’d face down fate with my shoulders back; I wouldn’t let anyone see me crack, especially not the devil.
My breaths came in short, soft bursts. I blinked as fatigue washed over me. Other than water, I hadn’t eaten or drank anything in over a day.
I sat down on the edge of the bed for a second, catching my breath and collecting myself. Eventually I forced myself to stand.
Time to make an appearance.
I staggered down the hallway, my gown swishing around me. My breath still came in ragged pants.