Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3)

Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3) Page 16

Seth moves toward me. “You’ve been knocked out for almost twenty-four hours,” he says.

I glance around the room. How did I lose that much time? “I must be coming down with something,” I say. “Probably the flu. I feel like shit.” I blink. “Is Eli still gone?”

Seth’s eyes rake over me. Weighing me. Considering my words. “Yeah, they’re still on Da Island with Preacher. Maybe you’d better see a doctor, sis. You’re scaring me.”

A cynical laugh escapes me. “Yeah, right. A doctor. That’s what normal people do, Seth.” I give him a hard look and push away from the wall. “We’re not that anymore. Never will be, either. I’ll just sleep it off.” I throw myself back onto the bed.

“You’ve got clients waiting,” he says.

“Later,” I mumble into my pillow. “Tired.”

A few seconds go by. I feel Seth’s hand on my head, stroking my hair. “Come on, Ri. Get up. Please—”

In less than a half second, I turn over and shove him away. Hard. “Get away from me, Seth,” I say angrily. “I fucking mean it. Leave me alone.” My vision is fogging again, and I feel myself being pulled into blackness. I fight it, though, and keep my stare trained on my brother.

Hurt and anger crowd Seth’s young features. “I’ll never leave you alone,” he says with ferocity, then does exactly that and storms out of my room. In seconds I hear the apartment door downstairs slam shut.

Without another thought I turn over and fall right back to sleep. Or, into the pit of darkness. What the fuck ever. Doesn’t matter anymore. Shadows claim me, my thoughts, my memory. I’m aware of my own life force, the echo of my sluggish heart beating, but of nothing around me. Once more, I’m starkly oblivious. I like it like that.

I’m at a party. A ball? A charity? Everyone’s in tuxes and evening gowns, me included. Must be something big. Can’t imagine why I’m here. With a furtive glance, I check out my dress in the mirror I’m standing next to. Long, form fitting, garnet, thin jeweled straps and a plunging neckline. Backless. Slit from the floor to my thigh. Black peep-toe heels. The only jewelry I wear is a garnet velvet choker with a black stone inset. My hair is pulled up into a loose sort of sexy something, and someone curled my hair leaving long, spiraling hanks of midnight and fuchsia. The makeup is a little heavy, with my lips as garnet as my dress. I barely even look like me, except for the ink. My dual dragons running the length of my arms look wickedly out of place here. I like that.

A man appears beside me in the mirror, and I stare as he glides close to me. I’ve no idea who he is. Hell. I have no idea who I am.

“You came,” he says excitedly.

“Not yet,” I say, and I check him out from head to toe. A little young, but gorgeous all the same. Tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Perfectly structured face. “But that could change.”

He blinks in surprise, then gives me a seductive smile and offers me his arm. “Let’s dance.” Inclining his head, his grin widens.

I shrug and accept. “Lead the way.”

He does, and we make our way through a crowd of tuxes and gowns twirling around the dance floor to the music of a live orchestra. Once in the middle, he slows, turns, pulls me close, and immediately and with more grace than I credit him for, begins an unhurried, intimate dance. I let him lead, and I meet his gaze. His brown eyes sear into mine and he studies me with a burning, curious intensity.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he inquires. The hand resting modestly against my back moves lower, urges me closer with the slightest of nudges. His fingers interlace with mine. His whole presence exudes seduction. He’s very male. Very determined. And very, very horny.

“Not a clue,” I finally answer. “But you seem to know who I am.”

Brown eyes soften as he looks at me, and he smiles wide. “Let’s pretend neither of us knows the other,” he suggests. His accent is…I can’t place it. But it’s unusual, and sexy as hell. “To make it even. Yes?”

I give him a slight nod. “Why not.”

The orchestra plays some old tune I don’t recognize, and my dance partner lowers his head to my ear. Soft, firm lips brush the shell.

“Since we don’t know one another,” he whispers, “let’s go for a walk and get some air.” His lips brush the skin right below my ear. “Become acquainted.”

“All right,” I respond. “Let’s go become…acquainted, then.”

Wordlessly, he slips his hand to my lower back and leads me through the throng of partiers, to a set of French double doors near the back of the hall. Flanked by giant urns of green leafy ferns and marble statues, I can’t for the life of me figure out where I am. Cotillions and soirees aren’t exactly my thing. At least, I don’t think they are. I make eye contact with very few, but it’s because no one wants to look at my eyes. Instead they are fascinated by my dragons. I do notice that although the setting and music are both old-fashioned, most of the dancers are younger. Mid-twenties, maybe?

In the next breath we’re outside. It’s almost as though I somehow changed scenes in a movie. Literally. One second I’m standing inside. The next second, I’m beneath a canopy of moss and oaks, on a stone path through the garden. I glance up and around. The night is dark, starry, and moonless. A marble fountain spurts delicate sprays of water, pink from the lamp beneath the surface. A couple sits on a stone bench close by, their words whispered, muffled. My unknown date leads me past them, and as I glance down I see the woman’s hand grope the man’s crotch. His barely restrained moan reaches my ears. I notice he’s looking dead at me. I also notice his eyes have a sort of…glow.

Soon, we leave the horny couple behind and I find myself completely alone with a total stranger. The slight strains from the orchestra carry along the breeze until it seems we’re miles away from the ball. Shadows fall longer, the wood around the path grows denser.

“Are you afraid?” he asks. We stop. He rounds on me, facing me.

“Of what?” I return.

His hands ease to my hips, skim my bare back, and pull me close. I feel weird, as if I can’t really help my reaction to him. Even when his head lowers, I’m unable to pull away.

“Of loving me more than you love him,” he answers, his lips brushing close to mine, yet not touching them. “I think you are.”

Of him? Who? I can’t seem to help myself. I turn my mouth to his, and immediately he groans and covers my lips with his. The kiss is slow, erotic, and he takes his time to explore my mouth thoroughly, as if this is the only chance he’ll have. It feels like he’s waited for this moment a long, long time. I find myself kissing him back, and my hands thread around his neck and hold him tightly. Again he groans, and his kiss heightens. His hands slide down my bare back, over my ass, until he finds the slit in the dress and grazes the exposed skin of my thigh.

Then, he stills. For a moment, we’re both suspended there, in the dense wood, on a stone path. His hand leaves my thigh and cups my face. With a gentleness that surprises me, he strokes my lips with his thumb, then brushes a kiss there.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he says, his accent thicker. He kisses me again, then moves his mouth to my ear. He says something in a language I don’t understand. “Forever,” he whispers. “And it’s exactly how I imagined.”

I’m looking at him, his face half cast in shadow, and I can’t remember who he is. Familiar? Yes. Attractive? Totally. But there’s something missing here. Something absolutely not right…

“Riley, didn’t you hear what I said?”

I jerk, and again, my vision is blurry. Slowly, I focus. I’m confused. I’m pissed. And I don’t like either.

Woman staring at me. Auburn hair pulled into high pigtails. Bright red lipstick. Who the hell is she? Her eyes are wide and frightened as she stares hard at me. Her lips are moving but I don’t know what the hell she’s saying. There is no sound coming out.

All I can hear is her heart beating. Fast. Maybe I feel it more than hear it.

I turn to leave, to escape, and I then feel a hand close around my arm. I react. I turn and jack the woman up against the wall, holding her there by her throat. Although I’m staring dead at her face, I don’t really see her. Her features are a fuzzy blur. Her body begins to jerk, and she’s gasping for air, clawing at my hand with pale white fingers. Long legs clad in ridiculous-looking striped stockings kick the wall. I smile at her.

All at once I’m tackled and I hit the floor. Frantic voices, swearing, shouting surround me, and I start to struggle. A weight, almost unbearable, pins me down. Not for long, though, because I find my strength.

“Goddamn, Riley, hold still!” the voice warns, and straddles me in a way that I can’t move my arms or legs. I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s deep, accented, and threatening. All I want to do is escape. Get away. But I can barely breathe, much less run away. Whoever is on top of me is one strong fuck.

“Nyx, call Mrs. Dupré,” the same voice yells. “Now! And get Ms. Estelle over here, too.”

I thrash some more. “Get the fuck off me!” I growl. I buck, begin to pull one of my knees up under me. The body atop me grunts, mutters something in a foreign language, and holds me tighter.

“Hold her, Zetty,” a female voice warns. “You’ve got to get a better grip on her legs or she’ll kick right out from under you. I’ve seen her do it.”

More weight, distributed over my legs and arms, and no matter how hard I pitch, I’m stuck. My face is pushed into the floor. I don’t know who Zetty is, or Nyx, but they’re both dead when I get free.

“Call, Nyx,” the Zetty person says. “I can’t hold her forever.”

I hear the Nyx person speaking in an excited voice to someone, then she moves into my line of sight. Same stupid stockings. Must be the heartbeat I had by the throat. She comes closer, bends down, and looks at me. I’m so filled with rage I want to gnash out with my teeth and grab her.