Cameo and the Highwayman (Trilogy of Shadows Book 2)

by McCullough-White, Dawn

  Cameo quietly cracked open the door. She peered in and discovered Opal lying flat on his back, playing cards with two of the women employed there. One was in bed with him, holding his hand of cards up for him, and the other was sitting on a stool beside the bed.

  His eyes widened when he saw her slip into his room. “Darling,” he sounded breathless.

  “Hello, love.” Her voice was deep, flat, and pitiless.

  “Oh.” One of the women jumped up when she got a good look at the haunting apparition sauntering in.

  “That’s Cameo,” the other whispered as she climbed off of the bed, cowed by the reputation.

  Cameo glanced down at the empty bottles of wine littering the floor, then back up at Opal. “Comfortable now?”

  The dandy considered the other two thoughtfully as they departed.

  “Goodbye, Mister Black,” one said.

  “Goodbye,” the other whispered, hurrying out the door.

  “You need a new pseudonym,” Cameo said as she picked up the bottles and piled them into a heap beside the door.

  “Yes,” he sighed. “Probably.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “A bit. They put it on your tab, I’m afraid.”

  She smiled at him tenderly. “That’s fine. I can afford to buy you dinner.”

  “Where… did you go?”

  “Haffef was here. He forced me to go back to Edel; he threatened your life. He made me distract Edel so that he could get into his apartment and catch him unaware.” She leaned in to readjust his sheets.

  Now she was close enough that he could see her clearly. “He bit you?”

  “It’s all right—”

  “He bit you!”

  Cameo covered her mouth with one hand. She turned away, and as she did he saw a second fresh set of marks on her neck.

  “Your throat....”

  She watched him attempt to sit up and get out of bed on a pair of broken hands.

  “Opal!” She caught him as he fell, his jaw clenched in pain, and helped him back into bed.

  His brow furrowed in helpless frustration. “They could have killed you while I was lying here… useless.”

  She offered him her flask which he drank from eagerly.

  “You knew what you were getting yourself into when you realized what I was, didn’t you?” She slipped off her heavy cloak and sat down on the stool.

  Opal looked up at her, weakened by the sudden jolt of pain and amused by the question. Things appeared to be so bleak at the moment that they were actually quite funny. “Are you trying to make me feel better by telling me that I was useless before I had this recent, tragic turn of events?” He asked referring to his hands.

  “As far as the vampires are concerned, well… and zombies.”

  He took note of the faraway look in her eyes. “You’re referring to yourself?”

  She shook her head.

  “What zombie?”

  “Do you remember that assassin we left tied to a tree somewhere in the Lockenwood forest?”

  “The one I stabbed?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Haffef turned him into a zombie too. Sent him to find me, and then Edel captured him, and he was living in the apartment as well.”

  Opal seemed stunned. “Is he free?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another person who will want to extract his revenge on me, and me with no recourse at all,” he muttered.

  “He’s not going to hurt you.” She reassured.

  He regarded her dubiously.

  “He and Haffef found Ivy’s remains. Haffef finally has them.” She took a swig from her flask, sighing, as if the idea pained her. “He has what’s left of my sister. Now perhaps he’ll leave me alone.”

  He smiled a somewhat defeated smile that he’d been trying on for the last few days. “Perhaps.”

  “I was worried about you, though. Left alone, without my help....” She glanced over at the empty wine bottles. “But it seems you’ve made some friends while I was away.”

  Opal turned toward her. “Nothing you wouldn’t approve of my dear. Honestly, a round of cards and some alcohol, nothing… untoward. I assure you.”

  “Certainly not in a whorehouse.”

  He smiled at her. “Look at me, love. I have one blind eye, two useless hands, and I’m covered with smallpox scars—”

  “I know what you look like, and who you are.”

  “You flatter me.” He half laughed and then sobered, and then the question of what he was looking like these days crossed his mind. “Do you have a mirror?”

  She did not want to give him one. Instead of replying immediately, she found herself examining the state of the floorboards, which were worn down right around the bed and dusty in the corners. “No, I don’t.”

  Opal rolled over onto his back. “Why did he bite your mouth?”

  Cameo met his eyes. “We should leave here soon.”

  He felt himself pale. “You let him?” he asked, incredulous.

  “I had to create a distraction.”

  “And I actually felt badly for having a few drinks with Peg and Helena, while you were going around actively kissing vampires—”

  “I was attempting to distract him with blood. I knew that if I drew blood he would be somewhat disoriented and there would be a slim possibility that he couldn’t read my mind. I don’t think it worked.” She fought to keep her emotions in check. She didn’t want any regrets creeping into her expression, but she was fighting a losing battle.

  “It must have worked. You’re still alive.”

  “That’s true, but I think he knew his life was soon to be ended. He gave me a parting gift.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, something about… he was giving me a piece of himself when he bit me. Passing on some trait that was specific to him, I guess.” She shrugged. “I’ve seen no change in myself though, so I really have no idea what he was talking about.”

  “He’s dead then? I mean, really dead this time?”

  “Yes.” She pulled out the pistol she had stashed in a mausoleum seven years ago and examined it.

  “Yes? Just yes, hmm?”

  “Yes.”

  Opal looked down at his hands, two busted appendages that curled inward at the wrist, which resembled the hands of an elderly man. They were still foreign to him. These two hands that had been so coordinated before his capture.... His mind drifted off to the night that he had arrived to save Cameo from Edel’s clutches. How dashing he had looked. He smiled at the thought of himself riding the white steed.

  Cameo took aim at a pitcher that was sitting in a wash basin.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “What are you thinking?” she replied without hesitation.

  “I was thinking of the time we spent together at Edel’s apartment.” He smiled thoughtfully at her, hoping she would also remember the time they spent together, entwined in her sheets, or at least that she might remember that she had admitted to being in love with him, perhaps spark an interest in changing the tone of this meeting. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking of killing Avamore,” she said coldly.

  “Ah.... Well, he deserves it.” He tried to tuck his hands under the blanket.

  She focused her attention on him, “We need to get you out of Shandow as soon as possible.”

  “So you can return and assassinate the King?”

  “Aren’t you the architect of the revolution? I would think you would be thrilled that someone wanted to take him out.”

  “I’m probably just tired.”

  “I want to do it for you.”

  “Yes, that’s very romantic, my dear.” He turned away from her. This probably meant she would move him to some other place in Lockenwood, return to Shandow, kill the king, and then come back after a time. All in all, he’d be left on his own for heaven knows how long again, waiting for her. He was starting to regret how he had spent the majority of his li
fe leaving this girl or that girl, telling each one he would be back as soon as he had the chance, never to return, and without any intention of ever doing so. That was what he had become, a girl in a town. A sad girl in a town. Now he needed looking after, he needed a servant or a wife. And if this was how he was to spend the remainder of his life, as an invalid, he would have to change his ways. He certainly couldn’t fight his way out of problems now, so he’d have to go about his life differently, not as a highwayman at all anymore.

  “So, you were for the revolution then?” Opal asked in a small voice that nearly seemed to come from some other place in the room; it was timid and seemingly aloof.

  Her eyes lingered on his weakened form—the triangular shape of his back, which was currently pointed in her direction—and set the pistol down. “Yes. I was for it.”

  He released a low sigh of relief. “For some reason I thought....”

  “That I might be related to royalty?”

  “Yes.” He turned over to face her.

  She met his eyes, one hazel the other white, blinded by a childhood bout of smallpox. “No,” she lied.

  He nodded.

  “I was fascinated by Francois Mond, the young revolutionary.”

  “Very young.” His voice was wistful.

  Her lip curled up slightly into a bit of a crooked smile. “Yes. Very intriguing.”

  “Is that what you thought?”

  “It’s what all the girls thought.”

  He laughed, shaking his head.

  “No? I think you’re being modest.”

  Opal smiled at her, “I just can’t imagine you were thinking the same things as everyone else.”

  “Oh, no? I think you might be disappointed to discover how mundane my thoughts can be.”

  “Doubtful.”

  She smiled, focusing more on the floor than on Opal’s face. “I was rather disappointed when Kyrian handed me that paperwork he believed was one of your speeches, and it turned out to be Bellamy’s. I wanted to read it.” She digressed, “I have read some of your speeches, but of course that was before I realized you and he were the same man. Now it’s imperative that I read one. I was once intrigued, but now I’m completely absorbed with curiosity.”

  “Oh, really?” his expression was infinitely more inviting.

  “Definitely.” She touched his arm lightly. “Perhaps you can recite something?”

  He stifled a laugh. “Not very romantic.”

  “Liberty is a romantic notion to me.”

  “Well,” he sighed, “it’s been a long time… and I’ve tried to forget them.”

  “You had a wanted poster for Francois Mond in your shoulder-pack,” she countered.

  He seemed pained as he considered that. “There aren’t many images of me around anymore. I just wanted to have a picture of my youth.”

  She raised an eyebrow. She guessed it was more likely that he was sentimental about the whole affair. “Yes, whatever happened to all of the pictures they painted of you years ago?”

  “Burned, most likely, as soon as the distant relatives of the Belfours returned to power.”

  “You don’t remember any of your speeches at all?”

  He thought for a moment, “No.”

  “Your essays? Poetry?”

  “It’s been such a long time....” Opal seemed to drift off into memory, and then he turned to looked at her more intensely, “You do know a lot about me.”

  “Oh, do I?” She moved toward the package of clothing she’d left for him two days before.

  He smiled, somewhat pleased with himself now, and he was diligently trying to remember something from one of his more popular speeches.

  “You haven’t had a look at the clothes I purchased for you.”

  “Uhh, no. I presume you know me well enough to know what my taste is.”

  She smiled gently at him, her lips marred by the scar of someone else’s mouth over her own. “Ostentatious.”

  “Fashionable,” he corrected.

  “Well, that’s not what I procured for you.” She unwrapped the brown paper and revealed a set of rather plain clothes, jacket and pants in deep blue. “I didn’t want you to stand out, and we do need to hide you until we’re able to get out of Shandow anyhow.”

  Opal was unimpressed.

  “This,” she emphasized as she touched the fabric, “should be fairly inconspicuous.”

  “For a sea captain.”

  She frowned at him.

  He sighed, “I suppose I’ll live. Once I’m able to shave and put on some cosmetics I’ll feel like my old self again.”

  “No make-up.”

  He was indignant, “What do you mean?”

  “No shaving either.”

  Opal laughed. “You’re teasing.”

  “No. You need to look as little like yourself as you can.”

  He sunk deeply into the mattress, groaning in defeat.

  Cameo walked back over toward him and stroked his chin, “That is quite a beard you have going there. You’ll make a fine sea captain.”

  “I must look awful.”

  “Not at all.”

  He couldn’t repress a smile. “You clearly have some sort of girlish crush on Francois Mond.”

  She smiled thoughtfully, “That can’t hurt you any.”

  “No,” he sighed and reached up to touch her at the same time. Then he caught sight of the foreign thing moving toward her face and realized it was one of his broken hands. He hastily lowered it, ashamed of his appearance.

  She sat down on the side of the bed fluidly, supernatural in her grace. “How is the pain?”

  “More whiskey couldn’t hurt.”

  She brought the flask to his lips once more. “I’ll call a bath for you. That should brighten your spirits.”

  “All right,” he replied, staring down his hands.

  Cameo followed his gaze. “How did it happen?” She asked knowing the answer. She had seen him being tortured through her thralls, which were shades, or as she referred to them shadow-men. She could attach them to other people, so she could make certain her friends were all right or keep tabs on her enemies, and she could send them ahead to find things for her.

  “With a hammer,” he whispered.

  “I’m certain I killed the men who hurt you.”

  Opal didn’t move. He could hear the chill in her voice. He muttered thank you, but somehow it still didn’t change anything that had occurred. It didn’t change the state he was in now.

  “Well, I’ll go see one of your friends about getting a tub up here, if that’s possible.”

  His head jerked up suddenly awakened by this new concept. “And you will be bathing me?”

  Her mouth curved upward into a somewhat charmed smile. “Yes. Unless you would prefer someone else?”

  “No.... No one else comes to mind.”

  “Alright then. I’ll be right back.” And with that she was gone.

  * * * * *

  After a bath, she had dressed Opal in his cream-colored silk shirt and a pair of purple breeches, both of which were once the property of Derbec, a young royal related to the Belfour family. They ate dinner quietly together in his room. She combed through his long, blonde hair and plied him with wine and gin until it grew dark, and then she lay down next to him as he drifted off to sleep.

  She curled up against his body. He smelled faintly of soap, which mostly masked the lingering scent of the prison within the palace tower that he’d spent time in. A week of solitude and torture. Her eyes traced the injures on his face, a split lip and a dark contusion on the side of his face, wondering what he had been through.

  She watched him sleeping. He breathed deeply in a slumber induced by a hot bath and alcohol. Cameo nuzzled against his chest. Sleep was eluding her, even though she had spent the previous night on the floor of a cold mausoleum, weakened by blood loss. Somehow she couldn’t wrap her mind around the concept that they were finally together, and safe now.

  Opal’s shirt was wi
thout buttons, and it puckered open, revealing his pale chest as he breathed… slowly .... She watched the rise and fall of his chest, then lingered for a little while on the curve of his neck and his chin pointed aristocratically at the ceiling. She traced the shape of his lips in her mind; they were turned up at the ends into a permanently peaceful expression.

  Cameo sucked in a breath and slowly slid her fingers under the pucker of his silk shirt, caressing his skin, tenderly running the tips of her fingers over the pox scars. The room was cold and his skin was cool to the touch.

  Opal’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes fluttered open.

  “Yes,” he uttered breathlessly.

  She raised herself up on her elbows, her mouth brushed against his broken lip, tasting the dried blood. It had an odd flavor, maybe even more thrilling than pressing her mouth against his. The taste was almost intoxicating.

  “I love you,” he breathed as he scrambled to wrap his arms around her and pull her close.

  “Mmm ...” she purred against his ear, still reeling from the taste of his blood. Was this that little gift Edel had given her? She had some sort of longing to drink blood? She was becoming more and more like the embodiment of the monster that children sang songs about and less and less like a human.

  The moon cast a sliver of light across the floor, giving the room a hazy glow, illuminating Opal’s cream shirt and making it appear nearly luminescent.

  She focused on the infamous revolutionary she had under her. Opal’s soft, golden hair spread out around him beautifully. The man who had written all of those rousing sentiments about freedom and liberty. That man was actually the one-time highwayman who professed to being in love with her. Her eyes lingered on his broken bottom lip. The reddened hint of blood that would’ve gone unnoticed by human eyes was so clearly visible, and enthralling to her now.

  He muttered something endearing, and then, physically out-weighing her, he was somehow able to roll her onto her side. His loose hair swept against her face. She breathed in the scent of it.

  Her lips grazed over his rough beard as she sought his mouth, desiring his kiss, and longing for the taste of his blood again.