King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  On the way back to the elevator, both of them toting bags, he said, “And now the electronics department.”

  ~*~

  All the bags went into the trunk of the Jag, save the one containing her new phone, already set up with her name and password, and added to Beck’s plan, on her lap on the way home. Funny how after only twenty-four hours it was home. Nowhere else had ever been.

  “Beck, thank you.” It felt woefully insufficient.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  The wipers beat a steady tempo across the windshield; faint house lights glimmered in the water beading along the windows.

  “I don’t know how I can – I can never–”

  His hand settled over the back of hers where it rested on the console between them. The skin was warm and soft – save a pattern of calluses at the base of each finger; one rough spot on his palm that left her thinking of the knife again. “If you’re wanting to repay me, there’s no need,” he said, squeezing her fingers lightly. “I wanted to do this.”

  When she glanced toward him, he took his gaze briefly off the road to send her a smile. That smile was as dangerous as his knife, she thought with a little lurch.

  “I don’t – I’m not.” She sighed, frustrated with the way the sentiments got tangled up with the longing that sat lodged behind her breastbone. None of his kindness was earned, but she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it. “I didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

  His brows tucked low before he turned his attention back to the road. “I don’t think kindness and help are things you have to deserve, Rose.” He paused. “Retribution, though. Vengeance. Punishment. Those you earn the hard way, and it’s usually well-deserved.”

  She thought of the knife again. The blood flecks on his nose.

  No, she still didn’t feel worthy of any of this – but she couldn’t disagree with him on the latter sentiment.

  ~*~

  Back at the townhouse, Rose went upstairs to stow away her new things and found a stack of freshly-washed towels on the sink in the bathroom.

  “I did some laundry today,” Kay said when she joined her and Beck in the kitchen. The old woman’s eyes brightened. “Well, look at you. You clean up nice.”

  Rose’s face heated again, like it had at the store. “Thank you.” She’d washed her face, tied her hair back with a new elastic, and changed into new jeans and a sweater. Was wearing her new sneakers. She didn’t look like the woman in white she’d seen at Steinman’s – could never imagine herself in such an elegant ensemble – but the new, clean clothes, and the faint lavender of her new perfume had gone a long way toward boosting her confidence.

  Beck stood at the counter, sweater sleeves pushed back, knife in one hand and an onion in the other. “Lovely,” he said, giving her a quick survey. “Can you come and chop this onion for me?”

  Together, they made pasta in a light cream sauce with sautéed chicken and mushrooms while Kay sat at the island, smoking cigarettes and chatting. Beck responded in mmhms and yeses, the occasional comment thrown in, while he directed Rose’s efforts toward the recipe, and complimented her competency in the kitchen.

  “Did you do the cooking at Tabby’s?”

  “Yes.” She cross-sectioned the mushroom in neat lines, amazed by the sharpness of his knife compared to the dull things at Tabitha’s. “But we never had ingredients this nice.”

  Kay let out a smoky chuckle. “It don’t matter if all the vegetables are hydroponic: you got money like Beck, you can get as much as you want.”

  “Hush,” Beck chided without heat. “Fill that pot and we’ll get the pasta started,” he instructed Rose.

  The kitchen was warm, and full of delicious smells, the lamplight golden and cozy. As Rose poured a box of penne noodles into the boiling water, she realized with a start that she was smiling to herself, perhaps crazily. That she was happy.

  ~*~

  She and Kay washed the dishes again, after dinner. Beck had gone off to his study with another bow, like this morning.

  “He’s a strange bird, that one,” Kay said when he was out of earshot, his footfalls long faded. “Don’t you think?”

  Rose paused a moment, then circled the sponge on the plate again. “No.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean it as an insult, honey. I love him like he was my own son. But you’d think he’d invest in a dishwasher, you know?”

  Rose had wondered, given the obvious state of wealth, but hadn’t dared ask. And, besides, there was something soothing about the warm water and suds and safety of simple tasks like washing plates.

  “He doesn’t mind spending money on some things, but he wants to keep humble in other ways,” Kay continued. When Rose passed her the next plate, she found the woman giving her a pointed look. “I’m sure he told you not to worry about it, and you shouldn’t. Beck would buy someone the world if he thought it was worthwhile.”

  Rose thought about what he’d said in the car about not having to earn kindness. She swallowed. This felt like a warning.

  Her face must have given her away, because Kay smiled. “He sees something special in you. I see it, too. It’s all fine, honey, don’t worry. Just…he forgets sometimes that he’s worthwhile, too. You know?”

  No, Rose didn’t know at all.

  “Sometimes white knights need saving, too.” Kay held her gaze a moment longer, then turned back to drying dishes.

  When the kitchen was set to rights, Kay yawned hugely and said she was going up to lie down. “If you ever want to shoot the shit and watch bad action movies with me, come on up. Night, honey.”

  “Night.”

  Rose went to the library with a quiet thrill of excitement. The lamps had already been lit, the ink-scented room warm and welcoming, and her book was where she’d left it on the arm of the chair. She toed off her sneakers, settled deep into the fragrant leather with her feet drawn up beneath her, and returned to the world of a lonely girl and her beautiful winged boy.

  The story was the sort that moved slowly, the author painting vivid portraits of each character: their smiles, their tears, the faint wisps hair escaped from braids and buns that touched their cheeks like thistledown. Emily was a cautious girl, afraid to hope, but burning quietly inside, a banked hearth fire that could heat a house for days and days. And Pietro blazed like an inferno by contrast; volatile and brilliant – but vulnerable, ready to collapse beneath the gentlest of rains. Their love was a dance, a push-pull, and they took turns leading and following. The bedroom scenes were written with great delicacy, soft and floral and all innuendo. Rose was surprise to find herself wishing for a little more. Something a little warmer and…realer.

  But the end was a happy one: the villain vanquished, Emily and Pietro bound together by love and trust. When her eyes skimmed The End at the bottom of the last page, she let out a sigh, sorry that it was over.

  When she lifted her head, Beck was sitting in the chair opposite her.

  She managed not to jump this time.

  He held a steaming mug in each hand, strings of tea bags dangling over the sides, and leaned forward to hand her one. “Did you finish?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” she said, taking the tea; she could smell how much sugar he’d put in it, mouth already watering at the prospect.

  “How did you like it?”

  “A lot. I liked that…”

  His brows lifted, a silent go on.

  She hesitated, blushing. She’d blushed more today than she ever had before and it was, frankly, annoying. When she read over Claire’s shoulder at Mr. Fisher’s, after, Claire would always start talking about what she loved about the characters, about her favorite scenes. If Rose didn’t think exactly the same way as her, Claire would make a face and tell her she was wrong.

  But Claire wasn’t here, and she didn’t get the sense Beck would call any of her opinions wrong.

  “I like that Emily wasn’t so brave at first,” she continued, feeling a little braver herself, thankful for the grounding warmth of the mu
g in her hands. “But that she got braver as the book went on.”

  He nodded.

  “At the end, I think she was the bravest one.”

  “Quite.”

  “And I liked Pietro. He was…”

  “Dashing?” he guessed. “Roguish and handsome?”

  “Um. He was hot.” Blushing furiously now.

  He smiled. “Nothing wrong with a dashing, handsome rogue.”

  Like you? she thought, and took a sip of tea to mask whatever expression she might make. He was definitely dashing, and handsome. She didn’t know about roguish – then again, perfect gentlemen didn’t kill people in their own kitchens, did they?

  He chuckled, softly. “There’s plenty more books like that.” He gestured toward the shelves with his mug. “You’re welcome to read all of them. You might like some of the Classics, too. The Brontës especially, I think. Lots of handsome rogues with those sisters.

  “There’s also plenty of history, if you’re interested. I’ve got books on just about every topic.” His gaze lifted over her head, toward the spines there, growing a bit distant.

  “I noticed lots of books about King Arthur.” It felt bold expressing an observation, something she was unused to.

  But he didn’t punish her for it, no. Blinked and refocused on her face, smiling. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of an enthusiast. Do you know anything of the legends?”

  “That the table was round?”

  “It was, yes, good.” His smile didn’t grow, but seemed to soften. “Those texts are of course available to you as well.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. And – I wanted to thank you again, for today. For everything. Everything you’ve done for me, and are doing for me. I can’t – I can’t thank you enough.”

  He shook his head. “I meant what I said before, about not having to deserve anything.” His head tilted, and his eyes caught the glint of the lamplight, bright as a cat’s, twice as bemusing. “But I do greatly appreciate your thanks.”

  Kay’s words from before came back to her. Sometimes white knights need saving, too.

  It struck her then that he was lonely. She had no evidence – beyond this big, rambling house, and the money he’d spent on her, and the inscrutability of his face – but she knew, suddenly. He had Kay, but there was a void. A sadness there, beneath the beautiful veneer.

  Good to see you up and about, the sales associate had said. If he’d been sick, he didn’t look it now, with his strong, gilded forearms, and his brilliant hair; the strength of his gait, silent steps that had brought him all the way across the room and to the chair in front of her without her even noticing.

  Regardless of what he’d said, she didn’t feel worthy of the gifts he’d given her today. But if what he wanted was company; if she could somehow be of some help, then she would give of herself without reservation.

  His smile shifted, another enigmatic twitch.

  She smiled back, wide enough that she felt the pull in her cheeks. Happy again, so happy, beyond her wildest imaginings.

  His lips parted, sharp teeth again. The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

  FIVE

  Beck offered her a whole list of book recommendations: wrote them out on a pad and tore off the page for her so she could consult it later, if he was busy and she’d forgotten any of them. He encouraged her to search out what struck her fancy in any given moment, too. Different books catch us at different moments, depending on what we need that day.

  He bid her good night when she started yawning, and by the time she’d reached her room, she realized how draining the day had been – but in a good way. It was a healthy sort of tiredness, and not the pain and exhaustion of overwork. She showered, pulled on a pair of new pajamas, the fabric heavenly soft against her skin. But before she climbed into bed, one of the day’s bags caught her eye: the small one from the jewelry counter.

  She’d barely dared to look in the store, too overwhelmed, but now, alone, behind a closed door…

  She carried the bag over to the dressing table and sat down on the stool there. Drew out the velvet box and opened it with trembling fingers.

  There were the simple studs he’d picked, and between them the necklace she’d glimpsed only as a bit of shine before. She studied it now with wonder.

  It was simple, too, a perfect match for the earrings. A pendant strung through with a white gold chain: a tiny gold crown set with diamonds.

  She passed a finger over the smooth warmth of the gold, wondering why, of all the shapes and designs, this was what he’d chosen for her.

  He was fascinated with King Arthur, though, he’d professed just downstairs. Perhaps it was that; an affinity. Perhaps, like with books, it was the thing that had caught his eye in that moment, and nothing more.

  She felt like a queen, though, when she fastened it around her neck. She stared at her reflection a long moment, after, the bright, brilliant gleam of it against her chest.

  Not a queen, but, just maybe, worthy in her own way.

  ~*~

  A routine developed over the next few weeks. Breakfast at seven sharp, dinner at seven-ish, depending on when Beck emerged from his study; lunch somewhere in the middle, when hunger all drew them into the kitchen. Under Beck’s tutelage, Rose built on her meager culinary skills, learning new recipes, cooking new dishes with ingredients she’d only ever dreamed of. Vegetables and fruits always too expensive to have before, like tomatoes and cucumbers and melons, now waited for her in the fridge. Beck had a deft hand with the knife – with more than just produce, she knew – and he instructed her in it until her cuts looked nearly as clean and precise as his own. When she glanced up at him for confirmation, he always had a smile for her, soft, fond, and secretive.

  She washed dishes with Kay after every meal, and soon was helping with laundry. Doing her share of vacuuming and dusting and polishing. Cleaning took her into rooms as of yet unexplored: bedrooms decorated according to color schemes: pink ones, and blue ones and green ones.

  “Yours is the rose room,” Beck explained. “It seemed fitting.” There were delicate roses in the wallpaper pattern, a rose garden depicted in the painting above the bed.

  She saw his study, finally, a week into her time at the townhouse, when she was dusting. “Just knock and go in,” Kay said, cigarette bobbing from her lip as she scrubbed the downstairs bathroom sink. “If it were up to him, he’d be in dust up to his ears. If he’s got a problem with it, send him to me.”

  Her knock on the polished oak door synced with the fast thump of her heart, a flutter of nerves in her belly.

  “Yes?” Beck called.

  “Kay sent me to dust.”

  “Oh, right. Come in.”

  He didn’t sound annoyed, but she still eased the door open and tiptoed her way in. No one had told her not to go into this room, but it had felt like a sacred thing. Off to my study. He’s in his study. Rose had imagined it: conjured images of book cases, and heavy tomes, and a massive desk with green glass lamps and orderly files in the drawers.

  She hadn’t expected the massive flat-screen computer monitor hung up on the far wall, nor the haphazard array of modern desks set out in front of it, laid out with other, smaller monitors, several keyboards, a mouse or two, a half-dozen empty tea mugs. And, his back to her, Beck, in a faded pinstriped shirt with the sleeves folded back, broad shoulders pressed back into the chair as he stroked his chin and studied the screen: it was a map of some sort, various points picked out with red dots.

  He half-turned toward her at the sound of the door, offering a fleeting, distracted scrap of a smile before turning back. “Hello. You won’t be a bother, don’t worry. Just thinking.”

  She didn’t know where to begin. There were shelves, but low ones, against the front wall of the room, and over beneath the one window to the side, but they were loaded not with books, but three-ring binders and file folders, crammed in haphazardly. There was a low leather couch, too, a blanket sliding off one arm, and she wondered if Beck ever
slept in here – she still hadn’t seen his bedroom, either.

  She dusted the shelves, as quickly as she could, not wanting to linger in his private space: just the tops and the edges of the shelves. She didn’t dare move any of the folders in case he had some sort of wild organization system in place.

  She moved to the desks, next. Gathered the empty tea mugs to take back to the kitchen; lifted books, papers, and keyboards to dust under them with the utmost care.

  She lifted a folder and found a knife beneath; a wicked hunting thing with one serrated edge.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward him, wondering if he’d seen her spot it, but he was staring at the map, hair gathered in one fist at the nape of his neck, chewing at his lower lip. Lost in thought.

  She stuck the dusting wand in her back pocket, gathered the mugs, and left him alone.

  That evening, when they stood chopping green beans together, when Kay was over setting the table, he said, softly, “I’m sorry my study is such a mess. I get distracted with work and fail to pick up after myself.” He sounded contrite; perhaps embarrassed, even.

  “It’s definitely not the worst mess I’ve ever seen.” A glance proved his mouth had plucked upward in the corner in a faint wry smirk. She knew he immediately thought of Tabitha, just as she had. “What are you working on? It looked like a map.”

  “It is.” He sliced a zucchini into perfect rounds and used the flat of the knife to scrape them off into a bowl. “Just a bit of a pet project.”

  When he didn’t offer anything else, she didn’t press for more.

  ~*~

  Beck left the house frequently in the evenings. Well after dinner, and after dark, in those sleepy hours before bed when Rose usually read and Kay usually shouted at a game show on TV. His footfalls would sound on the stairs, heavier than normal, and he would appear in the door of the comfy parlor or the library in his flared leather coat, and his chunky-soled lace-up boots. The outfit he’d worn the night Rose met him.