The Shadow and the Rose

by Amanda DeWees

  * * *

  “Even if nothing’s broken, you’re bound to have some bruises and road rash,” she said. “Let’s get you patched up, or your mother will never let you come to one of my parties again.”

  He liked the sound of that. So he might actually get another chance to come to her house. “My mother won’t know; she’s out of the picture,” he said, and it was the first time he had been grateful to her.

  She led him up a flight of stairs and into the first room that opened off the landing. When she shut the door behind them, the noise of the party downstairs was immediately cut off. They stood in sudden silence in a large, softly lit room that he realized must be her bedroom. Decorated all in white like her clothes, it was an open, spacious chamber with an entire wall that was one big window. In daylight it must have offered a spectacular view of the mountains, but now, with darkness outside, it became a giant mirror. Reflected in it he saw the room, with the sparse, elegant furniture and enormous bed, and himself, looking every bit as awkward as he felt, and Melisande.

  “Take off your clothes,” she told him, and he stared at her blankly before comprehension dawned. “I’ll have them laundered. There’s a robe in the bathroom that you can put on in the meantime.” She turned her back to him, and he shucked off his black waiter’s jacket and began to unbutton his shirt; even though she wasn’t watching him, embarrassment made his fingers slow and clumsy. He couldn’t remember ever having undressed before in the presence of any woman other than a nurse or his mother.

  “Here,” he said awkwardly, and held out the bundle of clothing. “I, uh, think my arm got the worst of it, so I just—” He gestured to his legs. He had no idea how much he’d scraped up his leg, but no way was he going to take his pants off here to find out. He thought she looked surprised when she saw he was still half dressed, but she didn’t embarrass him further by commenting on it.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, taking the wadded-up shirt and jacket. “I’m going to get bandages and ointment.”

  “Um, thanks. But I don’t seem to have any scrapes or anything. I’ll probably just have some spectacular bruises tomorrow.”

  “But you’re bleeding,” she pointed out.

  “I am?”

  Her eyes went to his left nipple, which he had pierced on impulse two days ago. It was refusing to heal, and blood had welled up around the small ring. Lightly she touched the wound. Her fingers were cool, but they sent a wave of heat surging under his skin.

  “It was a dumb idea,” he said, gruff with embarrassment. “I thought it would be cool, but it just hurts like a son of a bitch, and it won’t stop bleeding.” As he spoke, he watched in wonder as she lifted her blood-smeared finger to her mouth and licked it clean. Her eyes met his with an emerald intensity, and her nostrils flared briefly, as if she was catching a strong scent. There was something in her expression that he could not understand.

  “Some people read palms, or tea leaves,” she said. “I read blood.”

  “Oh,” he said. “What does mine say?”

  She put her head on one side and gazed into space as she seemed to consider. “You’re in a lot of pain right now. No one understands what you’re going through—you’re very much alone. But you’re capable of greatness. Of great passion.” Her eyes met his again. “How did I do?”

  “Pretty amazing,” he admitted.

  “It’s a knack.” Suddenly brisk and practical, she moved toward the door, her feet silent on the bare wood floor. “I’ll take care of your clothes now, and then your wound. Make yourself at home—and feel free to turn up the thermostat if you’re chilly.” She had evidently noticed that he had crossed his arms over his chest, but that was for modesty more than warmth. She vanished through the door, and he was alone.

  Feeling exposed in front of the bank of windows, he wandered to the enclosed side of the room to wait for her. The surface of her bureau was covered with framed photographs of Melisande with different people—mostly famous people, he noticed, recognizing a famous rock star of the seventies and numerous Hollywood actors. The pictures had to have been years old, because all the celebrities in them looked younger than they did now. One of them made his eyes widen, and he picked it up for a closer look. “This can’t be Elvis,” he said when he heard the door open. Melisande would have been only a child when Elvis Presley was in his first heyday, and yet the woman in the photograph next to the handsome young man in the denim jacket looked no different than she had five minutes ago.

  “Quite a remarkable likeness, isn’t it?” she said from beside him, making him jump; she had come up to him so silently he hadn’t realized how close she was. “They have some amazing impersonators in Las Vegas these days. Now, have a seat. I’m going to clean your piercing so that it doesn’t become infected, and then I’ll salve your arm to prevent bruising.” She took his hand and led him to a sofa that faced the windows. “It would be a shame for anything to disfigure such a body as yours.”

  She carried a tray with cotton balls and various bottles and jars, which she placed on the arm of the sofa behind him. Sitting next to him on the sofa, she dampened a cotton ball with liquid from one of the bottles and touched it to his chest. The bite of alcohol made him flinch.

  “Tell me about yourself, Tanner,” she said. “Your mother isn’t around, you said. How about your father?”

  He told her about the divorce, about having been foisted on Ash Grove. Her eyes never left his face as he talked, and that direct green gaze was both disturbing and exciting. He found himself telling her things he had never confided to anyone else—what it had been like when his parents fought; how out of place he felt at school.

  “And there’s no one else? No girlfriend?”

  Looking at her, he was finding it difficult to remember any of the girls he knew, even the ones he had made out with. “No,” he said.

  “Boyfriend, then?”

  “No!”

  Her lips twitched, and he realized how immature he must have sounded. But all she said was “I see. So you have no encumbrances.” Before he could ask what she meant, she had picked up a small jar that gave off a sharp, green scent when she opened it, as of crushed leaves. “This is a formula of my own,” she told him, dabbing her fingers in the jar. “Do you know anything of the uses of herbs?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Not ‘ma’am’—Melisande.” Soft though it was, it was a command.

  “Melisande,” he repeated.

  “That’s better.” He watched as she dabbed the ointment on his skin with the tips of her fingers; it tingled sharply at first, but then faded into a pleasant warmth. “Mullein and vervain ease the sting. There’s coriander for healing, and lad’s-love… some call it southernwood, but I prefer the older name.” Her fingers slowed and lingered on his chest. “How does that feel?”

  “It feels nice,” he managed. He was finding it more and more difficult to breathe.

  “It would be better to take the ring out,” she said after a minute. “Do you mind?”

  He shook his head, and she gave a nod of approval. “I think that’s wise. Models with piercings are more limited in the bookings they get.”

  “Models?” he repeated, watching her as she extracted the metal ring from his nipple. Her fingers were surprisingly gentle, and he watched her so closely that his breath stirred her hair. “I don’t know where you got that idea. I’ve never done any modeling.”

  “Well, you certainly should.” She leaned across him to place the ring on the table behind him, and as she moved her breast brushed against his arm. He felt his cheeks color, and when she straightened he thought there was a tiny smile on her lips. “You’d be a sensation. With your bone structure, your body, I could get you on billboards all across the country within six months.”

  The prospect was bewitching. “You don’t mean it,” he said, but his voice was hopeful.

  “Of course I mean it! I could get you a contract like that,” and she snapped her fingers. “C
alvin Klein, Hugo Boss—even Armani, if we play our cards right. We could have you pulling in a million a year before you know it.”

  He didn’t know if it was the picture of wealth and success she painted, or the intoxicating promise of the word we, but he found himself being caught up in her enthusiasm. “Could you really do that?” he asked. “Get me into the business?”

  She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m a very powerful woman. With me beside you, you’ll have the world at your feet.”

  As she continued to stroke the herbal salve onto his arm she described the life they would lead together. Money. Fame. Travel. Cars. The chance to make those assholes at school sick with envy. And best of all, Melisande at his side. He lay back against the cushions of the sofa, half in a daze at the sound of her voice. His eyes were drawn to the long sliver of white skin where her blouse parted in front. A shadow came and went there with her breathing, and every time she moved, the shadow deepened.

  Presently she fell silent and put the lid back on the pot of salve. “How does that feel?” she asked.

  The ache in his arm had disappeared, and he said so. She smiled. “Good,” she said, and leaned toward him, her hair drifting softly against his chest. She looked into his eyes. “Good.”

  Her mouth was cool against his, coaxing him to open to her; the kiss seemed to draw his whole soul up to his lips, sudden and urgent. Her tongue flickered in his mouth, and he tasted the faint metallic sharpness of his own blood.

  At length she drew back slightly and, taking his hands, led them to the front of her blouse.

  “Now that we’ve gotten you out of your clothes,” she murmured, “do you think you can get me out of mine?”

  He thought he could.