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“There’s no mention of the mark they leave on their victim but that could be on purpose. Don’t want to scare the general population into thinking there’s a serial killer on the loose, and it protects against a false confession. Talk to your detective friend yet?”
“I have a visit planned tomorrow afternoon, in fact,” Emmanuel says.
“Good. The family, are they safe?”
“I’ll walk by the house after my meeting.”
“Will you?” I ask, standing, wanting to wrap up this meeting because there’s something I want to do while Willow is occupied. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Raven Wildblood, would it?”
He stands too. “What would it have to do with Raven Wildblood?”
“You think I didn’t feel your eyes boring into my back when I looked her over during The Tithing ceremony?”
“Hm. Well, this is just me doing a good deed, brother.” He puts an arm over my shoulders as we walk to the door.
“Mhm. You know the rules, right?” He can’t touch another Wildblood. None of us can as long as The Sacrifice is given to us.
“I know the rules,” he says.
I stop to face him squarely and take him by the shoulders. “She’s not for you, brother. Leave her alone.”
He studies me, takes a long minute to answer. “Just walking by the house to make sure they’re safe. That’s all, Azrael. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
He just shrugs, and we walk out of the library. Emmanuel heads to the front door, both of us pausing when we hear the combined laughter of all five Wildblood sisters. It’s so rare to hear laughter like that in this house.
No, not rare. It just doesn’t happen.
With a sigh, I walk up the stairs, to my bedroom and through it to Willow’s connecting room. I close the door behind me, feeling a little twinge of guilt as I take it in.
She’s unpacked most of her things, the suitcases now out of sight. I see the asshole’s large bed and play area in one corner and wonder why the damn thing chooses to sleep in my bed rather than here. Well, maybe not sleep. It’s more like staring me down as she sits comfortably on my chest, probably trying to steal my breath or whatever it is cats do.
The drapes are open, letting in the light. It smells like her in here, sweet and woodsy, citrusy even. I’ve never smelled the perfume on anyone before and wonder if she makes it herself. I wouldn’t be surprised, judging from all the vials.
I cross to the vanity and the first bottle I pick up and sniff confirms what I think. It’s her scent. Palo Santo something or other. I put the lid back on and set it down, looking at the various tubes and bottles and finding her lipstick. I remember how it ringed my cock when I fucked her mouth. Her black eyeliner is here, too, and several containers of powders and little pots of pigment in every possible shade. Bec would have a field day in here. She doesn’t so much as own a tinted lip balm. Salomé’s doing. I’m going to change that, I think, as I look at Willow’s collection.
Over the back of her chair, she’s draped her red cloak. I pick it up then set it back down. I don’t throw my clothes over the backs of chairs. I am meticulous with my things. It’s how I’d noticed she’d been in my closet. The hangers were askew. She’s not as neat. Throughout her room are scattered various silk scarves and knick knacks that remind me of the room where the Tithing took place. I look into a plethora of bottles, sniffing contents, unsure what they are. I pick up crystals and set them back down, wondering what she does with them. I go into her bathroom. Although she mostly uses mine, and I suspect she’s been using my shampoo and soap, she has her own here and I pick up the first bottle and look at the label. It’s from a local shop in the French Quarter that I’ve seen in passing. Zen Apothecary. I open it, sniff the contents. It’s exactly how her hair smells when it doesn’t smell like me. I reach for the bar of soap but stop myself. What the hell am I doing? Looking through her room is one thing, but sniffing her shampoo? That’s a little creepy.
I walk back into the sitting room and flip through the stack of magazines, leaving the notebooks she’s written in alone. I’m not going to snoop into a diary if she keeps one. When I’m finished and on my way out, my gaze falls on the tall glass jar with its burning candle within. I go to blow it out, although it’s not going to do any harm, but when I do, I see among the dried flowers and crystals a small frame containing an image. It’s a sketched portrait. I’d noticed it briefly the first time I’d come in here. It’s black and white—well, apart from the tell-tale red hair that is the Wildblood inheritance. The hair on my arms stands on end as I pick up the frame and look closer at the picture.
