Too late.
I yanked my hand away. Corbin grabbed the knocker and let it drop. He looked visibly relieved. My stomach twisted as I watched him. How had he lived with that guilt for so long and still kept going? If Kelly had taken her life, I’d have lost myself completely. And how could his parents allow him to continue blaming himself? Could they not see that their silence only served to prove their condemnation? I could practically see the noose he wore around his neck – a cord braided from his own honour and despair.
The door swung open, revealing a woman who seemed to entirely consist of legs and teeth, wearing a figure-hugging shift dress that could have paid my first year’s tuition at MIT. She flashed us a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Do come in. The mistress is expecting you.”
Inside, the house was more spacious than I expected. The woman took our coats and hung them on a black rack to the side of the entrance hall. Modern monochromatic art gleaned from stark white walls and black crystal chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling above our heads. The only colour in the entire space was a violent red carpet stretching up the staircase. The overall effect was jarring, making the furniture appear the wrong size for human use, as if we were standing inside some fairground funhouse.
Now is definitely not the time to be thinking about fairgrounds.
“The first landing, last door on your left.” The woman flicked a hand of perfectly manicured talons at the staircase. “Don’t keep her waiting.”
I followed Corbin up the stairs, taking in as much of the weirdness as I could. On the first corner of the staircase was a black blobby sculpture that made the things Flynn made look like fine art. At the top of the landing, we entered a narrow hallway containing five doors on each side. Faint noises trailed up through the doors – the whisper of voices, the creaking of furniture, the soft tinkle of piano keys. How many people were in this strange house? I half expected a clown or an axe murderer to leap out at any moment.
“What is this place?” I whispered to Corbin. My skin prickled as though someone was watching me.
“Remember what I said before about Soho being a red-light district?”
I nodded.
“This is the sort of establishment you might find in such a district.”
“You mean this is abrothel?”
“Sssh!” Corbin’s eyes danced around. “Don’tuse that word here. This is an extremely upmarket establishment. There might be foreign rulers or Monte Carlo billionaires behind those doors. It’s also one of the few safe places in the world where witches can openly convene together.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain later.” He rapped three times on the last door on the left.
A voice inside purred, “Come in.”
“Wait!” I grabbed Corbin’s arm. “I’ve never met another witch before as a coven leader. How do you do it? Is there some sort of secret handshake or ritual I’m supposed to know?”
“All our rituals are unique to our covens. Blake was right when he said the rituals are just elaborate ways of channelling power. Just talk to her like you would a normal person.” He pushed open the door and stepped back. “Ladies first.”
I stepped into the room, not sure what I was going to see. Like the rest of the house, this room was something out of a Lady Gaga music video – completely decorated in white on black. A black sofa and two chairs with white edging were placed in the centre of the room. A slim black desk with a white laptop faced the window, and A gleaming white bar along one wall held rows of glasses that splattered rainbow prisms over the wall. More weird art hung everywhere. Only the luxurious red carpet underfoot and the prisms splashed across the walls by light hitting the crystal drinkware gave any colour.
A woman sat behind the desk, her swan-like neck bent toward the keyboard as she tapped at the keys with impossibly long nails, each one sharpened to a deadly point and coated in a red lacquer so sleek it looked as if it should be on a car commercial. Long, straight hair – every strand perfectly in place – was swept back into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. Black-framed glasses sat on the end of her slightly ski-jumped nose.
She didn’t look up as we came in.
Isadora.
It was just Isadora, Corbin had informed me earlier. No last name – at least, none that she trusted to the witching community. High Priestess of the most powerful and influential covens in Europe, and also the most well-connected. If we got Isadora, Corbin and Clara both said, we would get others.
“Mmmm,” she purred as she continued to tap at the keyboard. “Close the door, please. I’ll be finished in a moment.”
Corbin closed the door and gestured for me to speak. The woman hadn’t stopped typing. I mouthed at him,what the hell am I supposed to say?
“You could begin by telling me who you are and what this visit is in aid of,” the woman said without looking up.
Corbin elbowed me in the ribs. I stepped forward. “Um…right. I’m Maeve Moore, High Priestess of the Briarwood Coven. We’re here because?—”
“American,” she sniffed, in the same way someone might send back a plate of old seafood. She finally raised her long neck, glaring at me from down the slope of her nose. Eyes like ice water regarded me, then turned to Corbin. “Might you have found someone of your own stock, my dear? I could have given you one of my girls, you know.”
“That’s quite all right,” Corbin said, stepping back behind me.
I glared at him.That’s quite all right? She just said that to me and that’s the best reply you can come up with?
