“Hey there,” I say, giving the butler an awkward two-fingered wave. “Me again.”
His pronounced brow wrinkles with irritation. “Whyare you here again?” he asks.
“I was told to come to the main house immediately,” I croak out and then try to clear my throat of the toad that seems to have recently parked itself there.
The longer he looks at me, the more I contemplate just hopping on my moped and booking it the fuck out of here right now, but I keep telling myself that everything is fine, that Grumpy Lurch here doesn’t freak me out. That the trio in the mausoleum weren’t serial killers, and that Iceman isn’t leading me to my demise—either by employment termination or actual death.
Honestly, the only reason I haven’t ditched this whole scene already is because I’m not ready to let go of the daydreams I’ve been swimming in of what it will be like to have some money.
Besides, I could totally be overreacting. I’ve been known to do that from time to time. They’re having a party here tonight and that makes disposing of a body or firing an employee super messy, right? Maybe they really do just want to give me a promotion or something because they think I’m overqualified, though I have no fucking clue why.
“You came to thefront doorafter I informed you earlier to never use thefront dooragain?” he asks, his dark eyes matching the under-eye circles he has going on.
I shift nervously on my feet. At least he hasn’t commented on my outfit. “Yeah, you know, in hindsight, the back door would’ve been a better choice, but slap my ass and call me a rebel,” I joke nervously. He just stares at me. I blow out a breath. “Okay, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t help that you have about fifty back doors. For people who seem to be big fans of labeling”—I point to the name tag still stuck to my tank top—“you think you’d have at least one of those doors labeled with something classy and simple like Peasants Enter Here.”
Grumpy Lurch doesn’t move a stony feature on his face. He towers over me, breathing heavily, and just continues to stare at me with bored disdain. “Go around to the back,Help. Don’t make me tell you again,” he snaps before slamming the door in my face again.
“Pretty sure you’rethe help, too, asshole,” I mutter to the door.
It swings the fuck open, and his face is suddenly all up in mine.“Whatdid you say?” he demands.
I blink up at him in shock.How the fuck did he hear me?
“Uhh...I said you’re very helpful, and I’ll just be going to a back door now that I’ll pick at random,” I offer with a tight smile.
With a grunt, he slams the door again, and I flip him off before pivoting on my heel and hurrying down the stone steps to head around the back. I find four door options that look like they might lead somewherethehelpis supposed to go, but three of them are locked, and nobody answers when I knock. The fourth door is the winner, because it’s the only door that’s open, and I hurry inside, finding myself in...the kitchen?
At least, I think it’s a kitchen. Except, it looks like one from the medieval times. There’s an open fire oven thing that’s made of stone and masonry instead of stainless steel and tile. But I’m only momentarily distracted by the candlelight, stone, and what looks like an old as fuck icebox, because my eyes widen at the people inside.
They look like they’ve dressed up early for Halloween. Maybe this was the event that Iceman was talking about—a costume party. There’s a woman with some really pronounced horse teeth who’s stirring something in a black pot over an open flame. Someone else looks like an upright crocodile, and he’s crying over onions that he’s chopping. There’s also a man who has really realistic fake warts attached all over, including his face, and he’s busy kneading some dough. No cheap department store costumes here—they all look real enough to be movie prosthetics.
“Wow, they’re really into this,” I mumble.
Luckily, everyone is way too busy to notice me, and there’s so much steam and smoke in the room that I’m kind of obscured. I manage to slink my way out of the kitchen and through the open doorway on the opposite end where I slip out.
I find myself in a hallway, and it’s dim since the only light is coming from lanterns hanging on the wall. Maybe this mansion hasn’t been converted to electricity? It does look old, so maybe they’re renovating. If that’s the case, they really should start with that ancient looking kitchen.
I bypass some massive oil paintings hanging up along the stone walls, my leather squeaking as I go. The paintings aren’t just your run-of-the-mill dead people portraits or landscapes. Nope, they’re demons writhing around naked and having graphic sex with other horned demons. It’s hot—literally, because there are flames all around them.
So I’m stuck in a mansion where everyone is dressed up for Halloween a couple months early, surrounded by demonic Renaissance porn. This event has obviously spared no expense.
My steps slow as I curiously look at each painting that I pass, ignoring the fact that my body lights up with interest. I bet this costume party is why the three men in the mausoleum looked so different. They were probably half dressed-up. I bet Crux will end up in board shorts with a surfboard over his shoulder.
When I finally get past the paintings and make it to the end of the hallway, I get spilled out into some kind of antechamber. There are staircases leading up and down, and a few doors are scattered around the room. I’m about to eeny meeny miny mo this shit in order to choose a direction, but a woman wearing a long black dress with an apron comes walking up. She’s ethereally pale and bald, and she wears a uniform that has me thinking she’s a maid. It doesn’t look like a costume though.
“There you are!” she says, her voice lilting slightly with an accent. “Right this way, Miss Gates. He’s waiting for you.”
I’m assuming that theheis Iceman, so I follow behind her as she leads me up the staircase. Unlike the floor I was on, which is obviously meant for the staff, the next floor up is the definition of opulent, the design and aesthetic immediately changing. Okay...so maybe he’s not just a security supervisor eating chips in the break room.
The woman leads me up the stairs, past another antechamber, and then into a room with marble flooring, wallpaper that has texture and looks like it’s made with actual gold, and chandeliers thrown around like confetti. The chairs all look uncomfortable as fuck though, more for looks than comfort. I suddenly feel itchy just being in here. Maybe I’m allergic to rich. Wouldn’t that just fucking suck.
We’re in some kind of sitting room, and I look around with interest when a voice interrupts my perusal. “Persia, did you iron my shirt?” a massive muscled blueberry with horns asks as he stalks into the room from the other doorway.
His deep voice reaches out and slaps me across the face, and I’m momentarily stunned.Iceman?
He doesn’t notice me, since he’s too busy messing with his pants, and I thank fuck for that as my mouth literally drops open and I drink my fill of him.
I don’t know where he got his costume, but it is fuckingworkingfor him...and for my vagina, not gonna lie. He’s bare chested, and his skin has been painted cobalt blue, the color accentuating every dip and curve of his extensive muscular frame. Well, I get the Iceman nickname now.
