The Key (Sanguinem Emere) (7 page)

He slips a small pair of scissors from his pocket and reaches above my head. I jerk, fearfully, but he lays a hand on my chest, lying me down.

“My apologies. You have to forgive my brash behaviour. But you are, by far, the most beautiful girl I’ve seen. And living with Dimitri,” he rolls his eyes playfully, “I’ve seen my fair share.”

His voice sounds, to my unreliable ears, like shattering glass.

He snaps the blades together so close to my face that I feel a sudden movement of air and hear the subtle snap as they meet. With a smile he strokes my face with a warm, clammy palm and removes the lock of hair he cut from my head.

Movement has started its slow steady return to my limbs after the drug and alcohol abuse of earlier, as the pins and needles run virulent through my body. It burns mildly, but at least I know that if he comes too close now I can move away. He is very beautiful, though, and his movements don’t feel threatening. If anything, the hand he lays on my cheek is comforting and paternal, almost.

He lifts the piece of hair, dark strands slipping between his fingers like ashes, and sniffs at it, his eyes closed in vague reverence.

I watch him closely, his fingers tremble minutely and stray towards my shirt for a moment before he clenches his fist closed and opens his eyes, a smile still playing along the edges of his gaze.

“Where is my sister?” I croak, ashamed at the instability in my voice.

“Your sister? Pretty, little doll with black hair like yours and a sunny disposition?” He seems to think, nonchalantly, and I can feel my blood pressure rising like a drumroll behind my eyes and a sickening squelch in my stomach. “She is preparing to greet Dimitri, as is your friend, Delilah,” He smiles again, only broader this time, and his even, white teeth gleam like fluorescence in the dimness of the room. “I was instructed to dress you myself, ensure that you are appropriately attired for the evening.”

He unbuttons my shirt, his fingers grazing along my skin like a knife’s edge as I try to wriggle away from him. He’s having a very bad effect on me, the way I see it. I can’t afford to be falling in lust with another man right now.

“If you are not properly dressed, little girl, the Master will not be pleased.” He grins close to me and continues his work on my shirt, spreading it wide to reveal my bare chest.

“The Master?” I hesitate over the words, my mind still clogged with murk and uncertainty, but a flash comes to mind of something warm and thick, like a heady broth being offered to me as my mouth burned from being parched and starved. Like déjà vu, but I can’t place the time or the person holding the glass up to my lips, softly insisting I drink every last drop.

“Dimitri, of course,” He gazes blankly at me as he lifts me to remove the shirt from my shoulders, his hands taking no liberties with my exposed indecency, much to my relief. “They didn’t tell you, did they?”

“Tell me what?” My words stem high in my throat as he undoes my pants and pulls them from my body. He reaches beside the bed and I can hear water splashing gently before he presses a warm cloth to my neck and begins to wipe across my skin. Not lingering, just washing me as though a switch has been flipped in his mind and I strained from a toy to a project. I can smell the sweet, magnolia scent of the soap and my nerves still somewhat at the familiarity and in the certainty that he will not abuse my weakness.

“Tell me something, do you want to see Dimitri?”

A flush steals across my skin and he lays two fingers against the pulse in my neck, thundering away like a Christmas beetle in a jar. He winks as he stands and lifts something heavy and sagging from a chair across the room. In the aggravation of this darkness, I can’t make it out, but it seems to be an outfit. One of the pretty ones. Well, they’re all pretty.

“As I thought. You may think you want to get away from here. That you’ve learnt all you can and that, without your little exposé – oh yes, I’ve read quite a bit of your work; remarkable really - he means nothing to you. You may even have convinced yourself that the most sensible thing you can do is leave before you become too accustomed to his brand of living.” My mind casts itself humiliatingly on the events of earlier. “But I must ask you, do you want to leave here and never see him again?”

I try to hold it back, but my weariness escapes in a sigh that makes the man aiding me to stand, laugh loudly, “No,” I whisper. “I haven’t gotten what I came for.”

“And what is that?”

I ignore his question. He knows.

“And so,” he continues as if I answered him regardless, his voice becoming unmistakably authoritatively questioning, “You won’t run. Not even if I allow myself the certain pleasure of this,” He strokes at my breast and I hold back the shout trying to curve up my throat as I force down the desire to stab out his eyeballs with my nails. He smiles, self-depreciation colouring his face, and laughs, a deep, booming thing that reverberates through the hand on my chest and makes my stomach churn ominously. “You will still remain here, second by second, with the hope that you will see him.”

He releases me and offers me his arm so that I may stand and directs me to put first one foot and then the other in the puddle of dress lain at my feet. He lifts it up about my shoulders and laces it across the back, tightly enough that my cleavage strains at the top. But the sleeves are made of a beautiful darkened white lace which immediately reminds me of my grandmother’s wedding dress, and the dark, burgundy of the dress itself makes me think of the Merlot I drank with Dimitri on Saturday night. The affair stops short of covering my calves and ends in layers upon layers of the same, antique lace. He fluffs my hair out with his fingers and fastens, a thin, silver chain with a cameo dangling from it about my neck.

“There,” He steps back from me to take in my dishevelled appearance, “Shoes and make-up you will find in the bathroom. The Master is quite certain you will not disappoint, so try not to, will you?”

My body still tingles from where his warm, discomforting skin caressed mine, but his words ring true in my mind and I keep quiet. I do want to see Dimitri. Desperately. Much as the thought of being desperate for a man galls me. If I do something to make myself seem ungrateful or to become a burden to him, he may not want me here. Come to think of it, he may not want me here anyway.

But I have to try and remind myself why I am here. The story. Nothing else. Not even if this disgusting stranger tries to convince me of it.

My soul thrums as I travel the same river I did two nights ago at the party. I can’t allow myself to be affected by my own inadequacies; he would want me to be certain and not crumble into the blithering mess I became that night when Delilah had to rescue my dignity. He’s getting to me. He’s starting to see me as a person, isn’t he? This is going to be problematic.

“I see you understand,” says Levi as I straighten my shoulders and the stern, interviewer expression I have been practising for years sets itself unsteadily over my features. “He is waiting; do not be too long preparing yourself.”

With that he leaves, a smile and a wink gracing his exit, and I rush to the bathroom, where indeed, a pair of gorgeous little Mary-Jane plat-formed sandals in a soft cream and burgundy shade await me. Set on the counter is a small make-up tray and a shiver travels quietly up my spine as I imagine Dimitri selecting paint for the faces of his dolls.

The thought that I have changed drastically from the Eva that would not allow another man to affect her decisions crosses my mind as I fasten the delicate silver buckles on the shoes, but it quickly evaporates as more important things barter for my attention, like make-up. I choose the darker motif to match the burgundy of the dress. A delicate cream contrasts nicely with the deep brown of my eyes and a sandy brown with a slight copper shimmer balances the effect, allowing my eyes to seem naturally dark and not bruised as is their usual appearance. Eyeliner to accentuate the roundness and blush to remove the waxen puppet mask. No lipstick. I would hate to have to touch up.

For the second time in recent history I stand in front of the mirror appraisingly, trying to find a fault and seeing nothing but. My make-up never seems as perfect as Delilah’s and the dress seems to hang oddly on my figure. I bet if Cecily were wearing it, it would look perfect. I look down at my calves, bare and exposed; at least the slight elevation from the Mary-Jane’s makes them seem firmer than they would normally, but they still appear overly large.

And then of course, there is my hair. Although Levi – I stifle a slight adverse reaction to what occurred during that time – did manage to tame the mass with just a few small fluffs. He did far better than I would have achieved with hours of styling.

I can feel exasperation flooding my senses as I stare annoyed at the mirror. The wrapping is superb, why the hell can’t the gift be just as perfect?

Nothing for it.

I leave the room. If I overthink this (which is exactly what I am doing anyway) I’ll run. I don’t deserve him, of that I’m certain. But if I allow him to see it, I will lose him. And the story. And all the possibilities that I am trying very hard not to imagine. Of him, and I, and Saturday night. My fingers curl inwards as acid seems to stifle my heart in a painful burning wave. I must be what he expects; I can’t afford to be cast away from him.

I traverse the hallway once more; however, to my relief, the lamps along the sideboards are lit again, casting a gentle glow on the path forwards. And now the flowers seem less like haunting figments, but rather like luscious sweet-breads, lilting me onwards, sweeping me towards my destiny. Even the landing is well-lit by a drunkenly hanging chandelier. The light simply accentuates the swirl of dizzying colours that decorate what seems to be the entirety of the house. In my still semi-substance-strained state, I can hardly imagine ever seeing the depth of these colours, and certainly not placed alongside one another like this; the richness of each flows over and oozes into the other and they seem to feed off of one another, creating a chaotic carnival affair encompassed in a sturdy shade of wealth, privilege, and earthiness.

The heels, luckily, do not hinder my path down the staircase as I reach the first floor landing and stop, unsure of where to go from here. To my right there is a closed set of double doors which I assume lead to some sort of study or library. Voices emanate quietly from the room, but I can’t make out what is being said. I can only assume that this is where I am supposed to be. To my left lies the open dining room and, further in, the kitchen where I met with my companions, and behind me is the staircase, crowned over a long, dark hallway, this one unlit by familiar tiffanies and their calming glow. A shudder trembles down my spine at the thought of trudging through that darkness on my own. A shudder not unlike the one that wracked my body when the snake-ish, blonde man touched my nakedness.

The door to my right is certainly my destination. But it’s closed.

Do I knock?

I lift my knuckles to its varnished surface, but an anxiety I am no longer accustomed to grips me in its cold embrace. What if I am intruding? I don’t want to seem forward.

I clasp my hands together to keep myself from trying to fiddle with my near perfect hair or straighten the dress, or fold my arms, or wipe at my eyes because my eyeliner may be smudging. Oh God! I forgot mascara!

Staring at the door I slowly drop my hand as tears threaten to unburden themselves. Dammit! I will not cry about this. I do not cry about men. I do not cry over make-up. And I most certainly do not cry about closed doors!

Gingerly I wipe at my lower lids, removing the traitorous tears before they have time to leak into my liner and I hurriedly wipe my hands together, hiding the evidence of my shame. I take a deep shaky breath, quietly to avoid distracting the voices, and I lean closer to the door. As a journalist one swiftly learns that a blocked off entrance can either be seen as an obstacle (to be stormed through, not sobbed at) or a means to gather further resources for your story.

As of now, I still want the piece on Dimitri. Even more so than when last I saw him.

“Eva,” I stop my recitation and glance up at Dr Shane with some confusion. I’d become so engrossed in the story I’d almost forgotten where I was. Pity that lovely delusion had to be shattered by his utter douche-baggery. Even if he is giving me the opportunity, finally, to give it to someone else. Get it off my chest, as it were.

For a moment there it was all okay again.

“Yes?” I enquire somewhat petulantly. The gleam of distaste in his eyes is clear to me. It’s been a given since I woke up in this place that Shane is not fond of me as a patient. Which is totally perfect for me because I can’t stand his pompous face either.

“I just thought I might bring this to your attention.” He stops as if there is nothing further to say and I raise an impatient eyebrow. He sighs and continues, “You’ve been talking about this,” A pause, “experience – as if it’s all happening as we speak.”

I clench my hands in my lap and close my eyes for a moment.

“Dr Shane,” My tone is level despite the turmoil clawing at my heart, “Every time I close my eyes, every time I start to dream, every time I find myself alone, it feels as though I’m back there.”

“And you wish you weren’t?”

“God no.” I look him in the eye and hiss the following words through my teeth, “It’s the times when it isn’t happening that I wish I were dead.”