Don gestured behind him. “Pierre will be your third guard.”
With a thin face and blond hair, Pierre was a crotchety looking skyscraper of an Eidolon. He nodded. That would be the longest conversation he would have with me. I preferred the quiet type to Chatty Kathy Chad anyway.
“And me,” Chad said. “I’m one of your bodyguards.”
Don rolled his eyes. “Yes, and Chadwick.”
Great. I scowled at the smug Eidolon. Chad returned the look with equal menace but then sneered like the two-year-old child he was.
“Our meeting is adjourned. We’re scheduled to leave for the airport in ten minutes. I suggest you say farewell to your father. Keep it brief.” Don and the two other guards exited the room in a single-file line.
Papa put a heavy hand on my shoulder. I jumped, nervous that every touch or sound or new face meant I had to defend myself from great tragedy like the last time I’d been in Lethe. Papa’s dark-chocolate eyes held a look that told me he knew of the gazillion emotions that teemed inside of me. Papa had always been good at reading me. I would miss him.
“I’ll be here when you return.” Papa’s hand carried twice as much weight. “I’m proud of you, babygirl. You can handle this. But you call me anyway. I worry, you know.”
“I will call. Promise. I wish you could go with us.”
He bowed his head. “Me, too.”
“What will you do here, Papa?”
He stood, and both Chad and I pushed back our chairs to mirror him.
“I don’t know exactly, but I was promised I would remain safe as long as you get your job done in California,” he said, his helplessness all over his face. He didn’t like it, and neither did I. Papa and I had not gone without each other’s company since Mama had died. Being separated troubled me, but there was little I could do now.
I nodded, wishing more than ever that I could bring him with me.
“You get home soon, you hear?” Papa pulled me into a hug so strong he nearly crushed me. He whispered, “I love you.”
Before I could say “I love you, too, and I miss you already,” he backed away and slipped out of the room. Papa had never been one for good-byes, but it would’ve been okay if he had just hugged me longer.
That was it for bidding farewell to my hordes of loved ones. Mama was in Erebus. Brent was nowhere. Dudley, who I’d already squeezed and kissed good-bye, would stay with Papa.
It was no wonder that humans and Stygians scramble to avoid loneliness. The fear of not dying alone turns into a lifelong quest for company. I wouldn’t die alone, since Brent was my Grim Reaper, though. But then, I wasn’t looking to die, just to hold him and hear his voice.
Chad stretched out his arms. “Wanna hug, Scrivie?”
The yellow stain on his white button-down shirt was not the only reason I scoffed and took several steps out of his reach. “We don’t hug. Ever.”
Chapter Seven
“Three Reapers in the Southwestern Sector, known as the group Nemesis, have been given the death penalty on the grounds of treason, a Level Ten Offense. Let this be a warning to all who challenge Stygian Legislation. Styx will not tolerate sedition. Styx will only survive on cooperation.”
—Reaper Quarterly, V.10
The airplane bathroom was the first safe place to investigate the mysterious piece of paper cutting into my left breast. The instant the captain turned off the seat belt sign, I claimed a potty emergency and flew to the nearest open lavatory. I couldn’t close and lock the door fast enough. Inside, under the stink of pressurized air and bodily functions, I dug the letter out from my bra, unfolded it, and gave it a quick scan. He had not written much, just a few sentences, but it was most certainly from Brent. The note looked to have been hastily jotted down, as I’d fully expected it would be. But it was his familiar writing.
I ran my hand across my chest, catching my lotus pendant. One big inhalation ensured that I was indeed breathing, and then I dove into the letter.
Ollie—I think Marin knows I’m up to something. I fear he is going to strike before I can pull my plan together. Do me a favor. Don’t trust anyone. Not even Papa, for he might be used against you. Whatever happens, I won’t let you down. I promise my best—for us both. Je t’aime, my darling.
I reread the letter a thousand times it seemed. Each read brought new meaning to his words. Each read sent me spiraling further and further into despair. What did he mean by not letting me down? His best had always been enough, but from the tone, he seemed to hint that even that wouldn’t save us. I read and read and read until there was a soft knock at the door.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” said a flight attendant.
“Uh, yes,” I chirped and quickly pushed the button to flush the toilet. “Just finishing up.”
I refolded and stuffed the letter back where I found it.
When I returned to my cramped middle seat, Gabriel, who sat by the window, gave me a cutting look. He leaned into the window. He was clearly not comfortable sitting so close to a Scrivener, and I was not comfortable sitting so close to him either. He seemed to think any touch from a Scrivener would tarnish him, like I was a social and biological plague. I just didn’t like him; therefore, I didn’t want to sit hip to hip with the Eidolon.
“Need more fiber. Swear I thought I was giving birth back there,” I said drily.
Silent, he turned back to his Reaper Quarterly, a printed reminder from Lethe that Reapers were falling short of their soul quotas. On the front cover was the latest rebel caught and executed for attempting to lead a group of insurgents into Lethe. Since my mutiny, the rebellion had been declared dead, but a few scattered die-hards had seen themselves fit to attempt the same, but with less success. What they didn’t understand was that from the start I’d had a powerful motivation—I’d wanted to save Brent’s life and hopefully save a few Stygian lives in the process.
Love makes us courageous.
It also makes us reckless.
Chad sank into the empty seat next to mine after visiting the lavatory. Now I was hip-to-hip with two Eidolons. Having Chad near like this was far more uncomfortable than having him riding on the back of my motorbike. This time I felt like a shackled prisoner going off to stand as witness for some other person’s trial.
All of this was made worse by Chad sitting with his legs spread far enough apart to take over half of my space. “So…” I said. “Did you get demoted after my raid on Lethe?”
Chad gave me a sidelong glance, and Gabriel lowered his newspaper slightly.
“I’ve heard rumors, you know,” I continued, just to goad him. “That Marin stripped your title. Is that why you’re on this trip, to win back the Big Boss’s favor?”
He stole another inch of my personal space with his knee, then leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. His subtle “fuck you” didn’t insult me.
“That’s what I thought,” I said and then slipped my headphones over my ears, listening to Nirvana’s album Nevermind and running over Brent’s letter in my head. What did it mean? Was Brent’s warning that he was going to make a move a bad sign? Was it a good one? When would Marin strike, if he did? What happened next?
Kurt Cobain and Brent’s letter were quickly overshadowed by the foreboding reality that I was about to visit a Master Scrivener whose allies were the soulless monsters who’d attacked Papa and me and killed Leo. My stomach knotted when the tires of the plane screeched across the asphalt runway.
I had expected to land at a major airport where people in suits and badges would feed me through customs, stamp my Canadian passport, and give me a stink-eye warning if I tried bringing my leftover banana into their country. Instead, I found myself standing on the tarmac at the regional airport of Santa Rosa, a small airplane hanger on the left and rounded mountains encircling us.
The morning sun peeked timidly through the wisps of souls traveling eastward over the Santa Rosa horizon. California is known as the Sunshine State, and even for Stygians, who should see nothing but clou
dy skies, there was more sun here than any other place I had been. This was an extravagance I welcomed.
Striding toward us from the hanger were two men in jeans, hiking boots, and gray North Face parkas. Both were inkless, from what skin I could see. One wore a hipflask of brown leather and metal. I didn’t know how to feel about his commitment to his drink, except that he came prepared. Both were as tall and menacing as pawns of a merciless Master Scrivener should be.
Did Dennison think I’d be so troublesome that he’d send gigantic men to collect me? My reputation must’ve preceded me. At least I hoped so.
Between them was a red-haired woman who matched their height. Decked out in a black pencil dress and purple pumps with toe cutouts to display her cherry-painted nails, she walked with a hip strut that had my Eidolon posse drooling from the corners of their agape mouths. I would’ve found her alluring, too, but I was wary. Eidolons I could handle. I wasn’t sure I could handle statuesque runway models with plump lips and wildcat eyes.
As the three approached, I straightened my back and rooted my stance. My horde assembled beside me with their chins wiped clean of drool. We were prepared. Well, the Eidolons were. I didn’t know what to think or how to act, or if I should go into hostile mode or be as sweet as apple pie.
“Olivia Iris Dormier, is it?” The tall man on the right asked with an inflection that sounded Scottish. This one was either Dennison or a lackey of his from the same country. Whichever he was, I didn’t leave anything to chance.
“You Dennison? Or one of his Trivials?” My curtness was meant to be forward, brave, and confident. But then I kept yapping before I could stop and think. “Where’s your identification? How do we know you’re not here to cut off our heads like you did my friend Leo?”
“Dear Lord Hades, she’s darling,” said the woman, in an accent I didn’t recognize. “She’s a teacup hippie from the backwoods. Look there, she even has freckles.”
I stared, slack-jawed, for I couldn’t help myself. Did we fly to the right country? This was California, with Dennison the Master Scrivener and his legion of spider-legged Trivials, right?
As politely as possible, because I didn’t know what else to say, I stated with purpose, “A girl without freckles is like a night without stars.”
“How precious.” She whacked one male brunette in the chest with her leather gloves. “This hippie is going to be a delightful guest.”
Feeling defensive about being dumped into a classification box based on my dreadlocks and freckles alone, I carefully studied the redheaded fashion plate. “I’m not a hippie, Prada.”
She bent forward to put her face level with mine, stressing our height difference. She smelled of fresh powder and strawberries. “Prada, hmm? Is that a pet name?”
“Unless you prefer something else.” I stopped short of using my familiar gritty language. She didn’t seem the type who’d take obscenities with grace.
“Prada is just fine, if it puts you in high spirits, Teacup. Now then, shall we move along? It’s a long ride to Wrightwick, and I’ve got to get back for my poolside appointment with Jeremiah at ten.” After hearing her speak for a bit, her accent became obvious to me—Mid-Atlantic, not British nor contemporary American, but 1940s Hollywood aristocrat. She must’ve thought of herself as the likes of Lauren Bacall or Rita Hayworth. She certainly had the looks down.
I didn’t follow Prada’s lead when she whirled on her four-inch purple heels and clicked-clacked back to the airplane hangar. Confusion surmounted worry at this point.
“Please don’t tell me she’s Dennison?” I said to the tall man with the hipflask and the dark brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
His smile smoldered against his California tanned skin. “Dinna mind Delia. She doesn’t fancy early mornings. Shall we show you to the car, lass?”
I studied him, suspicious of his pleasantness. His bright green eyes were magnetic—I found it difficult to look away.
“Mind introducing yourself before we go?” I said.
“Ah. My manners. Forgive me. This is Murray.” He pointed to his companion with the deep-set brown eyes, fair skin, and flaccid auburn hair. Murray didn’t possess the same hypnotic gaze as the brunette. His was vacant as a sociopath’s. He had to be a Trivial. “I’m Errol.”
I wasn’t yet sure what Errol was. But after Delia, I found Errol and Murray—well, maybe just Errol—to be refreshing.
“Meet Gabriel, Don, Pierre, and Chadwick,” I said.
“Just Chad,” he corrected.
I added, “Gabe, Don, Pierre and just Chad are Eidolons.”
“Welcome, gentlemen.” Errol turned his attention on me with a glint of charm in his emerald gaze. “And welcome to California Wine Country, Olivia.”
My mind filled with questions as we zigzagged into and through the mountains surrounding Santa Rosa in a Mercedes estate car. Had I not been uneasy about the ogre I was about to meet, who wanted to kill Brent, I might’ve been more excited to see a part of world I had always wanted to visit for its scenic beauty. And, of course, wine.
With Don to my right, I sat behind Errol as he drove. Delia had taken the passenger seat, chatting incessantly about her plans for my forthcoming makeover. Pierre, Chad, and Gabriel rode in the car behind us, driven by Murray. Whenever I turned to check on them through the rear window, they looked as silent and grouchy as they had been on the flight.
“You’re a practicing tattoo artist, no?” Errol asked once Delia had finally quieted down about her early morning mishap with a hairdryer.
“Yep.” Short answers would be the best way to reveal that I was glad to be in California and not looking forward to Team Prada’s makeover.
“You dinna have any ink,” he said.
“For heaven’s sake, Errol, leave the darling alone. Not every Scrivener is swathed in that outrageous artwork.” Upon Delia’s statement, my mind came to a screeching halt inside the speeding car. I couldn’t be swathed in artwork—whenever I’d tried to tattoo myself, the ink simply disintegrated. Since a Scrivener could hold artwork, why couldn’t I, being a Master Scrivener? Or was my own skin art still to come?
“I’m trying to make conversation, Delia,” Errol said. “You’re making that difficult.”
Delia and Errol weren’t close, apparently. I liked him a tad more for that. He had taste.
“Olivia.” His voice rose in volume to bring my attention back to him. “I find it intriguing that you have no tattoos. My apologies if I offended you.”
Well, he had. And he managed to make me question my skill level and, quite honestly, my identity as a Scrivener.
Don glanced at me from the corner of a beady eye. His neck was too thick to move discreetly.
“I don’t keep ink,” I answered, wishing I had a better, more intimidating reply. “It flakes away. Trust me, I tried when I was younger. I gave up a few years ago. Should a Scrivener or Master Scrivener have artwork?”
“Not necessarily.”
I caught Errol’s green eyes in the rearview mirror. He returned his attention to the mountain road.
“Do you have ink, Errol?” I asked.
“Practically a whole bodysuit.” Delia picked at her cherry-red fingernails.
Tattoos in the world of Styx had significant meanings for Reapers and Scriveners. They weren’t expressions of a Stygian’s personality as they were on humans. They were there for reasons only they knew or would one day know. When I had asked Gerard about his tattoos, he never replied. He knew why they were there, why they stuck around, but he would not share the reasons. I had assumed it was because it was so personal that he couldn’t bear to tell me. I still believed that. But as for me and my bare skin, I had to wonder whether Dennison had tattoos and whether I’d begin acquiring them at some point.
I studied Delia’s perfect complexion. “So you don’t have tattoos either?”
She flicked her hair over her shoulder and turned a perfect profile to me. “You’re right. Just like you, Teacup, I don’t,
and I don’t need them, either. Neither do you, if you ask me.”
Errol glanced at me in the mirror again. “I’ll be glad to show you my artwork when we get to Wrightwick Manor, if you’d be wantin’ to see it.”
Wrightwick Manor.
It had a curious ring. I had imagined that Master Scrivener Dennison dwelled in a stone castle set atop a hill, with bats circling its tower and a permanent storm cloud hovering overhead. But a manor sounded lovely, albeit a bit lackluster for a revenge-seeking mastermind.
When we finally rolled up to Wrightwick an hour later, I learned that my expectations were off by miles. Sitting back from the country road, through nearly two miles of redwood-covered mountains, Wrightwick Manor was a massive log cabin surely built around the time that Teddy Roosevelt was running around Africa shooting game with an elephant gun. Wrightwick Manor felt like a summer camp. Surrounding the building were several acres of vineyards and orchards, dotted with smaller log cabins, a pool, and stables. Redwoods towered around the outer rim of the grounds like sentinels, and over the tops of them was an excellent view of Mount St. Helena a distance away.
Gravel crunched under the wheels as we approached the front door of the large cabin. The engine rumbled for a second and then quieted down. Errol got out and opened the car door for me, flashing a fine-looking smile.
Looking around, I drank in the mountains, greenery, and a breeze that sank into my bones. The serene feeling I got from Wrightwick contrasted with the Château’s terror on the hill, and that comforted me.
“This is Wrightwick Manor, lass. We are delighted you are here,” Errol said, as my official greeting to this strangely beautiful place. He opened the door to the main cabin and motioned me inside.
“Oh,” I said under my breath. The interior was just as captivating as the landscape around Wrightwick. The foyer alone was much larger than my humble Montana cabin. The three-story circular vestibule was accented with the heads of wild animals and rugs made of their pelts. The ceiling was latticed with oak beams. Half of the foyer was lined in floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over a patio covered with a vine-laden pergola. Beyond that were grape vines and peach trees.
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