And the rows of brightly coloured nail polish.
Besides a packet of crayons and some blank paper, small glass vials fill the entirety of Dorian’s cubby. From the hottest pink to the deepest green, there’s close to twenty different shades of nail polish in here. Most of them sit close to empty, the last fewdrops of paint clinging to the exterior like a memory that refuses to wash away.
There’s only one vial that sits apart, one glass bottle that looks more polished and cared for than the others.
I pick up the nail polish and look at the colour swishing around inside. Darker than the rest and almost completely full, it stands out for a completely different reason.
Quietly putting everything back where it belongs, I return downstairs to find only one Hoffmann brother still hanging around.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“And so much more.”
Doc chuckles softly, his eyes drifting from me to the open door, “You left the diamond in one of the bunks, didn’t you?”
“Upstairs in the bottom bunk. Those were my instructions.”
“Then you should have no problem following my next ones as well.” He shuffles closer, taking my hand and wrapping it around his own, “If you ever return to this cottage beyond means of accessing our railroad, I will be forced to take action. The eldest brother must protect his family, as I am sure you can understand.”
He squeezes my hand, giving me a soft smile.
“Come near Dorian again and I will personally ensure you cannot walk properly for the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear?”
I stare at the sparkling eyes that could so easily be mistaken for kindness.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Then I bid you a farewell.”
Another smile and a squeeze before he lets go of my hand. A piece of metal stays behind, a jagged threat that scrapes my palm with the promise of a hunter’s rifle.
Thoughts jumble and clash as I venture from the cottage, my mind stuck on the bullet casing rattling around in my pocket.
The splotch of black in a drawer bursting with colour.
Chapter 33
CALISTA
So rarely do I feel sympathy when it comes to killing a man.
Torturing them, removing layers of flesh and bone, listening to their pleas for mercy. It’s a routine by this point, a reason for my demons to chase away the blood and agony of my own memories.
And replace them with those of an enemy.
“Another one.”
The man screams as Maleficent’s demand is carried out by her executioner. A flattering title for the child who was raised to strip a man of his flesh just as easily as his pride.
His middle finger falls to the floor, joining the mass already waiting. The skin I removed from his knuckles, wrists and forearms is also on the pile, adding a bloody layer to the digits no longer attached to his body.
If he keeps this up, he’ll be lucky to walk away with a couple of thumbs.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?”
Sweeping her dress to the side, my mother settles herself down on the chair sitting opposite him. It’s unusual for the Dragon to make a guest appearance during torture sessions, but with the Sea Witch out of town, someone has to handle the interrogations.
And as I pointed out, a dance between two women is always better than one.
