Chapter8
Bianca
My hungover morning groan/growl is decidedly unpleasant, but instead of rushing to the toilet to express my great regret with whatever remains in my stomach, I realize myhungover-nessisn’t actually that bad. In truth, it’s nonexistent. That’s not possible. But maybe it has something to do with the most incredible scent I’ve ever smelled.
Cinnamon rolls? Bacon? Yes, I smell those things but the fragrance that’s causing tingling over every single inch of my skin isn’t about the food. I don’t know what it is. I’ve certainly never experienced anything like this.
I open my eyes without even needing to flinch though the sun is streaming through my window, casting rays over everything in the most magical way.
That’s when I see him, bathed in light. An enormous beast standing at the foot of my bed, holding a huge ancient-looking scroll and wearing clothing right out of a Jane Austen movie. So, no hangover but I’m clearly hallucinating.
Then he speaks with a lovely melodic voice, “Lady Bianca, do you perchance recall our phone conversation yesterday?”
Phone conversation? Monsters sayperchance?
Yesterday… is a blur.
What the freak kinds of drugs did I take?
Was my ice cream laced with crazy?
AmIcrazy?
I’m suddenly flashing back to my soloPrincess CrazyPantsdance festival.
Yikes.
At my wide-eyed, nonverbal response, he extends his furry hand toward me, the one holding the scroll. “I brought my birth certificate for your perusal.”
Perusal… a giant monster in gorgeous Regency apparel—his cravat is flawless—is asking me to peruse his birth certificate.
I giggle—I can’t help it. I kinda like my brand of crazy.
His smile is soft at hearing my laugh, but that might be because he’s attempting to conceal his fangs. He just has to have fangs to go with the little horns coming out the sides of his head. He’s super furry and it’s difficult to tell whether he’s blue or black because his fur shimmers with both, the hair moving on its own as though inspired by the ripples of his emotions.
He’s ginormous and quite beautiful in a rough way. He’s exactly the kind of monster I would want, if such creatures were real. Huge, able to protect, fanged, cuddly soft, with exceptionally kind eyes. There’s something so hopeful about the way he’s staring at me, like I’m the answer to all his prayers.
Since I didn’t move to receive his scroll, he pouts a little and then unrolls the document, holding it up for me to see.
In bright red, fancy lettering, I read his name.
Nicodemus Percival O’Henricksbergh.
My mouth drops open as the memory of the phone call surfaces and I immediately reach for my phone.
“Please don’t call for help,” he says urgently, desperately even. “I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you or allow you to be hurt.”
I stammer, “I’m not calling for help… I just need to see my call history. Just one second.”
The monster doesn’t move, but his tension is clear. The fragrance in the room is now filled with worry and hurt and loss. It makes me ache for him, for everyone who feels those emotions more often than they should.
“Just my call list… that’s all,” I say, holding up my phone to show him. Then I glance at the screen and find the words tickling my memory with a chainsaw.
Clumberton Castle.
Nicodemus Percival O’Henricksbergh.
A man—monster—of many syllables.