Scryer (5 page)

He cleared his throat. “I’ve brought
your dinner to your room. You shouldn’t wander around. This is a big place. It’s
easy to get lost in.”

Lake’s hand opened, freeing me, but I
took my time pulling my hand away. I rubbed it, even though there was no pain,
but I felt like his touch had seared my skin in some way.

“Relax,” I told Felix. “I just wanted a
drink.” I let my lips curve up into a nasty smile. “Something to get me in the
mood for tonight…or at least numb me for the way you revolting people make my
skin crawl. Each touch is like a cold, wet cockroach crawling on me.” I hunched
my shoulders and shivered for effect. Felix’s face remained still, causing my
anger to flare. I wanted a reaction; I wanted to hurt. “Tell me, why do I have
to endure the same revolting family each time? Others get passed around to
different ones at different rituals. Why do I have to get the most egotistical
and arrogant bloodline around?”

Felix smiled politely and ignored my
question. “Your dinner’s getting cold, Ms. Scryer. I would hate for it to be
ruined for you.” He made a slight gesture toward the doorway.

“Why would you care? No one cares about
the way that you’ve ruined me.” But I walked past him anyway, not bothering to
cast another look at Lake. I knew Felix was behind me as I walked down the
corridor to the bedroom, and once inside I swiftly closed it behind me, making
it clear that I didn’t wish for him to intrude.

My dinner sat on a tray, kept warm by a
silver cover like we were in a fine hotel. I lifted it off to reveal a meal
that looked like it had been prepared by a gourmet chef, but the only effect it
had on me was to make my stomach turn. I didn’t touch it and placed the cover
back over it. Instead, I turned my attention to the armoire that covered nearly
an entire wall. Fat cherubs and skinny devils had been carved into the dark wood
in intricate detail. Pitchforks stabbed into angel wings, and the cherubs’
hands wrapped around the devils’ necks, choking them.

These were sick people.

I opened the doors, not surprised to
find a single item hanging there all alone. The red skirt was so long that in
my bare feet it would trail behind me ridiculously, and I would need to hold it
up slightly at the front to prevent tripping and falling on the stairs. The
heavy fabric would hang from my hips in a way that would leave bruises by
morning. Although, was it the skirt or was it Michael’s hands that left them? I
could never be sure. Bruises easily stained my skin anyway, and I took extra
care when I walked not to bang my limbs against anything otherwise dark colors
would blossom by the next day.

I removed my robe before I reached for
the skirt. The wooden hanger that held it was heavy and expensive, and it swung
from side to side as I pulled the skirt free. The skirt was velvet and soft.
For just an instant I ran my hand over it, enjoying its touch. I didn’t know
the significance of the skirt, only that it was tradition that we all wore
them. Except for Danilo; I didn’t know what they had designed for him. It was
rare that a male would have our gift; normally it just passed down the female
line. Somehow, that made him even more alone than the rest of us.

I bunched up the skirt and stepped into
it before fastening the hooks to hold it around my waist, immediately feeling
the drag of the weight of the heavy fabric. Was this how women felt on their
wedding days, or used to before women’s lib? Clad in their expensive fabrics
that confined them as if a metaphor for the life of servitude to come? I was
sure that I would never know.

The door opened, taking me by surprise.
I brought my arms up across my chest to cover my naked breasts.

“Just me. No need to be shy.” Dorothea
Corin swept into the room, closing the door behind her and setting down a hatbox
on the bed before turning her gaze to me. That superior smug smile that was painted
a sultry and seductive red sat on her face; I didn’t know what she looked like
without it. The brightness of her lipstick served to make her skin even paler
and her teeth shiny and white. That skin was exquisite, nearly flawless, but up
close I could see that tiny lines were beginning to sneak in around her eyes,
making me guess that her age was closer to forty. She always seemed eternally
young, and I gained some kind of satisfaction in the realization that she was
just as vulnerable as the rest of us to the ravages of time. It made her seem
breakable and able to be defeated. One day she would decay to nothing more than
brittle bone and skin lined with time.

“You seem happy today,” she commented in
that sly way of hers.

I hadn’t realized that I’d been smiling
at the thought of her demise as an aging hag and I immediately straightened my
mouth and made sure my face was like stone.

“You’re early.”

She shrugged. “I saw that you didn’t wish
to eat your meal and thought we may as well get started.” Of course she
watched. Were there cameras in the room, or did she choose the more traditional
way of spying through holes in the room, carved through the eyes of portraits
perhaps? “You know my husband is just salivating to spread his seed all over
you,” she said casually as if speaking of the weather. I didn’t flinch. I
didn’t give her the satisfaction.

I watched as she lifted off the lid of
the hatbox to expose the garland. The scent of fresh flowers of the
moiraine
herb hit me before she even lifted it out. The smell always made me slightly
queasy. Where the leaves of the herb blocked the visions, its flowers were said
to enhance them. Perhaps though, that was just an old wives’ tale. Still, the Circle
took every precaution.

Dorothea lifted the garland out
carefully; treating it like it was as precious as a diamond tiara. Slowly and
with great care, she walked over to me, and I turned my back to her so I wouldn’t
have to face her up close and breathe in her scent. But that put me in full
view of the mirror, and I watched as she placed it on my hair. The red and
white flowers were linked together in a circle by the woody type stems with
their large, spiky thorns.

“There. Perfect,” she said, more to
herself than me. I watched her in the mirror. Her white skin, her black hair,
red lips and cold beauty. She was like a fairytale character—a wicked queen,
perhaps, carefully keeping balance on her throne in a world ruled by men and
their whims for beauty and youth.

Then she caught my eyes in the mirror
and that smile of hers irritated me so much that I could kill. It sent venom to
my tongue.

“Doesn’t it sicken you that your husband
would prefer to sleep with me than you?” I asked sharply. “That he would prefer
me over your aging body any day? How old are you now? How long until he tires
completely of you and casts you aside? All your delusions of grandeur would be
gone. All you have is the Corin name and status—what will you do when he puts
you on top of the scrap heap?”

In the mirror, I saw that smile falter
just slightly, but like all queens, she recovered with dignity. I waited while
she reached around me from behind and slid her hands slowly over the skin of my
arms. Her cold touch made me want to shiver.

“So pretty,” she murmured. Gently, she
grasped my wrists and pulled down my arms, exposing my naked breasts to the
mirror. I didn’t fight, just letting my arms hang there limply while she moved
her gentle fingertips over my flat stomach and up, to lightly sweep over the
underside of my breasts.

“My ancestors used to bathe in the blood
of pretty young women,” she said in a low voice. “They used to slit their
throats so they bled out into golden tubs in which my family waited. That’s the
life blood, and maidens would watch with dying eyes as their blood gushed onto
my ancestors, who believed that soaking in the blood of the beautiful would
keep them young. Of course, nowadays, there’s no need with Botox and acid
peels, but still, time catches up…” She boldly reached up to cup my breasts
now, squeezing them gently as if measuring their firmness and worth like fruit.
“I wonder if any of them ever stole the blood of a scryer? I wonder if the
little bitch saw that coming?”

Suddenly, she released me and stepped
back while I watched her warily in the mirror, my jaw shifted slightly to stop
me from saying anything more to her that would enrage her. She was a snake and
absolutely unpredictable.

“Now,” she said crisply, wiping her
hands on her designer gown as if removing me from her skin. “My husband’s ready
and waiting for you. I’ve decided not to join you tonight; I think that young
Danilo is more worthy of my attention and, frankly, I find you rather boring
now.” Her voice was bright and cheery; it matched her painted lips. She waited,
as if hoping that I’d reply, but I kept my mouth in a grim line, and she just
rolled her eyes and turned to leave the room.

“Goodnight, little witch,” she called
over her shoulder. I didn’t respond; instead I just kept staring at my reflection
until she closed the door behind her. My hand turned into a fist, digging my
nails into my palm as I hoped for an external pain that would distract me from
all the agony inside of me.

But the nails weren’t sharp enough and
distraction never came. If I had the guts I would have slammed my fist into the
mirror as if it were Dorothea’s fucking face. Of course, like a coward, I
didn’t.

It wasn’t much later that Felix came to
fetch me.  His manner was solemn, almost as if he felt sorry for me. But I
doubted that was true, because those of the Circle were incapable of feeling anything
for anyone but themselves in all of their greedy selves.

I followed him obediently, almost like a
dog. Up the curving staircase we went, our feet silent on the carpet, step by
numerous step. I tried counting them, but the number escaped me as I tried to
remember to breathe at the same time. Finally, we ended up at the narrow,
arched doorway on the floor at the very top. The figures of two men were carved
in its door. They held swords crossed together as if guarding the occupants
within. But those occupants didn’t need guards because those inside were lethal
enough to destroy any one who they chose to inflict their lack of mercy upon.

Felix opened the door, and then stood
aside so I could enter. I couldn’t read the look on his face; perhaps it was
pity. Whatever it was, there was no need for me to see it, and I quickly
lowered my head and stepped through the door.

The leather armchairs formed a circle
around a Persian rug. Against a wall sat a cabinet filled with liquor, and,
further into the room, on a platform up several steps lay an enormous bed with
an elaborately carved headboard. Michael sat, framed by the leather chair as he
held a glass of amber liquid against his knee. My breathing quickened as I saw
Lake sitting in another chair and drinking the same liquor as his uncle.
Quickly, I walked to the cabinet and poured myself a drink from the first
bottle that came to hand. It shook and splashed into the glass, and then onto
the wooden cabinetry, as I failed to hold my hand steady.

“Oh, shit,” I said.

Lake came up and took it from my shaking
hand, twisting the top of the bottle back on and passing me the glass. I made
sure not to look him in the eye. Instead, I went and sat in one of the chairs,
gulping the drink as I tried to get my breathing back under control.

“You look beautiful, Ivy,” Michael
observed, his voice as smooth and unflappable as ever.

My gaze remained on my drink that was
nearly finished by my gulps. “I’m not beautiful. I’m a fucking wreck.” It took
great effort to raise my eyes to meet his. Tears formed in my eyes as I fought
to take in oxygen, hating the way my naked breasts moved with each desperate
breath. It was like I was just made for them; a living, fuckable doll.

It would make no difference. The tears
would often form, and if there was anything within his hard heart and soul that
could feel for me, it never made one goddamn difference.

“Oh, Ivy. You know I have to.” He raised
himself up out of his chair and crossed the carpet to crouch in front of me.
His light hand took my wrist. “I’ll make it good for you, I promise. I’m not
the monster that you think I am.”

I drained my glass, and the liquor
burning my throat mingled with the salty tears that began to run down my cheeks
freely. Michael reached out and wiped one away before turning to his nephew who
stood watching silently.

“She’s distressed. Perhaps you should
sit this one out,” Michael said to him coldly.

Lake shook his head. “No. You’ve shut me
out of my right for too long.” His voice plainly said not to fuck with him and
my heart yearned for the lying Lake who acted so sweet and kind toward me.

Michael’s lips flicked up in a cruel
smile as he observed Lake; he was none too pleased by the response. “If you
wish to make things unpleasant, that’s fine, but if she doesn’t bring forth the
information required because she’s too upset—”

“She’s not a toy,” Lake cut in.

Michael’s face relaxed, and he let out a
laugh that was so cold that it had me shrinking back into the chair for
protection. “You’re right. She’s not a toy. She’s a fucking machine that needs
to work for
my
benefit. Do I need to remind you what happens if anyone
gets in the way of that?”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment
before Lake shifted slightly on his feet. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t be
screwed over by you,
Uncle.
”