Page 15 of A Touch of Dark
And in a year, we’ll play again.
It’s one of those mornings that pounces, going right for the jugular, ushering in another day of toeing that invisible boundary between hunter and hunted. Simon claims nightfall. It’s only fair. I’ll have to leave my suite before sundown and return after, just in time to open my final present.
Finding a diversion shouldn’t be such a hard task.
I could take Daddy up on his offer and visit more often. Let him see how happy and wonderful I am. He doesn’t have to worry, no siree.
Or…
I can crawl on my hands and knees into my bedroom and drink Moscato straight from the bottle. Imbibed with liquid courage, I manage to stand using my bedframe as a crutch and stumble into my closet.
Without bothering to shower, I peel off my stale birthday dress and pull on a black sweater and pants—but I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing as I enter the kitchen. While the coffee maker runs, I lean against the counter and tap my foot. Eventually, my fingers join in, abusing the granite like a makeshift piano. I can’t put a name to the sensation building in my veins. It’s almost like I hear a clock counting down the hours to some unknown event.Tick. Tock.
My coffee starts to pour. The steady drip of liquid into the pot feeds the building suspense like a match over a flame.
Drip.
Drop.
A knock on the door echoes to silence as the last few dregs of coffee anticlimactically drip down to join the majority steaming in the pot.
“Who is it?” I call to no response.
Strange. I don’t get visitors. Not ones who come announced through the front door without the aid of a shadowy reputation or stealth to hide behind. Damien? I swallow hard and reluctantly leave the caffeine behind.
A glance through the peephole reveals the face of a stranger. Not Simon. Certainly not Damien. This man is younger, with closely cropped brown curls and a wary smile.
“Delivery for Juliana Thorne,” he declares, offering up a potted plant when I crack the door.
The flowers, branching from twisted stems, are small and white. More delicate than Simon’s symbolic rose, and nothing like the carnations Daddy sends.
“They’re beautiful.” I start to finger a wayward petal.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the courier warns. “This stuff is oleander. Really toxic. Here—” He juggles the plant on one hand and withdraws an envelope from his pocket with the other.
My name is written on it. I accept both and the man disappears before I can voice a single question.
Not that I have to. Flowers and mystique seem to be the calling cards of one artist in particular.
Though I must give the man credit. He knows his floral arrangements. Oleander blends in beautifully with the muted colors of my kitchen. White over gray and poison over granite make a splendid combination. Who knew?
I pour myself a mug of coffee and take my time peeling the envelope open bit by bit. Inside, I find a black card almost entirely covered in painted versions of my deadly, white flowers. Running my fingers over the designs barely convinces me they aren’t real, each one lavished with detail. I can still smell the fresh acrylic. Still see the deliberate, careful strokes of the artist lurking within every line and streak of ivory. Inside the card is a simple message written in a stark, uniformed script.
Sammy and I hope you reconsider—D.
Of all the emotions to feel, intrigue shouldn’t be one of them. Did the blind man write his own threatening message?
My racing heartbeat distracts me from pondering the answer. It hammers away at my eardrums.Thump. Thump.Rough parchment and dried paint brush my fingertips as they continue to stroke the tiny flowers. Despite the courier’s warning, I’m afraid the artificial oleander might pack the most potent punch. Its tiny vines and leaves invade my thoughts, planting dangerous ideas. Like the memory of the card in my pocket and the address of a certain artist’s gallery. Images of doll-like eyes and porcelain skin. Red. Roses. Death.
And my actual doll he stole.
Simon’s time is nearing, but two additional cups of coffee don’t ease the transition of time. Minutes linger, and I’m left without a distraction. Alone in an ocean of idleness without a paddle.
Writing. I could try that. But when I finally fish a pen from a kitchen drawer, my first impulse isn’t to jot down notes for a new campaign. It’s a name. I write it out in black ink, arranging the letters over a napkin.Damien.Thank you for the flowers,I start to pen. Halfway through, I stop and toss the makeshift note into the trash.
I return to my bedroom, standing upright this time. The woman I spot in the full-length mirror near my bed looks like a perfect representation of confidence. Cool exterior. Watering, bloodshot eyes…
Shit.I rub them on my sleeve and turn my attention to my extensive wardrobe. Oleander. I can’t get the pure color of it out of my head, though I only have one ensemble in the same lethal shade. A dress bought for some unremarkable occasion and promptly shoved to the back of my closet. I extract it out by the hanger and eye it warily. It’s a simple sheath dress with a plunging neckline. Far too daring.
