I go to the bathroom, the bright pink walls startling me for only a second. I forgot she painted those. If I forgot something as simple as that, is it possible I forgot last night entirely? Did I get stupid and buy a drink, and go too far like I used to? Blackouts aren’t new to me. I used to drink to blackout every weekend I was a Freshman in college - to try and forget what happened back home. To forget how bad it was. To punish myself. I’d wake up in some stupid guy’s bed or on a stranger’s couch. It was a miracle I didn’t end up with an STD or get murdered.
Did I do that again? Did I break my promise to never hurt myself again?
My stomach sinks. The mirror shows a girl with make-up smeared eyes, a tired frown, and scraggly black hair hanging like a frayed curtain around her shoulders. I splash water on my face to try and get rid of her, but she stays. The scar under her jaw is bright purple and as angry as ever. It’s still there. It’s still making my face uglier than ever.
“Get it together,” I murmur. “You’ve gotta be stronger than this.”
I take a hot shower. Ellie makes me warm waffles with lots of syrup and butter, just the way I like them. Breakfast is my first and only true love. Men are disappointing. Waffles, however, can never disappoint you.
I ask Ellie if drank anything last night, and she says she doesn’t think so, but I could’ve in the time before we left, when we were separated. I try to drown my confusion in more waffles and scalding coffee with tons of cream and sugar. Ellie offers to take me with her to her tour of SFU, but I turn her down as politely as I can. I need the time alone. But after thirty minutes in the empty apartment and my fragmented mind, I feel like I’m losing it. I pull out a folder and fill it with a thin stack of resumes. I throw on black jeans and a red blouse, pairing it with black flats - my only halfway decent job-interview look. I would buy a fancy work blouse or two, but I never finished college, so I’d never get the sort of jobs that required snazzy outfits, anyway. It’s a miracle if I get any job at all.
I pull my hair back into a bun, swipe on a little eyeshadow, and grab my keys.
Our neighborhood is on the poorer side - above the warehouse district and just before the projects. But still, a weird gentrification goes on in the fancy, gluten-free vegan cafes that cater to the sort of people who can afford to live far, far away from us. One cranberry-goji berry-acai berry-chia seed muffin costs twice as much as the minimum hourly wage. I hand them my resume anyway, promising to work as hard as I can. The manager smiles at me with too-white teeth and says they’ll be in touch. A dozen other practically identical coffee shops tell me the same thing, with the same cordial brusqueness. I try to be optimistic and assure them I’m young, and eager, and will always show up on time. But I get the feeling they see dozens of young people like me looking for work, with far more impressive resumes. And none of them have awful face scars.
People pass me, and I find myself scanning their faces - hoping one of them is Genevieve. Hoping beyond hope one of them is Darius. I want to confront them. Darius’ face lingers in my mind - and not just because he was handsome. It was something else, something about the fact he lit me up like a wildfire in August, and yet threw a dagger into a man’s forehead and killed him. He scares me like nothing else. He turns me on like nothing else.
I make a face in my reflection in a passing window. Like I could ever afford to think about sex again. Who would want to be intimate with a scarred-up, evil bitch like me?
Around lunch, I grab a bagel and make my way to retail shops - from clothing stores with beautiful, fancy dresses to tourist-trap shops smelling of sunscreen and cheap plastic. Some places are definitely never going to hire me, but I try anyway. I hate rejection, but I hate not trying even more. Keeping busy and forcing myself to smile and look hireable takes my mind off of last night better than any moping around the house could’ve done. This is my new home, and I’m determined to get to know it better. I get happily lost in a nearby park, and stop to watch some insane kids doing equally insane tricks on their boards at the skate park. Only when the sun starts setting in a vermilion blaze of glory on the bay do I realize I’ve been walking all day. My legs are crying to sit down for just one minute. I sit on the curb and blow my sweaty bangs out of my face. I’ve somehow managed to walk far enough to end up in a rich neighborhood. The houses are huge; beautiful windows and pristine paint jobs on top of perfectly manicured lawns. It’s mansion-level decadence, not the suburbs. It’s a far cry from the muddy trailer park I grew up in. For me, growing up meant canned beans and peanut butter sandwiches, thrift store clothes and shoplifting tampons my dad refused to give me money for. I slept in a pull-out bed in Dad’s trailer. We had one tiny toilet, a stove that rarely worked, and windows yellowed opaque from cigarette smoke. Bottles always crowded the counter, the windowsills, any place Dad could fit them. I would get sick of them, and clean as many as I could, but there’d always be more the next day to take their place. Eventually, I just gave up.
But this place? The people who live here must live like kings.
“Did you see that house? And that gate, with the creepy gargoyles?” A girl laughs. She and her friend walk down the sidewalk past me. “They had a butler and everything!”
“I can’t believe they didn’t hire you,” the other scoffs. “You’re way overqualified.”
“It’s fine, the commute would be killer, anyway, and I’d always be so worried about messing up such a pristine house, you know?”
Their voices fade as they get farther away. Curiosity gets the better of me. It only takes me a few minutes of walking the way they came to find the house they’re talking about. It’s massive, one of the largest on the block. Huge oak and pine trees enclose a pale-cream, elegant mansion. French windows face the bay, their white lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. Balcony after balcony hangs over the impressive driveway - a gravel roundabout with a fountain in the center. But I can barely see all that, because it’s far away - the driveway is long. The lawn spreads out for at least a third of a mile, and it’s a bright, lush green. Beds of spring flowers, budding roses, and berry bushes tangle in an artful manner. A huge sandstone wall separates the lawn from the sidewalk, the only way to get in a wrought-iron gate nearly five times as tall as I am. Marble gargoyles perch on either side of it, wings outstretched.
I sigh. It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. A little ostentatious, but beautiful. Whoever lives there is lucky as shit.
I inspect the bronze plaque beneath an intercom on the wall. It reads; 7072 Burgundy St., and beneath that; Montclaire Residence in curling font.
There’s another girl, walking out of the house and down the gravel path toward me. She looks mad as hell, her pinstripe suit and fluffy blouse both fashionable and professional. Her blonde hair is the color of honey, and her delicate beauty is enhanced by her expert makeup. She struggles with the gravel in her high heels, but manages to make it to the gate. It opens automatically as she approaches, clanging shut behind her.
“Stupid idiot,” She curses under her breath. “Who does he think I am? I’m just as capable as any stuck up, British butler, that’s for damn sure -” She spots me, looks me up and down, and frowns. “No offense, but if I couldn’t get it, you definitely can’t.”
“Get what?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “The job. They’re hiring a personal housekeeper. I worked my way up as a hotel one. I climbed that ladder and I climbed it hard. I’ve worked as head concierge for the Hilton in Paris. Paris! There’s no reason they should’ve turned me down!”
“Geez, I’m sorry.” I say. “I mean, it’s hard to sound sincere to someone you just met. Sorry. Genuinely.”
The girl sighs, and her lip curls in a half-smile. “It’s okay. Sorry I snapped. I just really need a job, you know?”
“Yeah,” I motion to the folder of resumes I have. “I know.”
She glances back at the house, then jerks her thumb at it. “You should at least try, I guess. It’s not high-class experience the
y’re looking for, obviously. You never know.”
“I might. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” She smiles grimly, and walks away.
I stare at the intimidating house for a second more. Being the only one who cleaned up after Dad for years, I can make beds and scrub floors with the best of them. I can get beer stains out of anything, and cook a little. Working in a place like this would definitely pay more than minimum wage, if I did a good job. But they’d never hire me.
I sigh and buzz the intercom. That girl was right. I’d hate myself if I at least didn’t try. In seconds, a cool British accent floats over the intercom.
“May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Mia Redfield. I’m here for the housekeepr interview?”
“Ah, yes. Please come in.”
The gate swings open and I walk through, eyeing the gargoyles as they glare at me. The walk up the driveway and through the yard is soothing - so different from walking around the hectic, smoggy city all day. The urge to stop and smell the flowers is strong, but I can’t project the image of someone who’s slow, with their head in the clouds. I walk faster.
The fountain has a pegasus on it I never noticed before, it’s wings massive and delicately carved, so realistic I feel like I can reach out and touch it and it’ll be warm and alive. Marble steps lead to the polished oak front door. I lift one brass knocker nervously, but before it can hit the wood, it opens.
A balding older man with a pleasant, soft face appears. He’s completely unremarkable, save for the fact his eyes are so dark a brown they look almost black. His dark waistcoat and trousers look like they belong in an old BBC movie, but they’re pressed to perfection. He smiles, eyes free of any judgment.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Redfield. I am Reeves, the help.”
“Good afternoon,” I nod.
“Please, come in,” He makes a little bow. I step over the threshold, and he closes the door behind me. I can only marvel at the entryway - huge and drenched in white marble and tasteful blue curtains. Vivid green ferns and exotic orchids crowd vases that look more expensive than my entire life’s earnings. The paintings on the walls are definitely old, and probably real. Not that I’d know - graffiti and trashy porn mags are my hometown’s sort of art.
“If you’ll wait here just a moment,” Reeves says. “I’ll announce you to Master Montclaire.”
“S-Sure,” I say. He strides into the next room, and feeling awkward standing in the middle of such a huge space, I sit on one of the mahogany chairs. Just what does this guy do for a living to make this much money? He’s gotta be old - ancient, even. I fidget with a loose thread in my jeans. What am I doing here? I don’t fit at all, and I’m completely underdressed. He’ll take one look at me and laugh -
“You.”
I look up at the deep, velvet voice. My stomach curls like a drying leaf, brittle and bitter. It’s Darius, at the top of the stairs. He looks so much taller in a crisp, tailored white suit with a dark blue tie, his lion-like elegance now downright chilly. His eyes are unreadable - two hard chips of amber set above a displeased grimace. But he’s looking right at me, and my body reacts like an obedient puppy - eager, wet, and annoying.
PART FOUR
FOUR
Chapter 4
FOUR
I grip the banister hard and try to compose myself. Below me, the girl looks like a deer caught in the headlights, terrified and expecting to die at any moment. For a second the light catches her iron-gray eyes, making them near-silver, the silver of an Irish ocean at noon.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. Her obsidian hair is pulled back in a ponytail, exposing her neck. I catch myself lingering on the crook of it where her creamy shoulder meets her throat. The wicked purple scar below her jaw adorns her like an unmistakable piece of jewelry, yet it’s far more intriguing than a lifeless, cold gem could ever be. Where did she get it? It would’ve endangered her life, certainly, perhaps even nicked her jugular vein. My curiosity is ravenous.
“Pizza delivery?” She says, high and unsure.
If I was any other man, I'd have laughed. But Darius Montclaire had forgotten, long ago, how to smile. Pleasure was no longer in his vocabulary.
I walk down the stairs. She stands abruptly, her muscles tensing as she takes a step away from me. I don't know how to react to humor, but I'm well-versed in fear. But she shouldn't be afraid of me. She shouldn't remember me. She shouldn't even be here.
"I'll ask you again," I murmur. "Why are you here?"
She avoids my eyes, and I feel an odd, sudden pang of loss that her attention's strayed from me.
"Ah," Reeves walks in, his smile ever-pleasant. "I was just looking for you, sir. Forgive me for the delay. Ms. Redfield was here to interview for the open housekeeping position."
This confusing woman in my house?
"No," I say instantly, and turn on my heel. "Show her out."
"Sir," Reeves leans over and whispers to me. "We cannot afford to turn anyone away who might be compatible with you, sir."
I turn. He knows as well as I the housekeeper-for-hire ad we ran in the newspapers and on the internet is a cover. We're searching for more than just a maid. I need more than a maid. And quickly.
"Not this one," I say. Anyone but this one.
"Excuse me? I'm right here. I'm not a damn object." She snaps, suddenly all fire and spice in her voice. "Fine. I was just leaving, anyway."
Reeves clears his throat and expertly steers the girl to the sitting room. "Miss, please. Don't be overhasty. Let me at least offer you a refreshment before you venture home."
"The last time you people offered me a drink, a guy was murdered and I ended up passing out, so I’ll have to decline." She pulls away, and her glare cuts into me.
"So you do remember," My words come fast and thick and confused. "But that's not possible."
"Sorry to break it to you, but people have this thing called a brain, and it remembers stuff like ‘This guy in front of me murdered somebody in cold blood’." She retaliates without missing a beat.
"I'm aware," I say coldly. "Yours seems particularly devoted to painting me as a villain."
"You killed a man and then drugged me and my roommate. You're lucky I'm not calling the police on you right now."
I shoot Reeves a look, and he skillfully slips out of the room with the grace of a trained cobra. He knows what I want him to do, and he'll execute it flawlessly just as he has for three hundred years. But in order for him to do his work properly, I have to distract her.
"To the best of my knowledge, that man was intent on injuring your friend. You're lucky you got away intact."
"Is that what you call being drugged? 'Intact'? Were you the one who broke into our apartment and put us there? Or was it your girlfriend? Do you two go around killing people all the time?"
"You're mistaken on multiple accounts. Genevieve is not my girlfriend, and I didn't kill anyone last night."
She scoffs, and I can feel the disbelief rolling off her in waves. She thinks I'm a madman. A criminal. I stopped caring what people thought of me a long, long time ago. But something about her compels me to have her hold me in high esteem. She is not one of the many simpering women with compliments and come-ons to spare, drenched in jewels and soulless haute couture, that invade my daily life. She is scarred, she is sharp, she is different. She is realer than most, a flame burning against the pale fog of the world. I saw it when we first locked eyes in the club, and I see it now, with her standing tall and fearless in my foyer.
How can I tell her what really happened last night? She lives in a bubble, safe from the demons that lurk beneath the surface of reality.
My eyes glance on the scar.
Or maybe she's already faced demons far more ferocious than the homunculi could ever be.
Reeves' balding head over her shoulder catches my eye. He has the orange memorium syringe in his hand - in just a moment, this girl won't remember our conversation. She may have somehow evaded its effects the fir
st time, but Reeves has the intramemorium - a more concentrated form than the drinkable one. She may forget things beyond the last few hours, reaching perhaps into her week or month.
I massage the bridge of my nose tiredly.
"I didn't kill a person last night. I killed a homunculus; a being made by my kind out of clay and the hair of a person. It feels neither pain nor pleasure, can taste nothing other than ash, and never sleeps. It only delights in one thing - tracking down those of the Holy Blood and making them suffer, before ultimately killing them and absorbing the blood. It feeds them - some of them say it even makes them feel more human."
She looks like I've struck her.
"Your kind?" Her voice shakes, and something about it is both lovely and intoxicating. I force the thought down.
"Alchemists."
Her gray eyes widen, and then she laughs, so bright and charming a sound coming from so sullen a girl it nearly throws me off.
"Right, sure. 'Alchemists'," She makes a quotation with her fingers. "You turn tin into gold and make people out of clay and then kill said people. Sure. That's totally reasonable and not-crazy."
Reeves inches ever closer to her, and I slide my dagger from my forearm holsters. It slips, the silver glinting beneath my cuff, and I hold it up. The girl's eyes turn wary - like a fox observing a hunter, tense and lithe and ready to bolt at the slightest fright. Who has hurt her so badly that she’s ready to run at the slightest hint of conflict? My curiosity grows more ravenous by the second, rivaled only by my disgust for whomever shaped such a unique creature with fear.
She’s too smart to take my word for granted. She needs a demonstration.
I pull my ponytail over my shoulder and cut a few strands of the very tip off. I blow on them, and they scatter towards her in a golden haze.
"Ignis," I command. The hair strands burst into white flame, spiraling in the air as a brief shower of sparks. They reflect in her wide eyes, like the shine of light off gunmetal. The flames dissolve quickly, their fuel spent, ash dotting the marble floor.