“Are you finally back with the living, Sweetheart?” he asked, placing his two heavy palms on my shoulders.
While I wouldn’t have admitted it, it brought me a strange kind of comfort. I glared around, realising I’d no idea where I was. Suddenly my throat was dry again. I took in the long, paved pathway surrounded by large trees and bushes inked by night. A park of some sort?
I rubbed my sore eyes.
“Where’s the Devil’s Purse? And your car—did it get stolen? Did I get stolen? Did you kidnap me? What was?—”
“Woah, slow down there,” he cut in, leaning into my face like he was studying a lab rat. “Now that your head is clear—er—you can tell me what you ordered while I was away.”
I opened my mouth then closed it, placing a palm over my right cheek where the small bat scratch hid under layers of powder the twins had put on me. Now it pulsed with a force so string it was as though it was doubling its size.
“I didn’t look at the names.” I shook my head. “Something with grapefruit, pomegranate, and persimmons.”
I was trained to look, to notice, to read between the lines. But tonight, when it mattered, I failed. I was too tangled in my thoughts about Lilian, her plan with Declan’s father, and that walking headache of a man, Preston Davenport. And what he said about the Marzouqs…and how he had looked when he said it. Almost like he was truly concerned.
The cold settled over us and Declan sniffed. “You drank the Nectar of Pasithea on your first day?” He laughed, wiping hiseyes and slightly smudging his makeup. I stiffened from the way his laughter rang, harsh yet warm. “You’re lucky it wasn’t Dionysus’.” He smiled, mischief gleaming in his gaze. “I’m not sure you would’ve liked the consequences of his drink.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he started, as we continued walking beneath the tall trees, their shadows shifting with the wind. “Pasithea is the Greek goddess of hallucination. Dionysus?—”
“Is the god of wine and revelry.” I nodded, trying to make sense of what he was saying.
“Yes.” Declan pointed at me, his voice rising with excitement. “Very good. He’s also known as the god of festivities and theatre… he’s one of my favourites.” He grinned.
That didn’t surprise me. What did was that I still couldn’t understand what he was trying to tell me.
“So you sell spiked drinks in your club?” I asked, drinking the rest of my water.
“Yes, but no.”
I raised an eyebrow. “They’re not spiked the way you would think.” His full lips curved into a secretive smile that only deepened my curiosity. “They just…have to live up to their names.”
The paintings of gods and the drinks all seemed inspired by different mythologies. The Devil’s Purse’s unique charm settled over my mind like a pink, spell-like cloud.
“Why is the club a mix of Greek and Egyptian culture?”
“That…” He blew out a breath, and watched the white cloud of warmth curl in the air before dissolving. “My paternal grandmother was from Greece. My father has always been fond of their mythology.” I nodded. That was understandable. “And my mother was Egyptian. My father took her surname before I was born.”
Marzouq, of course. And that explained his rich accent as well.
We reached the end of the grove but the walkway continued ahead.
“Where are we exactly?” I surveyed the one storey building that came into view. A row of rounded columns held its roof with a triangular pediment sitting on the top of it.
“In the Museum Gardens, silly. That’s the Yorkshire Museum.” He pointed at the Greek revival building. “And that—” Monumental ruins emerged from the mist. “Is the St. Mary Abbot. Rumoured to be haunted by the Black Abbot himself.” Declan’s voice was harsh enough to wake the ghosts.
I rubbed my hands together, trying to coax some warmth into them before burying them deep inside the cold silk lining of my coat.
“Shouldn’t places like this be closed at night?” I asked, eyeing the ruins veiled in pale moonlight. Everything looked older here, like time had folded in on itself and forgotten to move forward.
“Not if you know the right people.” He beamed as we passed beneath the shadow of the crumbling archways.
Of course the rules were different for people like him. For people like Lilian and her circles.
The walk back to the Devil’s Purse shouldn’t have taken long, but the minutes stretched, pulled thin by silence. Every step echoed louder than the last until Declan’s crimson car finally shimmered into view.
“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night atThe Black Swanhotel?” he asked for the second time, and I shook my head just as firmly as I did before. “It’s a two hour drive, and?—”
