Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Across the way, taking up most of a wall, an oil painting of a king in an ermine-trimmed robe was staring out of a gilded frame with haughty self-possession. The rendering had clearly been done by a master, the eyes so lifelike, she felt as though she’d better curtsy or run the risk of being guillotined.
“… mistress?”
She spun around. “I’m sorry. I was just—that’s quite a painting.”
“It is, is it not.” The butler gave her a gentle smile. “Darius is attending to some business at the moment, but he will be right with you. Would you care for a libation?”
Tilting forward, she frowned. “I thought I was free to go?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A liberation?”
“I’ve never heard of that cocktail?”
“Cocktail?”
As they both went quiet in confusion, she wondered where Darius was. Maybe he could help save this conversation? Or at least add a couple of responses not phrased as questions.
“A drink, madam?” The butler made a pinch, extended his pinkie, and mimed sipping from a wineglass. “Perhaps you would like one?”
With a curse, she would have V-8’d her forehead, but she was still healing. “Ah, just water, thank you.”
The old man seemed crestfallen, as if he had missed a chance to show off his bartending skills—and something about the sincerity of the reaction made her want to relieve the suffering she didn’t quite understand.
“Actually, how about some… orange juice?” she hedged.
“Oh, marvelous choice!” He clasped his gloved palms together as if she had just called his infant grandson a Rhodes Scholar. “I shall hand squeeze it—and perhaps we should add a bit of mandarin to enhance the flavor profile?”
“I—you know, I’m going to rely on you to make that decision.”
“Right away!”
The butler went off with a spring in his step, and somehow his unadulterated joy at having such a modest duty made her feel more comfortable in the fancy house than anything else could have. Glancing around, she wondered what kind of “business” Darius was handling. Hopefully, nothing dangerous—
Click.
Whrrrrrrr.
Like something out of a James Bond movie, the painting of the monarch was moving on a slide along its wall, revealing… a spiral stone staircase that was lit with gas lanterns?
Anne glanced around and wondered if she should call for the butler. But given that he was in charge of the place, chances were good he wasn’t going to be surprised.
Drawn forward by the mystery, the darkness, the flickering light, she leaned in and looked down the descent. The steps were worn and very old, and with the curve, she couldn’t see where they led—
Anne?
At first, she thought she was hearing things. But then her name was spoken again. “Anne…?”
“Darius?”
It was a night for questions, she thought. And also, wasn’t this how horror stories got started? A woman with no family being called by a relative stranger down a creepy set of steps into the earth?
Where there were, like, monsters waiting to eat her or something.
“Anne, can you come down here?”
She glanced at the portrait in its new position. Then looked back to the churning lanterns. The sense that her life would never be the same if she took the first step was so profound, her body weaved back and forth.
Except then she realized… the course of things had already changed for her.
Irrevocably.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can.”
CHAPTER NINE
At the bottom of the curving staircase, Darius had one hand on the rough wall and the other on insanity’s proverbial shoulder. All he wanted to do was rush up to the woman who was at the top of the steps, but it just wasn’t safe. He and Fritz always left the drapes open around the house, the better to fit in among humans, and there was still enough light in the sky to blind him. Maybe even smoke his skin.
And he didn’t want Anne to see that.
So here he was, stuck underground, dying to get to her—but all he could do was try to entice her down a set of stone steps that no doubt looked like something out of a Vincent Price—
“I’m waiting for a drink,” came her voice again.
He closed his eyes, partially because he loved the sound of her. And partially out of frustration for how the Scribe Virgin had chosen to tie the hands of her one and only creation.
“Fritz will bring it down for you,” he said roughly. “And I’m sorry about this, I’m just working on something here.”
As he spoke the lie, everything he wasn’t telling her crashed into his conscience. Except there were rules, old rules, that needed to be adhered to even in this New World where no one was willing to lead.
And just maybe… he didn’t want to see the expression on her face when she learned the truth of what he was.
Shit—
“What is this place?”
The sound of her footfalls barely carried over the soft hissing of the gas lanterns, but he could hear her coming down to him, slowly, steadily—and then he caught her scent.