Page 66 of Mortdale

Willow

Henry sat across from me in the foyer, holding a book he surely wasn’t reading given the fact he was holding it upside down. Since Piper’s recital two weeks ago, I’d been followed to every corner of this house, every moment of the day. Even my library trips had been monitored up close by Henry and Liam, who must have gotten a mouthful and a punch from my husband because they were both sporting separate bruises and displaying some seriously quiet attitude.

“Hey, prison warden,” I said, nudging his foot. “Why’s he standing out there?”

He glanced at me and then at Arthur posted by the doors like a stoic guard. “Logan’s not going to take you with him. Go back up. Curse him with baldness or something. Make it interesting,” he said, flipping a page.

Piper had camped under my fancy green brocade skirts, playing with Thomas while I waited for her uncle to come downstairs. It was the seventh Tuesday he’d gone to church since I’d arrived, and despite what Theodora had told me about the importance of these masses, he’d not taken me with him even once. Religion was a big part of vampire culture. Clearly, Logan was openly advocating against the exarch who ruled over the Basilica. If there was ever a good time to scout enemy grounds, it would be this.

Steps pulled my attention to the upper floor. Then I heard Christof say, “Lady Duncan is ready and waiting for you downstairs.”

“She’s not coming with me.”

He paused when he saw me sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Why not?” I asked, standing.

“I will not force any God on you.”

I’d expected a: I don’t trust you enough to let you out of this home.

He was extremely angry with me—I could see it in his eyes—but his reasoning seemed sincere.

He had not said anything more, but I knew there had been more to say.

I was forced onto him. And he was forced onto me.

Neither of us had a choice.

He was giving me a choice.

Arthur stepped forward. “People will talk, Logan. You’ve been married for almost two months now. They grow anxious every second you keep an unanointed witch in your home. You’re giving the exarch ammunition over you the more dubious you make this entire situation.”

The Cleansing. Theodora had told me about it. Vampires believed the rites would cleanse me from the evil blessing of my gods. Rites that would be held by the patriarch of the household, but since my father-in-law was dead, that meant Logan would have to perform it. Every witch entering Mortdale had to go through the cleansing. Yet…here I was.

“I agree with him,” I said, showing him a grin when his eyes narrowed on me and then on his friend.

“I’m sure I cannot gag them all, Art. But I will if I must.” He put his gloves on, sparing one last glance in my direction. “Let’s go.”

“I want to come.” There was no sermon or baptism that could erase my nature, fix it or ruin it, so it didn’t matter to me to play by the made-up rules of his kind.

His gilded eyes paced between mine, searching in there for something he could not find because his gaze tightened into a questioning scowl.

My fingers tightened around the handle of the parasol I’d clutched against my chest. “I might not believe in your God, but I want to know your God. I want to know what you believe in.”

“Is that what it is?” His nose was close to brushing mine when he leaned in to add, “Or are you just hunting for the next opportunity to become a liability for me?”

I stepped closer to him, tilting my head back to look at him. “Am I your prisoner, husband? Then maybe you should cuff me, chain me to my bed, and never let me see daylight ever again.”

He held my gaze for a few long moments. “Christof, get her shawl.”

He grabbed the black lace shawl from Christof’s hands, throwing it around my naked shoulders. Instead of pulling back, his hand slid up my neck, cupping the side of my head as he leaned in to whisper in my ear, “I have no God. And if I did, you wouldn’t want to know it. Let alone believe in it.”

The Basilica was a monster of a building with grey stone walls that climbed up in various towers crowned with crows, red-stained arched glass windows, and a courtyard almost as large as Logan’s with several other small buildings spread around. Though, the only thing that stood out to me were the gardens. The grass and the foliage weren’t just dry; they were completely dead and crusty. Yet the acolytes in their red robes went around with watering cans, watering them still like it would bring them back to life. An acolyte was on his knees, trimming the withered twigs and boughs, while another was ploughing and cleaning the soil.

Logan stepped out of the carriage like I’d been holding him hostage all the way there, drawing in deep breaths like I’d had my hands around his throat, too, but still held a hand out for me.

When he tried to pull his hand away, I grasped his jacket, so I could fix his tie. “You’re just an asshole with a pretty face. You should try opening your mouth a little less. I almost enjoyed your presence in the carriage.”