An enormous four-poster bed took up the center of the room. The room was done up in creamy-white and velvety-blue tones, from the sheets to the fresco-style painting of a cloudy, brilliant morning adorning the ceiling above.
Twinkling lights threaded through the gauzy white fabric atop the frame, giving the room an indoor-outdoor feel to it. As if she’d just stepped foot into a hidden fairy garden, green ivy crept long fingers along the walls, bringing a richness of scent into the room.
She frowned. “Surely he doesn’t mean for me to have this room?”
Dalia laughed. “The master’s no monster. He’s never treated one of ye badly, you have my word on that. He prides himself on the care and upkeep of his ancestral home. You’re quite sssafe here, little human.”
Marching into the room, Dalia went straightaway to the bed and began turning down the sheets. Shayera hung back by the door, because even from here she could see there were more rooms hidden within this very large one. Yes, she was intimidated by its size. What was the man trying to do? All she needed was a sturdy cot and a warm room, that was it. What was the purpose of all this?
“Well c’mon then.” Dalia waved her on impatiently. “Don’t just ssstand there like a Peeping Tom.”
Creeping into the room, Shayera hugged the walls, more than a little uncomfortable.
Patting the sheets down one final time, Dalia swung her fists onto her hips. “Well, then.” She eyed Shayera, starting at her bare feet and then moving up to her face. “Master was right—you’re much too pretty to be wearing such a ghastly frock as all that.”
Nervously twisting the rope belt at her waist, Shayera shook her head. “I don’t need a change of clothes; I’m comfortable enough as it is.”
Snorting as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, the dark-haired spirit woman tucked a strand of silky hair behind her smoky ear. “You’ve no need to worry about a man attacking your virtue here. Massster keeps any and all at bay.”
Brows dipping, Shayera stuttered, “M…men? I didn’t. Why would you even assume—”
Dalia held up a hand. “You’re not the first pretty thing to be shagged against her will. I know it when I see it.”
Releasing a disbelieving huff, Shayera lifted her jaw. “I was not raped, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Dalia shrugged. “Well, if not that, then you’ve been hurt mightily. And forgive me for the assumption, but generally if such a fine woman as yourself deigns to cover up as you have, it generally impliesss—”
“Not that!” She glowered, because while she’d not been raped, the maid had come very close to the truth of the matter.
Dropping her head, Dalia peered at the thickly woven snow-white rug. “Forgive me, miss, I spoke out of turn. As I’m clearly wont to do. I’ll bother you no more.” She made as if to go and Shayera jumped in her path, blocking the way and forcing the maid to look up, startled.
“I’m sorry. It’s just a sensitive topic for me. You’re right, something did happen, but it’s of no matter now. I’m fine. And… I’m sorry—it’s not your fault.”
Her lips pulled into a hint of a smile. “It’s all right, miss. Perhaps we should start over. My name is Dalia.” She held out her hand with an expectant grin.
Nibbling on the corner of her lip, Shayera tucked her fingers inside the voluminous folds of her dress. “I can’t… touch.”
With a merry twinkle lighting her ruby-red eyes, Dalia’s hand shot out quicker than Shayera could blink or cry out a warning and latched on to her hand.
Gasping at the first contact with a stranger she’d felt in eleven years, Shayera waited for the transference, the soul-sucking ripple of power that would drain the poor girl dry, but nothing happened.
“I know what you did to yourself, lovey.” Dalia winked. “But you’ll discover that at least here in Demone Hall your sting cannot hurt us.”
Shayera hadn’t been sure what to expect when Dalia grabbed her hand, a smoky marriage of fingers and flesh, but the grip was as firm as her own.
“How do you know?” she whispered beneath her breath, afraid that anyone might hear them.
“Because it happened to me sister too. You’ve the scent of the witch’s magic about you—the smell of nightshade and mandrake.” She tapped her nose. “But a demone is immune to a witch’s spell.”
“Don’t tell anyone, Dalia, please. It’s the only thing that’s ever worked for me.”
The maid looked at her with a steady, studying gaze. “You’re more than merely a beauty, aren’t you? You’re a siren, and no wonder, born of the seed of Gerard Caron. That news must have devastated him.”
Narrowing her eyes, Shayera said, “You know an awful lot about me, Dalia.”
“Well, it helps that I’m a bit touched in the head.” She giggled and pressed her finger to her temple. “No one believes half of what I say anyway.”