Undead Gods, page 12
Pukeweed.
Understatement of the century.
Her guts still twisted unpleasantly and her bones felt thin, but she had this night and this night only to seduce secrets from the House of Gardenia, and she had no intention of letting it go to waste. It wasn’t just that she had promised Beatriz to look into Scarzan. It was that she could still feel the scum he had left behind on her skin. The way his eyes had trailed over her like a slug—as if he was weighing the cost of her, considering if she was worth the risk. The knowledge that he was harassing the women at the castle and out within Relaclave as well.
It felt personal now.
She hoped that whatever Beatriz needed this tip for, it would cut the man down like a blade of grass.
Over the years, Elysia had repeatedly made her peace only to lose it again when it came to what Gage did for a living. There were nights like the one where he eliminated the threat against her and what he did made sense in a brutal, practical kind of way. Then there were other days she couldn’t reconcile the man who had helped raise her with the one she knew went out and did terrible, violent things. She’d never asked how Gage decided which marks to take. But it was hard to imagine a world in which anyone was better off with someone like Scarzan still in it.
Elysia lurched out of the bathroom, still wobbly on her feet, and heaved herself into the chair in front of her vanity. Tying her robe a little tighter, she glanced at the old timepiece resting to her right and winced. She had far less time than she had been hoping for, but that simply meant she had no time to waste.
She pulled her hair back and got to work.
In spite of the explicit code of silence the House Gardenia demanded, many patrons opted for masks or a face covering to blur their features. Of course, there were just as many who wore their faces proudly into the den. They wanted the whispers of those who lurked outside the entrance. Wanted the rumors to carry out past the night.
Elysia would be donning a mask. It was the only way she would be getting in, after all. Scooping out a small blob of skin tint, she adjusted the shade until it was pale with a touch of pink, unlike her own cool neutral tones. She warmed the cream between her fingers, smoothing it over her face and down her neck.
So much of the Crown’s politics came down to the personal whims of people like Elysia’s mother. It was a flawed system propped up on a rotten foundation that had been painted fresh. But sometimes, someone like her mother actually did something good, even if it was just a selfish whim.
Georgia Parker loved the arts. Theater, dance, music. Beneath her rigid exterior, she wanted to be swept away. So every year she laughed and smiled and plied Remy’s daddy with drinks and favors until he ended up giving more to the arts budget than was remotely reasonable.
During show season as a child, Elysia would crawl from her seat until she found all the dancers hustling and laughing in the back. They pinched and pinned and painted themselves until they shone like evening stars, and Elysia, delicate child that she was, fell in love.
And with her red sash and dark curls, they never dared escort her out. So, she sat quietly, watching as they set themselves up in front of the lights, enamored with how they carved new bones and noses on their faces with nothing more than pots and paints. A soft, plain woman could transform into one with edges and hollows and lips that could swallow a man whole. A sharp, stunning creature could become sweet and barely noticeable. With the right clothes and the right paint—you could be anyone.
Elysia thought it was magic. And she was right. It was a magic that anyone could claim, and not even the Crown could take it away.
With fingers that cradled plants and delivered daggers, Elysia fashioned herself into someone new. Someone with vigilant eyes and a strong, classic face. She pulled shadows out of powder and cut her jaw until it was wider than hers had ever been.
Elysia did not consider her eyes to be unique or beyond the ordinary. Alluring perhaps, with their velvety darkness, but nothing that would stand out in a crowd. And yet she would know her father’s or her sister’s eyes anywhere simply because they were theirs. Which meant hers had to change. Holding a small brown vial up to the light, she grimaced. It couldn’t be any worse than the pukeweed, right? Head back and eyes wide, two small drops hit her eyes.
Fuck.
Her fist slammed down on the vanity, shaking all the little vials and pots. The burn in her eyes had her cursing and sweating in an instant. Gritting down, she counted. One. Two. Three. Four… Five. Blinking, she used a small cloth under each eye to catch any escaping liquid that would dare disturb her face. She kept blinking until the urge to rub her eyes finally quit, and then she looked up to see a disturbingly familiar face with light sea-blue eyes staring back at her.
The final step to her creation had been stolen from the arts closet. A long summery blonde wig, brushed to perfection. She secured it as tightly as possible, testing it before deeming her face and hair a success.
No longer herself, Elysia knew it made no sense to dress in her normal habits of deceptive velvets and ribbons and wide-eyed confusion. Tonight’s attire was an all too recognizable look. A black dress flaring into a full satin skirt paired with staggering heels. She threw on a red scarf, tying it around her wrist, and shook her head at her reflection. Terrifying. Elysia let out a disbelieving laugh and grabbed her already packed oversized purse. Dagger in her boot, she was as ready as she would ever be for an evening in the House.
The House was built on the undeniable truth that no matter how society disparages the spirit of pleasure—it cannot die. They can spit upon it. Place false shame on its name. But the spirit of pleasure in both its enticing and distasteful forms will never die. It will only grow stronger. Coming up through the cracks, taking solace in hidden rooms. Rearing up in even more twisted and delightful and curious ways.
Elysia stared at the old House and wondered how it had all begun. She was procrastinating, a bit nervous now that the House was in sight. She could hear the ruckus from here. The music, the shouts, the laughter. She’d never heard the House’s origin story. To her, it felt like the House had always been here. That the stories were as old as Relaclave itself.
Before the Fall, the House had been hidden from sight. Thick foliage and tall, dark hedges protected it from prying eyes. Now, there was no ivy curtain and the hedges were long dead. Naked and laid bare for all to see, the House became emboldened. She was a strange pillar in their city, flaunting her secrets and what felt like magic, but couldn’t be.
Elysia stopped her musing, her thoughts cut short by a new sound. A sweet piper played an entrancing tune. No words fell from his lips, but still, the song played. Bidding the people of Relaclave to come one, come all to the House where they would surely care for you.
Her feet were moving before she could even form a thought.
Prowling silently up the skinny cobblestone path, she followed the tune to the poisonous, envy-green front door. A sudden wind came, blowing her satin skirt out. Elysia hastily smoothed the fabric down before she unwillingly flashed any poor, unsuspecting bystanders. As she straightened, the door creaked and her night began.
Elysia’s pulse hammered. This was not what she had been expecting.
The Doorman stood with her hand resting gently on the door handle, bleached white hair rolling in smooth waves down her back. Orbs of the darkest night stared widely at Elysia, set against a backdrop of shimmering gold-brown skin and rosy, cherubic cheeks. She was magnificent. A frothy, lush dream of a woman. Curves poured into a dapper cream silk suit like champagne, bubbling up and out of the vest beneath.
The door creaked open a little wider, and curiosity had Elysia straining to see who would appear next. Long feminine arms snaked out, wrapping lazily around the Doorman’s waist. Fingers splayed across her soft stomach, inching up toward her breasts. The newcomer stepped into the light, draping herself over the Doorman. Nuzzling her face down into the crook of her neck, smearing lipstick as she went.
Elysia froze. This wasn’t possible.
Only years of practice allowed her to keep her eyes from becoming saucers.
Because those arms. Those hands. That hair.
Her chest moved in small, rapid breaths. Her brain refused to comprehend the disaster in front of her.
She kept waiting for the sight to disappear like it was some hallucination of the House. It didn’t.
That was her sister fondling a legend in the doorway.
With bloodshot, smoked-out eyes and silver hair, Beatriz Parker dragged her lips possessively up the Doorman’s neck. Elysia forced her face to remain impassive, imperious even. The gods must truly hate me.
Beatriz looked out through the clouds of her eyes. “Show your token or get out.” She stuck her face back into the crevice of the Doorman’s neck, murmuring something that no doubt would have made Elysia blush to the higher realms. But then her head shot back up, her brows jamming together like they just might stick.
“Mother?” Disbelief broke through the drugs.
The Doorman let her head loll to the side, her large curved eyes unblinking and showing only the faintest sign of amusement. Her small hand brushed up against Beatriz’s face. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
Beatriz appeared to be broken, mouth agape and red eyes staring.
Elysia had been training her whole life for this moment. Chin level and voice curt, she stared at her sister like she was both unsurprised and unimpressed.
She took a step that had Beatriz straightening like a child. “You’re slouching. Skip one more meeting and I’ll have you escorted into the castle from whatever infested hole they find you in.” Then she whipped a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and began rubbing it vigorously against the smudge of wine-dark lipstick bruising the Doorman’s neck. She tucked the handkerchief away and nodded. “There. You’re welcome.” She’s lucky I didn’t lick it.
The Doorman reared back, clearly unused to Georgia Parker’s polishing. Elysia watched her hazy facade flicker, a vicious light stealing through her dark eyes. But then her face became a dream once again. Her hand dropped away from her neck and reached out expectantly. “Your token, Mrs. Parker?”
Elysia uncurled her fingers, revealing the burnished silver hair pin in the palm of her hand.
The Doorman’s eyes narrowed briefly, but then she shrugged and stepped aside. “The House Gardenia welcomes you.”
Elysia nodded, sweeping past the myth that was the Doorman and ignoring Beatriz as if she were nothing. Five steps in and she almost stumbled. The part of her that could feel the very pulse of a secret, yanked on her like there was a leash between her and the Doorman. An invisible tether drew her eyes and feet back to where she had just come from. She refused to turn her head. Gliding onward, she ignored the burn within her that demanded to be fed. Farther and farther she moved from the Doorman and her sister’s heavily lidded stare. They were the last two people she should be near in this House.
But gods, she wanted to know. Her eyes darted back. No, I can’t, I can’t. The feeling was enthralling. The desire to know, to seek, to find.
The magic addled her thoughts, coaxing her to do what was natural. To find out how this soft, beguiling creature had become the Doorman. The Doorman who knew every token ever given. The Doorman who, it was said, could break men like twigs between her hands.
People whispered that she was beholden to another. That she was chained to some power beyond her, doing the bidding of a hidden master. Whoever the Doorman worked for—their power rippled through this House in spades. The threads that had called to Elysia since birth beckoned her closer, begging her to dive headfirst into the dark pool of secrets surrounding the Doorman’s dainty feet.
Elysia rolled her shoulders, breaking the spell. That wasn’t what she came here for. The House and its mysteries needed to wait. You need to focus. This evening was going to be a far greater challenge than she had imagined. The wisp of a secret tickled her nose as a woman grazed past and she almost groaned.
This place was a death trap.
Eyes searching, she slipped into a dark jungle of fake trees and plants. Kavians loved using them as decoration. And it was stunning. The textured layers of leaves and branches created a mysterious thicket you could barely see through. The walls dripped a deep sanguine color, and warm mood lighting kept all the lies hidden.
It was stunning, but it set her teeth on edge. One room into the House and something about this place was already irking her. She thought she would love it here, but she was finding the illusion tasted sour in her mouth.
Running her fingers over a bunch of leaves, they came away with a sticky coating of dust and soot from poorly trimmed lamps. She could barely take a step without a fake leaf hitting her in the face. If the plants were real, then this room would be a masterpiece. A living piece of art that breathed and smelled so good that one’s lungs grew bigger. Instead, its falsity felt like a warning. A rolling wave of dread and unease passed through her.
Secrets were true. So why did everything in here feel like a lie?
There was a muscular, dark-haired man who wore a suit that had been tailored to perfection. Small gold hoops lined one ear, marking him as staff. He leaned over a woman, whispering hateful things down into her mouth. Soon she dropped to her knees, apologizing over and over, for what Elysia didn’t know. Her body went limp, sagging over his feet, gripping his trousers with desperate hands. Elysia shook her head at the sight. Humiliation was one drug she couldn’t understand. To each their own.
She imagined that if she ever got a true invite to the House that there would be a room with a line of people who one by one poured out their confessions while she devoured what they gave. She wondered if there was a limit to what she could consume. Ugly, beautiful. She didn’t care. She’d never been in a position to indulge. But here? The temptation grew stronger by the minute.
She exited the jungle and entered a sitting room where the gentlefolk of the House carried silver platters and fluted drinks. Sweet smells of honey and pastries chased away the forbidden air of the last room, enveloping her now in a sugared fog. Trays floated past with powders and vials and leaves meant for smoking. In the center of the room was a massive divan, ridiculous in its size. And sprawled out on the enormous bed-sized cushion was a cluster of women. Feeding each other, gazing deep into the other’s eyes, giggling and touching. It was a candy heaven made flesh.
She felt herself drifting, her feet following the rhythm and pull she’d held closer than anything all these years. The sound of secrets never left her, and she doubted it ever would. The beat became a steady rousing thing that vibrated in her chest and brought a rush of color to her cheeks. Elysia was quickly realizing how easy it would be to simply wander room to room, acting as a voyeur upon other people’s fantasies. Judging and enjoying. But between the dwindling effects of the pukeweed and the constant coursing murmur of secrets racing through the smoke-laden air, she found her stamina lacking. Her body wanted to bend. Her mind wanted to mellow. She wished to sink like a pebble to the bottom of the ocean and watch the secrets go past. There was a reason she’d never stepped through these doors before.
Following the siren call of just one secret was enough to dim her logic and send her tumbling through basement windows and dark lit alleys. A building built and thriving on the blood and bones of secrets? It was a slaughtering to her senses that she was in no way prepared to fend off.
She was close to whatever it was. So close.
She became a ghost sailing through the trees, up the heavy dark wood stairs, fingertips trailing the banister as she floated higher and higher.
The song did not have a crescendo. It became quiet and still. For the crescendo was the secret itself, and Elysia knew it lived down the hall and two doors to the right. The heart of the song beat inside that room. Waiting impatiently. Just for her.
She ignored the sound. Don’t worry, I’m coming for you. And slipped into a bathroom down the hall, dropping her large purse to the floor. Her dress went up in the air, tossed over head. Oil poured out over her skin. A soft wash cloth was brought to her face, scrubbing away any last sign of Georgia Parker. Fresh faced, she switched her wig and clothes. Auburn hair, her mother’s eyes, and a corseted curve-inducing dress she’d stolen from Remy. As long as I don’t look like me.
Dressed as a stranger, she walked down the hall with a soft sway in her hips. She rested with her back against the wall, listening to the voices rumble and spill out into the hallway. She was unsurprised to detect the weaselly tones of Scarzan. He was her target after all, yet she still hesitated outside the door, apprehension sinking low into her stomach.
Her head fell back as she tried to muddle through logic, instinct, and the magic that ignored both. She’d made it this far, she reasoned. She’d gotten past the Doorman. Past her sister. Her own godsdamn sister hadn’t even blinked at her appearance. This was no different from any other night she flitted from room to room, gathering secrets out of the dust in the air.
The brick in her stomach argued otherwise, but it was too late.
She was here. Scarzan was just steps away. And she had promised Beatriz.
Now or never. She reached for the door.
Chapter 12
The door swung open smoothly, releasing the sounds of scattering dice and slapping cards. Booming alcohol fueled voices shoved over the top of each other to be heard. She came in quietly, observant of the chaos billowing around her. There were men entwined in a corner, lost to the world around them. Players held in the grip of a games table, sweating with fear and money. And music drowning any inclination to escape before it was too late.
All the occupants were so entrenched in their games that nary a single eye turned in her direction. Her feet didn’t make a sound on the thick carpet as she tiptoed past, girding herself for what was to come. Because he was here. And not even the magic in her chest could mute the growing feeling of foreboding zinging through her blood.
