“Yes, I will.”
“Will what?” I demand, grabbing her arm.
She continues to stare up even when I physically try to turn her away.
“Lenora!”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
“Will you come?”
I start at the unexpected pivot in topic. “What?”
She motions to the hole. “Will you come?”
Nothing about this gives me assurance. That dark stain above our heads is not the kind of place I wish to venture. But I can’t let her leave without me. I don’t trust the demon to bring her back.
“Where are we going?”
A stupid question. It doesn’t matter where we’re going. I’d go to hell with her if she asked. I’d go to war. There isn’t a situation where I would let her leave my side.
“Sarai Duval,” she answers gently.
Telling her no is pointless. Trying to stop her won’t work. The only thing left is to allow her to take my hand and guide me up the uneven incline of the wall. Her strides are sure and unfaltering where I struggle to find purchase.
At the top, the opening crawls with deep, dark tendrils of ice. They seep out to soak into my clothes, chill my skin. Each one feels wet and holds the lingering stench of swamp water, rust and that mold that grows somewhere dark and damp.
I peek at Lenora, expecting her to be equally uncomfortable, but she has her head cocked, expression thoughtful as she surveys the hole with keen interest. It’s the look of someone listening attentively and I realize he’s talking only to her.
“What is he saying?” I demand, staring hard at the opening.
Lenora listens a moment longer before tilting her head in my direction. “That it will be like last time.”
Since I hadn’t been there last time, I don’t understand, but I tighten my fingers around hers.
She says nothing but gives me the faintest smile before facing the square of nothingness. With a tug, she steps forward. Onefoot lifts and she slips over. The darkness swallows the limb and her and I hurry to keep up.
In a single blink the dingy void opens to warm, buttery gold. It’s no more than slipping through a curtain. Even the heavy smell of age, rot and death fades to lilacs and French perfume. Something floral and sweet. The kind of smell that a man associates with silk sheets and long, slow nights.
The room maintains that illusion. It’s sultry. Satin across a wide, four poster bed. White marble streaked with gold threads. Smooth, creamy walls adorned with expensive art.
It’s a woman’s room even before I spot the vanity. A grand structure of wood built into the wall, lined with an assortment of bottles, tubes and canisters. Lights line the square mirror. A door stands open off to its side spilling rich gold across the plush carpet.
I start to turn to Lenora, an avalanche of questions on my tongue when a stream of voices upends the silence.
“No one can see us,” Lenora murmurs when I stiffen.
“Adela would literally put a hit on me if I wore that.”
From the open doorway emerges the very definition of pinup. I recognize her, of course. Sarai Duval is impossible to forget. She’s the kind of woman who can slip into a room and stop conversation. She’s porcelain skin with the biggest, bluest eyes on a face envied by models and actresses across the globe. Hair the titanium blonde of sunflowers is curled with thick rollers and pinned at the top of her head. She slips into the room clad in a beautiful, sheer robe the color of ripe plums. A phone tucked against her ear.
“She’s obviously jealous. She thinks she’s like the queen of the family because her husband is the eldest. Like, girl, please. I’ve fucked your husband. He is not that great.”
The person on the other end squeals and Sarai snickers.
She moves to the vanity, never once glancing in our direction.
“Two minutes.” She cackles. “I swear! I would not lie about that.”
