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“I know what he’s going to try and make you do, child,” says a slithering, insidious voice. “It won’t work.”
I stare at the creature, a sick sense of dread pulling down on my heart.
“He’ll use you, and then you’ll die,” he adds.
Then you’ll die.
Then you’ll die.
I roll over, tangled in sheets, gasping.
Awake.
I reach over, expecting Solon to be beside me, the last memories I have are of the two of us together in his bed. At the memory, my heart leaps in my chest, legs squeezing together, bringing me fully out of my slumber.
But when I open my eyes, I’m not in his bed, I’m in mine. Still in the haunted mansion.
I move onto my back, staring up at the lacey canopy. All the lights in the room are off, but there’s a slice of daylight cutting through the curtain, dust motes dancing in the air.
How did I get here?
I run my hands over my face, trying to rub some sense into me.
And that’s when it hits me.
Like a truck packed with ice and sorrow.
Elle.
Elle is dead.
That brief, beautiful moment between waking and now is forever erased, that moment where I thought everything was okay.
It is not okay.
Elle is dead.
I gasp, a sob ripping out of my throat, fingers clawing at the sheets. Tears automatically rush down my face, the rage and grief carving me out, leaving me hollow and empty, so much darkness spreading inside me.
What I had with Solon was just a brief respite, finding comfort in his arms, unleashing my lust and desire on him in order to feel something, to have him sweep me away in a wave of hands and lips and our bodies melding together.
It was savage and beautiful and now that it’s over, all the feelings I tried to escape from have come back ten-fold.
The tears never seem to stop.
I think I must pass out for a moment, because I hear a knocking at the door, and when I lift my head, I’m curled in the fetal position on top of the covers. My eyes are so puffy I can barely see through them.
“Come in?” I whisper, my throat hoarse.
I sit up just as Amethyst pokes her head in.
“Hi,” she says softly. “How are you feeling?”
She walks inside the room, carrying a tray. A cup of coffee, just the way I like it, with more of her mother’s cookies.
“I…” I begin, but I don’t have the words.
She places the tray down on the bedside table and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. You’ve been sleeping for two days.”
“Two days!” I exclaim. “What happened to me?”
She supresses a smile. “You’ll have to discuss that with Solon. I don’t know the details.”
Ah, crap. Does everyone in the house know we slept together? I suppose we weren’t exactly quiet, and you don’t have to have a vampire’s hearing to know the walls here are thin.
“Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat, “whenever you’re ready, Solon would like to speak with you. He’ll be waiting in Dark Eyes.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
She gives me a quick smile and leaves the room.
My stomach twists on itself. Solon would like to speak with you. Why does it sound so formal, like I’m in trouble?
I drink back the coffee, but I ignore the cookies. Even if my nerves weren’t dancing too much to have an appetite, it’s stunted by my grief.
I get out of bed and decide to waste no time dwelling. I go to the closet, filled with the clothes that Amethyst and Solon bought for me. Since I don’t get as cold easily, I select a black sundress with red roses on it, smocked waist with poofy sleeves. Then I go to the drawers, finding the underwear. They’re all black satin, trimmed with lace, and honestly I can’t tell if which of them picked them out. They’re comfortable though, and I slip them on under my dress.
Then I head out into the hall, pausing by the dead roses on the high side table.
Bloom, I say in my head, concentrate the little energy I have toward the roses. Bloom alive with blood! Excelsior!
But the roses don’t move, even when I flick my fingers at them the way that Atlas Poe did when he came into my apartment with such ease.
At the thought of Atlas, I leave the roses alone and head down the many flights of stairs until I reach Dark Eyes.
I push open the doors and walk in.
The club is empty, but my nose tells me that Solon’s in the cigar lounge, lighting up. I take in a deep breath and walk over to it, peering through the glass door.
There you are, his voice says in my head, and my body is already coming alive from just the sound of him in my skull.
I open the door to the lounge and walk inside, the smoke in the room feeling familiar and calming now. Solon is sitting in a leather armchair, cigar between his svelte fingers, same fingers that brought me to ecstasy more than a few times by now. As usual, he looks impeccable, a dusky blue shirt slightly unbuttoned, black pants, a casual pose.
