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“You think I just need to fuck you in order to find out,” he says, the word jarring me, sending an inappropriate flare of heat through my legs. “That’s funny, that was my idea too.”
Holy shit, he doesn’t mess around!
I refuse to let this throw me off-balance, though. I straighten my shoulders slightly, maintaining eye contact. “I had a feeling. Since you made me get undressed.”
Somehow I can tell he’s smiling under that gruesome mask. “All in due time,” he says, slipping his glove back on. “I was just taking stock of my new possession, that’s all. Seeing all you have to offer.” He looks me over once more. “You’re more exquisite than I could have imagined, little bird.”
He was right in that I always suck up compliments, but I refuse to acknowledge this one.
He nods at the white dress. “Put that on.” He reaches out with his gloved hand and brushes my hair off my shoulder in a strangely tender way that makes me flinch. “With your dark hair and haunting eyes, the black nightgown was far too gloomy for a fairy girl. You should be a bright spot in Shadow’s End…while you’re still here, anyway.”
Then he flips his hood up and over his skull head and turns and walks away, his boots echoing across the room. “We’re having dinner tonight,” he booms without turning around. “I’ll send Raila to help you. I expect you to be washed properly, your hair done, and in a dress from the wardrobe. This is not a request.”
And then he’s gone.
The key turns in the lock.
Chapter 13
The Daughter
After Death left, I wanted to go talk to Bell about everything she just witnessed, but I didn’t have a moment to myself. I had just finished putting on the new nightgown—something white, lacy, and satiny that clung to my curves—and not because Death asked me to, but because I didn’t want to be naked anymore, when Raila came inside the room. She was all a titter about the dinner tonight and getting me ready for it.
Which meant getting me naked—yet again—and into the tub she filled with steaming hot water. I have to admit, getting past the whole being-nude-in-front-of-strangers part, the bath feels wonderful, especially since she just put a whole bunch of fragrant herbs in it that seem to clear my lungs and head. An unexpected bonus is that the tub has a faucet, which means this castle has indoor plumbing. The toilet in my room is more of squat on the floor style, but at least it ain’t shit into a bucket and pour it out the window style. I have a feeling the indoor plumbing thing is something else that one of Death’s errand boys procured from the Upper World and once again I picture some skeleton dude perusing Ikea’s bathroom department.
It’s so very exciting that you get to go to dinner, Raila says as she scoops up the bathwater into a wooden bucket and pours it over my head.
The water gets in my eyes and mouth and I spit it out. She may be my exuberant servant, but she doesn’t have a lot of finesse. “I’d rather stay in my room.”
Oh no, you must not say that, she says, reaching for a tarnished silver jar on the wood ledge beside the tub and giving it a rough shake. Pale gold semi-translucent liquid gel comes out and she rubs it vigorously between her gloved palms. Being invited to dinner with the master is a real honor. You are sure to have the finest food and drink in the land. It’s no wonder that he wants you to look your best, he hasn’t had a beautiful woman in here in such a long time.
She applies the goop to my wet hair and starts rubbing it into my scalp, rather violently I might add. “You mind easing up there?”
My apologies, she says, the pressure lifting just a little. My husband said I never had a woman’s touch. She laughs melodically at that, but considering what she did to her husband leaves me feeling just a tad uneasy.
It also doesn’t help that I still haven’t seen her face beneath that black shroud and she’s still wearing satin gloves despite the fact that she’s bathing me. I mean wet gloves? Ew.
“Speaking of touch,” I say. “Do you have the touch of death too? Is that why you’re wearing gloves?”
Boy, you really weren’t joking when you said you’d be asking lots of questions, she says. She clears her throat, her tone more grave now. No, I wear gloves, and this shroud, because my appearance isn’t very becoming.
“Well, that’s not fair,” I tell her as she continues to massage what I’m assuming is shampoo into my head. “I saw the Deadhands with my father. They were skeletons. Why are the Deadmaidens covered up and the Deadhands aren’t? Seems kind of sexist to me.”
