Page 5 of Beast of Blood and Roses
“Why?” Suspicion hung on that single word, sharp and heavy as a blade. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, hands clenched so tight they ached. What was he planning? The question buzzed in my head like trapped flies.
He gestured with his hand, a dismissive flick of the wrist that had his gold signet ring catching the light. The same ring he’d pawned and redeemed countless times before. “Because you’re a mess,” he said, his gaze raking over me with clinical detachment. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he swallowed. “Just do as I say.”
His voice dropped to a honeyed whisper, the kind he used when manipulating strangers at card tables. “You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”
The familiar weight of his expectations pressed down on my shoulders. My chest tightened with the strain of holding back words I could never say.
“No.” The syllable tasted like surrender on my tongue. Iglanced down at my damp shirt, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my skin, smelling faintly of sweat and cheap laundry soap. A deep sigh escaped me, stirring the loose strands of hair that had fallen across my face. “Just give me a minute.”
“Put on a dress.” The command sliced through the air, sudden and sharp.
I stopped mid-turn, my body freezing as though caught in headlights. The floorboard beneath my foot creaked in protest. A dress? The request echoed strangely in my ears, setting off alarms that crawled like spiders up my spine. Why a dress? My throat constricted around unasked questions.
Without a word, I trudged up the stairs to my room.
A wrongness settled in my stomach like spoiled food. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe, heavy with my father’s desperation and something else I couldn’t name. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic warning.
But I wasn’t going to let some gambler kill the only parent I had left. The thought of being truly alone in the world, with no one to belong to, nowhere to call home, filled me with a hollow dread that eclipsed even my current unease.
My Crimson Stakes uniform was laid out on my bed and I sighed miserably. It was a disaster—coffee splattered across the front, a smudge of grease on the sleeve from where I’d leaned against the kitchen counter, the collar wrinkled beyond salvation. The once-crisp red fabric now looked as defeated as I felt.
I’d probably lose my job if I showed up like this. Mr. Danvers had already given me two warnings about “professional appearance standards” this month, his thin lips pursed in disapproval each time. My fingertips traced the embroidered logo on my pocket, feeling the rough texture of the stitching. The steady paycheck was all that stood between us and eviction from ourcramped house with its perpetually dripping faucet and temperamental air conditioning.
With a heavy sigh that fogged the mirror’s edge, I picked up my phone. The cool glass screen pressed against my ear as I called in sick; my voice carefully crafted to sound congested and apologetic. I never missed work, not even when I had the flu last winter, not even when Dad disappeared for three days on a bender. My perfect attendance was the one thing I had going for me.
“Feel better, Rosalie,” my boss said, his gruff voice softening slightly. He didn’t give me a hard time, and the relief made my shoulders drop from where they’d been tensed around my ears.
I turned to my closet—a generous term for the wobbly metal rack shoved against the wall. I had exactly four dresses, none of them new. My fingers pushed through the hangers, the metallic scraping sound matching the anxiety scratching at my insides. I picked out a faded black sun dress, the hem worn but intact, the fabric soft from countless washings. It was the nicest of the other four, which was saying painfully little.
The dress slid over my head, the familiar scent of our discount laundry detergent filling my nostrils. I twisted before the mirror, trying to smooth wrinkles that had become permanent features. My amber eyes looked darker against the black fabric, almost gold in the weak afternoon light filtering through my dusty window.
I redid my hair with trembling fingers, gathering the thick dark waves Dad always said made me look too much like her. I pulled it up into a messy bun, securing it with a frayed hair scrunchie. A few tendrils escaped to curl against my neck, but it would have to do. Dad was waiting, and his patience was as threadbare as my dress.
I came downstairs, my footsteps echoing on the wooden staircase of our small house. The third step groaned under my weight, as it always did, a familiar sound in an increasingly unfamiliar situation. Dad had transformed himself in my absence. Gone was the disheveled, panicked man from earlier. He’d changed his shirt into a crisp black one that absorbed what little light filtered through our faded curtains. He’d combed his hair with precision, each strand locked in place. His dark blue jeans looked freshly pressed. The contrast was jarring; he looked presentable, almost respectable; a costume I rarely saw him wear.
The scent of cologne hung heavy in the air, expensive and unfamiliar. Not something he could afford on his own. Someone else’s scent clung to him, marking territory.
“Where are we going?” My voice bounced off the peeling wallpaper of our narrow hallway. I was hoping we weren’t meeting this gambler at Crimson Stakes Casino. If my boss saw me there on a sick day—with my father of all people—I’d lose my job for sure. The thought sent a cold ripple down my spine.
Dad’s eyes flickered to the front window, watching shadows from the oak tree stretch like fingers across our patchy lawn as twilight approached. “We’re going to Cypress Shadow Estate.” His voice carried an unfamiliar reverence when he spoke the name. “Ever heard of it?”
I shook my head, the movement causing my messy bun to loosen further. A strand of dark hair fell across my face like a curtain. “No. Where is it located?”
“In the Phantom Mist Bayou.” His answer was clipped, impatient. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he checked his watch—another item I’d never seen before. The gold glintedominously in the fading light. “He wants to negotiate there. Come on, we don’t want to be late.”
Something tugged at my memory of the bayou—whispered stories exchanged in school hallways, warnings passed between neighbors on summer nights when screen doors were propped open to catch any hint of breeze. There were rumors of beasts roaming there, creatures that moved beneath the murky waters and between cypress trees. Sometimes people didn’t return, their boats found empty and adrift, lost forever in the swamp.
As we stepped onto the cracked concrete of our front porch, the air pressed against my skin, thick with humidity and the promise of rain. In the distance, thunder growled low and threatening. The sun hung behind a bank of clouds the color of bruises, still an hour from setting, bleeding crimson across the horizon. As Dad locked our front door—something he rarely bothered to do—a flock of birds erupted from the oak tree, their black silhouettes slashing across the darkening sky.
I ran my fingers through the dark strands that had worked loose from my bun as we reached his rusted sedan. When I glanced at my reflection in the car window, for a moment I could have sworn I saw someone else looking back at me. Someone with my features but older, sadder. A warning in her eyes. Did I look like my mom? Perhaps an older, more rundown version.
The dress suddenly felt too thin against my skin as a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air crept through me. We were going somewhere I shouldn’t be, to meet someone dangerous. And despite my father sitting inches away as he started the engine, I had never felt more alone.
Chapter Four
Fierro
A car engine roared in the distance and I flinched, my claws digging into the leather armrests. My heart crashed against my ribs—a painful reminder that I was still part human. This was ridiculous, but Marcel and Colette had convinced me to go along with it. The bitter taste of desperation coated my tongue. They believed this was the only way to break the curse.
