“Well, you see, Scarlett has a rich and interesting past, to be sure. Her maternal lineage points to one of the most infamous witch burnings. The woman in question was accused of witchery because of the way she coulddanse. She was accused of being a temptress who could lure married men, unsuspecting men, into her arms and then kill them in cold blood.”
He leaned forward, his blue eyes red-rimmed, as if he had gotten stoned off of more than a sip of wine. The tip of his pointed nose matched his eyes.
“Do you believe your wife has this power? Answer truthfully, and without the use of excessive force,s’il vous plaît.”
“Are you asking me if I think my wife could kill in cold blood?”
“No! I am asking you if you think she could lure a man away from his marriage bed with the sway of her hips, with the look of lust in her eyes.”
He paused a moment, watching me.
“Oui.” He nodded in a solemn way, making him seem like some kind of French martyr. “You do not need to answer. I see the answer on your face. She has this power. Though we know she is only human, those who are willing to buy into the illusion of something that does not exist will believe she is not. They will pay with their souls for it, no?”
“This is how the rat started all this fucking bullshit?”
“Oui,” he said, smiling a bit. “Olivier is a rich and powerful man, but his underground illusion was starting to fade into the night. Thenshewalked in. The saddest and most magical creature he had ever laid eyes on. He fell in love with her—potential. Her face holds that innocentqualitie—she can lure you in, and when she moves sosensualie, she turns into a lady of the night and becomes a dangerous creature. This is what his guests have come to believe. Olivier has created another illusion for them. She is all they can think of.
“The longer her absence, the more Olivier has built her up to be not of this world. A gateway to Pandora’s box if you are lucky enough to be able to watch her, perhaps even touch her…” His voice drifted off. “Her absence has made them long for her presence even harder.”
“A vampire. They think she’s a vampire.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, they do not knowwhatshe is. That is what they want! They crave the mystery, the allure, the sinfulness, the innocence, the life and the death of it all. This is what they pay for! For the freedom to believeshe iswhatever they want her to be. She is merely a fantasy come to life. To have her in the bedroom? He has gotten offers for over a million. Do not shoot the messenger,” he added in haste and then continued in a hurry. “If she does not go along with the illusion, play her part in the trickery, Olivier is, ah, how do you say? Screwed.” He shrugged. “This is why I compliment you. You are savvy to have put in stipulations to his conditions.”
Emory sat across from me, but I saw Nemours. He had been ready to read off the conditions to her, ready for her to obey. Enough of the game, I had taken a seat, pulled the papers toward me, and asked Scarlett to get us a pen.
“You have no say so,” Nemours had said, reaching for the papers.
“Be mindful of that hand,” I said. “You don’t want it to match your nose or your throat.”
He paused and then withdrew his hand. When Scarlett returned with the pen, I pulled out her chair so she could sit.
“Mark it up all you like,” he sneered. “It still stands.”
“Yeah,” I said, starting to look over the papers. “But without us, these are just papers.” I looked him in the eye. “Your insurances will do you no good if they’ve been eliminated. Take the estate. Kill me.”
Scarlett took my hand and squeezed so hard that her knuckles turned red. “If something happens to my husband,” she said, her voice trembling with something more than fear. “I assure you, I will be with him not long after.”
I turned my eyes back to the papers.
What he categorized as the “above ground” deals were endorsements with high-end brands of products, most of them associated with the rich—perfumes, clothes, jewelry, makeup. Those held no interest for me. It was the underground part of the contract that I itched to read.
Scarlett stuck her pointer finger to the paper. “I’m changing my name. Be sure to put Fausti where Poésy is.”
“Hci!” her mother snapped.
Ignoring her mother, Scarlett wrote—Scarlett Rose Fausti.
Yeah, there were a few things I wouldn’t budge on. One of them was her name. A stipulation I had put in long before this bastard ever came along. There’s no greater honor than a woman taking a man’s last name. Apart from the jewelry she now wore, my name was a symbol of who she was to me—mine. He would have to fight and kill me for it.
“Fausti is even better.” Nemours smiled, teeth more like a wolf but the soul of a rabid rat. “That is a family to be associated with, for sure.”
The underground conditions had gone back and forth. She would only dance twice a month—too much and they lost interest, too little and they go much too wild, Nemours had commented—and she would only dance when I was there. There would be no drink, and we would be escorted in and out after every performance. Her dances would be choreographed, not done on a whim. Above all, her true identity would not be released.
Scarlett sat stone faced, watching us go back and forth about what she would or wouldn’t do. In that moment, all of my concentration had been on getting through the meeting without killing him and ending the night so that I could try to figure out a solution. No doubt about it, Nemours was a pawn in this game, and the men he answered to were much bigger than him.
In this moment, when I thought back on all that had transpired, I did so with a hate so thick it was murderous.
Emory waved his hand back and forth. “Did you hear?”
