Page 23 of A Dance With Devils
I glance in the mirror, unsure why the fact that I’m makeup less should matter to me given my wet hair. It doesn’t in reality, but now I’m dressed the lack of it makes me feel naked again. I reach for the tray of make-up almost unconsciously, running mascara, dark shadow, and pale lipstick into place. The staring continues longer than it should, some part of me questioning everything my life has been as I look over the crease lines in my face. How did I get here in my life? Twenty nine. Working a boring ass job just to keep up the pretence that we’re safe and secure, and now on a plane with a man I don’t know just because the one man I trust, the one who’s been more like a father to me these last few years told me to go.
“Here,” Malachi’s voice suddenly says. I look away from the mirror, watching as he pulls a long white, woollen coat out of the wardrobe. “It’s cold outside.”
The gentlemanly way he drapes it over my shoulders, as if he didn’t nearly break my fucking neck earlier, does nothing to appease my sense of distrust. He might be hot. He might also be charming in a way I can’t put my finger on, but I’m under no illusions. This is not me having a break from my life – this is just an extension of the same, but this time with Whit’s approval to relax for whatever reason.
“I don’t want to be here,” murmurs out of me.
He smiles and walks backwards until he’s out of the room, his body spinning to carry on towards the front of the plane. “Then you should have sat in the dark, Ally cat. Trading with a devil is never wise.”
The blast of cold air that bursts through the cabin signals the fact that the door has opened, and I slowly walk after him regardless of his words. He can’t be worse than devils I’ve already met, and if Whit’s told me to go then death isn’t on the cards anytime soon hopefully. The thought doesn’t stop me looking over the man that just mentioned the words, though, as he steps out of the plane and into the cold without a coat of his own. It doesn’t stop me staying at least five feet away from him either, as I descend the stairs and watch a waiting driver open the door of a car idling in the snow.
The ground’s been cleared, a small strip toward the car created as a path. I walk onwards again, shrugging the coat tighter against the freezing conditions regardless of the bright glare of sun hanging on the horizon. The driver smiles at me as I approach, his perfectly pressed uniform and frame bowing slightly as I slide in the car beside Malachi. Drinks get poured as the car finally pulls away. Large ones. I sip this time rather than down it, positive if games are happening I’ll need more wits about me than the trashed I was feeling earlier.
And then it’s just silence until, eventually, the car starts driving into a tunnel some time later.
Rock faces both windows, huge slabs of it climbing up and over us. I peer out as the bright day light disappears and the world begins turning black, trying to get a gauge of how far this tunnel goes. No light in front. No glimmer of the world outside that we’ve just left behind us. It’s just endless, a continuous right hand swing seeming to take us round in circles.
“I’ve never walked in the door with anyone but my wife,” he says, out of nowhere. I look at him sharply, unsure why that means anything. “Interesting that I’m choosing to.”
Silence again.
Frankly, it’s better like that. I can resolve myself to the fact that he’s a dick if he doesn’t speak or move. A freaky dick. Moving and speaking seems to cause reactions in me that are ridiculous, most of which happen between my legs. It also happens when he’s not doing either of those things, but at least it lessens the impact somehow and makes me sensible rather than senseless.
The air seems thinner here, as if all the oxygen's being sucked out of it. I feel woozier the further we go on this never-ending circle. Round and round, another round. Darker and darker but for the lights on the car gently glinting on the rock face. My head shakes as I attempt to clear the fog that seems perpetual now. It can’t be the drink. I’ve only sipped half a glass of it, and no matter how trashed I was another half shouldn’t make me feel like this.
My eyes narrow, face turning towards him. “Is this spiked?”
“No. It might be at some point, though. Be careful who you trust in here.”
The spinning slowly comes to a stop as the car does, a large black cavern around us. My door opens swiftly, a hand reaching inside to help me out as Malachi climbs out his side. It’s pitch dark in here. Nothing but the solidity of the chrome trim on the car seeming to make any sense to the darkness. I walk around with the driver's help, guided towards the sound of Malachi’s shoes on the rock beneath us, and then light floods the area.
A maid curtseys in a huge open doorway, her head bowed as he walks past her and into whatever place this is. The jacket gets stripped from his body as he carries on through the entryway and tossed to the ground, tie abandoned nearly as quickly.
The sound of keys jangle, as I stare around at the grandeur and try to assimilate the fact that I am actually in a fucking castle. It’s massive, ceilings towering above and weapons of old age war strapped onto walls around me. Everything’s so ancient. Even the door that closes behind me seems to creak and groan, as if offended that it's had to move at all.
“Ma'am?” the maid says. I look her over, wondering what she wants with her question. “Your coat?”
It slips from my shoulders as I walk forward a little into more light and gaze at a vast oil painting, the field of war drawing me to the carnage on canvas. Blood splatters the ground, soldiers decapitated, some harrowed in pain as the horses rush across their battered bodies.
Lovely.
I turn and gaze out the vast windows, looking at the plains of snow and ice in front of me. Nothing for miles. Just clear, dark blue skies and mountains lit by the sun. Daytime. I don’t know why I forgot that for a minute. Maybe it was the tunnel that led us here, or the dark confines of the cave we arrived into when the turning finally came to an end.
Moving closer, I rest my hands on the stone window ledge to look downwards. So far down. There's nothing but cliffs and rock face below, a ridge of formal gardens off to the right seemingly cleared of snow to a degree. I might as well be in the fucking plane again.
“Come, Ally cat,” washes through the hall back to me.
My head whips up, eyes looking left and right and then left again. Where did he go? There’s nothing but corridors leading out of this lobby area, all of them looking as directionless as the tunnel we came through but for the light cascading.
“To the right, Ma'am,” the maid says. Right. “Stay sharp,” she continues, winking.
Winking?
She curtseys again and backs away, her feet hurrying her off to the left and away into the warrens of obscurity. Right then. I quicken my pace, trying to keep my sharpness trained on the sound of his voice that is no longer there, and keep glancing around me. More passageways lead off to other rooms, all of them lavish and opulent from the little I can see. Music starts the moment I turn through another grand foyer area opening onto an ornate staircase, classical music. It drifts down the carpeted hall, echoing what seems low and miserable around the vaulted ceilings above.
It suits the place. That’s how it all feels here. Empty and looming, as if it’s as insulted by my presence as the main door was opening. And cold. I shiver and keep heading for the sound of the music, eventually arriving at what seems to be a large library of old books and music sheets. They’re everywhere, all of them tossed aimlessly or piled up in dusty corners. It’s not until I turn into the room fully that I realise the music is live, and being played by Malachi himself.
Time passes in the minutes I watch him play. Black shirt, collar flicked open, his fingers working seamlessly over keys as if he’s spent his whole life physically attached to the piano. It’s unexpected. And if I knew how to play I’d forget everything and join him there in the setting sun, get lost in the music with him for a while and overlook whatever this is. So still. Just his hands moving. Elegant. Perfected, as the sunlight bounces off the keys and his hands. Hot as hell – again. And yet nothing like the man who first walked into my bar dressed in roughed up clothes and then stalked my ass home to fix my electrics.
