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I settled on a grunted, “How’s it going?”
“Fine. No security issues. No sign of Darragh’s men. He’s honouring the agreement.”
I nod with satisfaction even though no one can see me. That’s good. There would be hell to fucking pay if I was this busted up in bed and Darragh decided to renege on everything. But it really does seem like I’ve finally managed to make Deirdre safe in this city. Just gotta seal it all up with a kiss. At our wedding.
The phone is on speaker setting, and I stare down at it, unwilling to hang up. I know Curse won’t hang up before I dismiss him, and the silence stretches.
Until it’s broken by the sound of female voices and laughter. I tense, hearing Deirdre’s voice among them but not able to make out what she’s saying.
“What’s happening now?” I ask sharply.
“They’re drinking champagne.”
I rub the scarred part of my jaw, remembering that my Songbird didn’t eat dinner before she left the house.
“Has she eaten anything?” I ask Curse.
“There’s some tray of little snacks. Antipasti.”
“OK. Good. Make sure she eats some of it.”
I hear rustling, then footsteps as Curse presumably walks across the room. Curse speaks, just barely audibly, to Deirdre instead of me this time.
“He wants to make sure you eat.”
“Is that Elio on the phone?” That question comes from Deirdre, clear enough for me to hear it now.
Then another slightly slurred voice. I think it might be Giulia. Or maybe Lucia. Can’t tell them apart for shit.
“Eliooooo,” she calls loudly, “just wait until you see the dress we picked out for your beautiful bride!”
Laughter breaks out again, which is then dulled when Curse sounds like he walks away and presses the phone to the side of his head once more.
“She’s chosen a dress?” I hiss, suddenly sweating, my heart giving an unexpectedly painful throb. “What does it look like?”
“I don’t know,” Curse says. “It’s white. It has… sleeves.”
“Real helpful,” I mutter. Not that I can really blame him. He doesn’t have an unnatural, bordering on psychotic Songbird obsession like I do. He doesn’t drink down every detail of her appearance like it’s water necessary to stay alive.
“Want me to go find it and send a picture?” he asks.
Goddamn, I’ve got a good brother. Because I know he’ll fucking do it. Somehow, the fact he’s willing to do shit like this for me feels like even more a mark of his loyalty then all the men he’s killed at my behest.
“No,” I say, though I think I may regret saying that later. “I’ll just wait and be surprised. Did…” I pause, wondering just when I turned into such a fucking sap, “Did Deirdre like it?”
“She cried.”
Well, shit.
“What kind of crying?” I press.
“There’s more than one kind?”
“Course there is, you dope.”
Deirdre in particular has a million shades and versions. Infinite nuances in every single shimmering drop. Fury. Longing. Shame. Grief. Pain. Arousal. Sometimes all at once.
But I didn’t call Curse in order to have a philosophical conversation on all the complex types of tears exhibited by my fascinating future wife.
