Page 94 of The Devil

The American’s hands fist at his sides but he doesn’t retort. He doesn’t hold the power here.

“Bring her to Master Robertson.” Jameson gestures to the soldiers who are still waiting in the wings. They approach and I’m handed from the women to them. “Once he gives final approval, the ceremony can begin.” He turns to Senna. “Papers are ready?”

Senna turns back to Jameson. “I do not report to Master Robetson’s manservant,” he says with utter disrespect before exiting the room.

Jameson’s posture betrays his annoyance but he follows Senna out. I’m right behind them escorted by soldiers. The other man, Callum, waits until I pass him. His black eyes bore into me as I do. I’m wrong about his age. He’s younger than I thought. It’s the cruelty in the set of his mouth that ages him.

I walk, somehow placing one foot in front of the other, stone cold beneath my bare feet, colder now in the corridor than that room. No fire to warm the passage. That secret door is opened and we proceed down. When I stumble, I’m caught. They don’t allow me to fall. But their hands will leave bruises on my arms.

Behind me, Callum’s phone rings. He barks a greeting into it and when we reach the landing of the floor the bedroom they’d originally put me in is on, he gestures to Jameson to go ahead.

It’s warmer here in this main part of the castle. I even appreciate the scratchy carpet. At least my feet won’t freeze. The sound of a string quartet drifts from the distance as we turn in a direction I’ve not yet been and walk through another doorway. More stairs. Neverending stairs. It feels like an eternity before we finally reach the place we’re going.

“Master,” Jameson says to Master Robertson who is seated behind a huge desk set far back from the entry of the large room. He’s changed out of the strange robes he was wearing when I first met him to the same cloak as the others, the hood of it still down, mask on the table as he finishes writing whatever it is he’s writing.

I sway on my feet, the floor not quite solid beneath my feet, the room not quite steady.

“Sit her down. For Christ’s sake, how much of that stuff did you give her? We do need her walking,” Robertson barks.

The others rush to obey, Jameson dragging a chair forward and the soldiers setting me into it. They stand on either side of me, each with a hand on a shoulder like I might try to run for it. Can’t they see I can barely hold my head up as my stomach roils with nausea.

Master Robertson comes toward me. Behind him I watch a servant I recognize from the dining room carrying a vase of roses. I smell them before I see them and they make my stomach turn as my head lolls on my neck.

He curses, grips my jaw to force my face up.

“It’s almost as though you wanted to be found, young one,” he says, turning my head this way and that. “My predecessor allowed your mother to slip away. You I will take better care with.”

My mother?

What happens next takes us all by surprised. All but me because I feel it coming. I feel the surge of nausea bringing up my lunch and the wine and even the tight mask can’t hold back the rush of vomit as my body lurches forward and I hurl.

Robertson jumps backward but too late. Vomit coats the front of his shirt, his cloak, his sleeve. He shakes it off his hand, an expression of disgust on his face, the stench of roses and vomit making me heave again and I’m grateful for it. So grateful. Because I already feel my head clearing. Feel at least some of that poison drug leave my system as the men rush to help Master Robertson who is throwing curses at me as I slump back in my chair, not quite strong enough to stand.

The American pushes his mask to the top of his head, and I see the amusement on his face. This is not his circus.

“Clean this mess up! Get those women down here to fix her. Christ!” Robertson orders, trying to get my puke off himself.

“Master Robertson, let me help,” Jameson is muttering but Robertson shoves him away calling him an imbecile.

“Fix this!” Robertson orders. “Fix it now or so help me⁠—”

“Allow me, Master Robertson,” Senna says, stepping forward. “You take your manservant and change your robes. You are Master of Ceremonies this evening, after all. My part is nearly done. I will make sure she is properly readied.”

32

JET

The freezing rain blowing in from the open window is bracing, sobering. It helps clear my head, but I still feel unsteady on my feet. I look at Sev who is watching me, one hand on my back.

“Did you drink any of that whiskey?” I ask.

“No and I told you to stay sober.”

I shake my head. “I am sober. This isn’t me drunk. I think they laced it.” I recall the servers with their trays carrying flutes of champagne. Ours were the only ones with whiskey. “Shit.” I push my hand into my hair.

“Not possible. I mean, anyone could have picked up the glasses we took.”

“I’m sure they’d just be collateral damage but I’m telling you, they drugged the whiskey. Just don’t eat or drink anything.”