Where I could, I answered vaguely, not committing to anything other than the fact that we’ve talked.
“Why is the life of crime so fruitful?” Pierre muses as he kills the engine and stares up at the mansion.
Una and I remain silent, her appearing to take in the grandeur of the exterior and me trying not to recall the last time I was at this house.
A black car is parked in front of us, and as we climb out, Abel comes into view, polishing the bonnet.
On seeing me, he tips his cap. “Miss Bransby. Nice to see you again.”
“Hey, Abel,” I say.
Burn holes are boring into the back of my jacket, and I presume Una’s stare is the cause.
“Abel? Nice to see you again?” she hisses, picking up her pace on the steps so she’s level with me. “What the fuck is going on here, Evangeline?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” It’s the only thing I can give her.
“Oh, I really do,” she says.
“Leave it, will you,” Pierre tells Una, shivering as he glances at the gargoyles at the top of the steps. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“I’m sure Evangeline will give us a guided tour, seeing as she’s been here before. Seriously, what’s going on? I don’t understand you at all anymore.”
“Then stop trying to.” I immediately feel awful for snapping at my friend, but she’s relentless, and how can I answer her when I don’t understand it myself?
There’s no one on the door, but a camera mounted above the lintel flashes as we gather underneath its gaze. There’s a buzz and a click before the door is opened by Jupiter.
“You again. And you brought backup,” he says.
“We’re here to see Valdemar,” I say with a confidence I didn’t have the last time I saw him.
He steps to the side, and I can feel Una itching to ask more questions, but Jupiter leads us into the foyer, where he deposits us.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” Jupiter disappears up the stairs.
What would Una say if I told her I’d been in Valdemar’s bedroom, in his bed, under his sheets, and under his body? Positive her opinion of me would sink further than it already has, I keep this to myself.
Una and Pierre gawk at the open foyer, the grand staircase before them, and the large fresco window in the landing area. They’re seeing this for the first time—the opulence, the beauty.
Then their bodies tense as if a dark cloud has blown in overhead and they’re bracing themselves for the storm to unleash, whereas my body melts in the presence of the man before me.
Hands in his pockets, Valdemar strides down the staircase, his eyes on me and only me, and I wonder how he’s going to play this.
As if answering, he touches the small of my elbow and plants a light kiss on my cheek. “Angel.” He delivers it as a whisper, though loud enough for both Pierre and Una to hear.
Fuck.
Una positively hops on her toes, and Pierre just stares.
“Are you going to introduce me to our guests?” Valdemar says.
Ourguests, like we’re hosting an event as a pair.
“These are my work colleagues.” I step out of his embrace, trying to maintain some professionalism. “This is Pierre Zanthe, a reporter for theAmontillado Gazette, and Una Ligeia, our photographer.”
He nods in their direction.
“And I need no introduction,” Valdemar says.
