Page 65 of Backwoods
Ossie inclined his head toward Amiya, a slight acknowledgment of their burgeoning friendship.
“I thought he worked in the kitchen?” Amiya asked Miss Lula.
“He works wherever I want him to work,” Miss Lula said. “I told him to play tonight, in honor of our new lady.”
Amiya didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the absurdity of it all. It was as if she had tumbled into some nightmarish rendition ofCinderella.
Miss Lula brought her to the closed double doors of the dining room. She pushed open one of the doors with a flourish.
“The master is eager to meet you.” Miss Lula took Amiya’s hand in a firm grip, clearly sensing Amiya’s apprehension. “Come inside.”
She brought Amiya across the threshold. Amiya scanned the candlelit room, muscles coiled with tension—and then she saw him.
He stood at the big picture window on the far side of the chamber, his back facing her. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a black tailed tuxedo. Crisp white hair flowed to his shoulders in a smooth mane.
Amiya was certain she had never seen this man before. Had he come back with the house, too, rising from the grounds like some haunting spirit made into flesh?
“Master Westbrook,” Miss Lula said. “Your lady has arrived.”
Westbrook turned. He had that classic blue blood look about him: the soft features of a southern aristocrat who had never spent a day of his life engaged in anything more laborious than signing contracts. Amiya might have considered him handsome for an older gentleman, under any other circumstances.
But there was something not quite right about his appearance, and it took a moment for her to discern the key detail that hinted at his unearthly rebirth.
“My, my, my,” Westbrook said, in a syrupy Georgia drawl. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Miss Lula, yes, indeed.”
He smiled, and Amiya’s heart clutched.
His teeth—oh God, his teeth.
Westbrook’s teeth were perfectly white—and honed to razor-sharp points.
Like a shark, she thought, a chill coursing through her that the warm room couldn’t dispel.
Westbrook strode toward her, taking easy, smooth strides: the walk of a man confident in his domain. His blue-eyed gaze never left her face. But there was aflatnessto his eyes, as if they had been painted on; the eyes of a wax figure, perhaps, that might appear genuine in a strictly physical sense, but lacked the depth of a living soul.
Every nerve ending in Amiya’s body screamed at her to run out of the room, to escape the evil that this man wore about him as plainly as his tailored tuxedo. But she kept her high-heeled feet rooted to the floor.
It was time to play the game.
She noticed the bulge of a pistol riding his waist, and heard the soft jingle of keys with each of his footsteps.
“A fine lady, indeed.” Lips peeled back in a broad smile, showing his sharklike teeth in full, Westbrook stepped to Amiya and took her hand.
Amiya suppressed a shiver. His skin was cold.
He bent and kissed her fingers. She felt the tip of his clammy tongue on her flesh, the hardness of his needlelike teeth. Nausea snaked through her.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Miss Lula said. “Master Westbrook, we’ll be serving dinner soon. Your favorite, of course.”
“Thank you, Miss Lula,” he said. He winked at his departing house manager. “This one’s a keeper for sure.”
“If she knows what’s best for her.” Miss Lula shot Amiya a warning glare. “Behave, lady.”
“I’m fine.” Amiya tried to smile, but she felt sick.
“I’ll fetch you a drink, my lady,” Westbrook said. “You look as if you could use one. Does bourbon suit you?”
Amiya rarely drank hard liquor, but she sensed that refusing the offer would be a mistake. “Yes, please. That sounds good.”
