Page 10 of The Devil’s Feather

Me: lol actually i have some food allergies that can be tricky to navigate. lets just do drinks this time. we can do dinner if you still want a next time after that

Rafael: I will put this unfortunate mail carrier back in the deep freeze, then. 8pm? Gives the traffic a chance to die down.

Me: i bet you have an excellent villain laugh. ok ill see you then Hannibal Lector

My friends watched me put the phone down with shining eyes.

I beamed. “Y’all, I have another date!”

We squealed in unison. Except for Annie, we weren’t normally so overtly girly. But my last boyfriend had wrecked me. I was so lonely, and they were probably tired of hearing about my shitty dates. Or at least, Dee was.

Would my vagueness over Rafael’s name and location come back to bite me in the ass if the composer turned out to be a serial killer after all? Probably. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the low, resonant rumble of his voice, how warm his hand had been. The stretch of that shirt across his broad chest. The way he made me laugh. Shit, I was in trouble.

In the end, I caved and told Deandra the address, hiding behind the assumption we’d be at Telve. But at least she’d know where to send the police if needed.

We all agreed I should wear the cobalt blue slip dress with the plunging v because it most flattered my assets—aka my boobs, since the straps were just wide enough to hide my much-needed bra.

My housemates pushed for stilettos. I pushed back in favor of my Docs, arguing that if I needed to kick him and run, they were the practical choice. Besides, I wobbled like a newborn giraffe in stilettos. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make while entertaining a lion.

1 “Dumbest Girl Alive” – 100 gecs

4

THE GREATEST TRICK THE DEVIL EVER PULLED…

Rafael was waiting in the garage when I pulled in to park.

He opened my car door and helped me out. “You look nice. Love the dress with the boots; very 90s Shirley Manson.⁠1”

What a fucking compliment! “You’re such a gentleman, thank you!”

I’d already forgotten how tall he really was. Looking up at him made me briefly dizzy as I climbed out of my seat. No way this man could ever ride in the Fiat. Probably weighed more than the whole car.

“When you were late, I worried you had changed your mind,” Rafael said, not quite chiding.

I glanced at my phone. 12 minutes past 8pm; hardly late at all, for once. “I’m sorry! Traffic was ass. There was a bad accident on the 101.”

“I am glad you were not involved in it, but you do not owe me an explanation.” Moving stiffly, he led me to a brightly lit elevator.

Was his tension from anxiety over my mild tardiness, or genuine worry about my wellbeing? Or anticipating murder?

The inside of the elevator was all brass and mirrors in that distinctive Deco style. I surreptitiously eyed Rafael as we ascended. Same low ponytail, same all-black clothes. Same mystique. His eye slid to me, but he said nothing. When the door opened on the top floor, he ushered me out into the antechamber.

My boots thudded on marble. I’d expected a hallway, but apart from a locked stairwell entry leading into the turret, there was only one door. Recessed alcoves held subtly iridescent art glass vessels in a familiar style, and geometric fans of crown molding adorned the transition from wall to ceiling. A frosted Lalique pendant chandelier lit the space. Rafael patiently watched as I took it all in with greedy eyes.

The door to his apartment was a grand affair, bound in a similar patinaed copper as the building’s facade. It swept upward into a pointed apex several feet taller even than Rafael himself. Red and black—he made a stark contrast against the soft grey and white of the marble chamber.

“Do you always wear solid black?”

Rafael paused, unlocking his front door. “Black is easy when all the hues are the same. Easier when it all comes from only two tailors.”

“Points for that. Most men don’t notice.”

“Do I seem like most men to you?” he harrumphed and ushered me inside.

My jaw dropped. Paintings lined the white walls of the foyer from the floor to a 20 foot+ ceiling. Mostly portraits in a myriad of styles and media. The windows comprised the only free spaces. Light skipped across visible brush strokes—these were all originals.

Shamelessly, I full-on gaped. “You’re an art collector, too?”