Chapter Four: The Painted House

CHAPTER FOUR

The Painted House

The stallion tugged the coach onward into the night. Inside it I panted, my tired throat stinging with each breath I took. Through the window I watched my old home disappear behind a dark hill.

I didn’t know where this coach was taking me, but exhausted as I was, jumping out and running off would do me no good at all. So I stayed, my breath slowing, nausea and numbness setting in like the venom of a snake. I kneaded the skirt of my dress, but could not feel it with my fingers. I couldn’t frown, nor could I smile. My breaths were somehow louder than the horse’s hoof-beats.

My family was gone. I would never see them again, live with them again, or be able to hate them again.

My hair was sticky and red from blood, and my throat felt like it was being squeezed. Why wasn’t I crying? I felt so empty. I reminded myself that my family would have wanted me to live on, but I felt guilty for having survived—for having escaped my fate when they had not. Had a safer alternative to riding in this coach suddenly presented itself, I’m not sure I would have taken it.

I could not get the image of Mr. Cillian’s bloody teeth out of my mind. Was Mr. Beauxdera a devourer of human flesh like him? If so, why had he tried to warn us of what was coming?

Eventually, I smelled sewage, and surmised that we’d reached London. I opened the drapes just enough to peek out. Though the city was shrouded in darkness, I caught glimpses of terrified men and women running through the streets, with Reapers in pursuit. I jerked the drapes closed again.

The coach stopped at a manor in Mayfair. My body tensed as the driver’s feet hit the ground. When she opened the door, I saw her clearly for the first time. She was pretty, but frail-looking, as if the wind might blow her away.

“You have my condolences, my lady,” she said. “My name is Theresa, and I was sent here by my lord, whose house lies before you. He promises you safety and nourishment. I know you have no reason to trust him, or myself for that matter, but I must remind you that you are in danger. Mr. Cillian sees all that his Reapers see, and his Reapers are plentiful—especially here in London.”

“Of—of course,” I said. My body shook as I pulled myself up from the seat and out of the coach. Theresa did not smile, or show any sign of satisfaction. She merely led me through the wrought iron gate and into the house. Despite the dim lights and the lack of windows, I noticed that the walls, ceiling, and floor were all painted, transforming the house into a stunning collage of murals. There was a mountain of skulls. There was a black sun, hovering over a red sea. There was a crowd of armored warriors bowing to the silhouette of a great, horned throne. The paintings were detailed, richly textured, and hauntingly realistic.

“My master is not at home,” said Theresa, “but he has prepared a room for you.”

I must have followed her to it. I have vague recollections of other maids watching us from doorways, and of Theresa helping me remove my clothes. She spoke while tucking me in, but I do not recall what she said. Her hair was up, much in the way Candice’s had been only hours ago. Her voice was elegant and wispy, not shrill like Gladys’s, and yet I still thought of my sister, and suddenly it was as though Theresa was screaming even though her mouth was barely open. A crimson stain grew on her apron and spread to her flesh, dyeing her. And then I was curled up on a plate in our dining room, while Mother and Father and Sister surrounded me, walling me off, even as the blades stabbed through them all. I was inside an iron maiden, my family members its walls, the blades sinking in and out of their bodies towards me. My red-soaked dress was tight against my skin, gleaming, dripping, the rusted iron smell inflaming my nostrils . . .

I woke up with a shriek.

For a moment, I allowed myself to believe it had all been a nightmare—that my family remained alive, and the sky once again held a sun.

But the room I’d woken up in was not my own. It did not smell as my room did, and the mattress felt hard against my back. Suddenly the questions burned within my mind, too loud to ignore: where was I? Who had sent that coach?

The door creaked open and candlelight flooded in, shaking me from my thoughts. “My lady?”

I squinted. “Yes?”

“It is morning.” Gladys—no, Theresa. She placed a tray on my lap, while another servant girl silently put a candle on the bedside table, before scurrying away. The tray held scones that, on any other day, would have looked wonderful.

Theresa poured me a cup of tea. “If it would please you, my lady, we can sing for you.”

“No, thank you.” If she sang, she wouldn’t be able to answer my questions. I scanned the room, searching for windows, but there were none. It was though we were underground. “Is the sky still dark?”

“Yes, my lady.” Her voice was nearly emotionless, and her eyes cold and ghostly. “My lord is home now, and he hopes to speak with you when you are ready. He will be happy to answer all of your questions.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“My lord has purchased a dress in your size. Shall I get it now?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll wear the dress from last night.”

“My lady, it is not clean.”

“I don’t care.” The dress stank of death, but to throw it away so soon seemed akin to throwing away my family. Theresa did not argue further. She helped me into my bloodstained dress.

I followed her upstairs and through dark hallways, guided only by a small candle. As before, resplendent murals covered the walls. Here, they portrayed red flowers dappled with rain. Each delicate petal was rendered with exquisite detail.

“The paintings here are beautiful,” I said.

“They were painted by my lord,” said Theresa.

“All of them?” What gentleman painted his entire house himself? “If I may ask, what precisely is he lord of?”

“It is not my place to say, my lady.” Theresa stopped and opened a door. “Please enter.”

I surmised that she would not be following me inside. “I’m to be alone with him?”

“Yes, my lady.”

It seemed inappropriate, but so would refusing his summons after accepting his hospitality. I walked through the door into a parlor. Across from me, a figure stood before a great window, overlooking the spires of London. Great, bat-like wings sprouted through holes in the back of his brocade waistcoat.

A chill came over me, as did the urge to flee. But when he turned to face me, the thought of running disappeared from my mind . . . for my benefactor was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. His skin was white as snow, and his long black hair seemed to slither and flow from a wind that was not there. There was a perfect balance to his face—his jaw, cheekbones, and brow working together to create smooth, sculpted harmony. His ice blue eyes glinted with a terrible hunger . . . the intensity of which could have burned the clothes off my skin.

“Miss Blackwood,” he said. “My name is Salem Sotirios. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

I cannot understate the impact the demon’s voice had on my body. My throat became dry, my skin perspired, and my heart hammered in my chest. I feared him, but the obvious desire in his eyes excited me, and I did not know how to reconcile these two feelings.

“You’re a demon,” I said.

“Yes.”

“But you saved me from Mr. Cillian.”

“I couldn’t not.”

For a moment, I didn’t understand. Then it struck me like a whip how utterly familiar this man was.

“It was you!” I realized aloud. “You were the one who came to my dreams.”

Salem smirked, pleased that I recognized him. “Yes. I imagine you have many questions.”

“I do,” I said. “To begin with . . . what are you?”

This seemed the best place to start. I was uncertain how much I could believe anything that Salem told me; he had sent a coach to save me, and given me a room to sleep in, but this did not make him trustworthy. I hoped to gauge how honest he was based on how he responded to a direct question about his nature.

Salem smiled, and walked towards a mural displaying other beautiful men and women, flying through night clouds with wings like his own. One of the creatures hovered over a man sleeping in his bed. Another hovered over a woman.

“I’m an incubus,” said Salem. “The women of my kind are called succubi, and we call our species as a whole lilitu. We are demons . . . I won’t lie about that. But we don’t need to drink blood to live, as vampires like Mr. Cillian do. We do, however, share their sensitivity to sunlight . . . which brings us to the great change before us.”

Salem looked out the window. I joined him, staring out at the city, and the darkness enveloping its every corner.

“It’s called the Nightfall. A ritual, to blot out the sun so that demons and vampires may walk the earth, unscathed by the light of day. It is to bring about a new age . . . an age where immortals rule.”

“That cannot be,” I whispered, too horrified by the idea to accept it. “Surely the queen is fighting back?”

“Queen Victoria is already dead,” said Salem, the edge of his mouth quirking up into a smile. “Princess Isabelle has murdered her mother, become a succubus, and taken the throne for herself.”

“No, no, no . . . ” I shook my head, hoping that he was lying to me, because how could something so terrible be true? “What about the army? Are they not fighting back?”

“They have tried . . . but mortals are hardly the strongest of creatures. Still, there are more of you than there are of us, and that is why Mr. Cillian has met with families like yours. Our leaders have agreed that for the Nightfall to work, England needed more immortals. No one wished to taint the bloodlines with the ill-mannered imbeciles from the lower classes, for controlling one’s abilities as an immortal requires . . . refined sensibilities. And so, families of merit were contacted. Those who refused to join us were made example of.”

My face twisted in anger. “Made example of? They were murdered because they wouldn’t become demons!”

“It was not my wish for those who refused to be killed,” said Salem calmly. “That was Queen Isabelle’s decision. Had it been possible, I would have rescued the rest of your family as well. The very fact that you are here now is proof of that.”

“Wasn’t it a risk to rescue even me?” I asked. Salem didn’t strike me as a rebel; quite the opposite.

“I am not subject to Her Majesty’s jurisdiction,” said Salem. He paused, looking me over. “Pardon me, Miss Blackwood, but are you hungry?”

My stomach grumbled in response. I scowled down at it, but nodded nonetheless. I had, after all, missed dinner the night before.

“Then let us continue this over breakfast. If you’ll join me . . . ”

I was hesitant to eat whatever Salem had to offer, but I did not feel safe leaving the manor with the Reapers patrolling outside. I was, no matter how Salem phrased it, trapped here . . . and I would have to accept whatever food my warden had to offer.

Salem led me to a dining room, which held a very long table with a chair at either end. My mouth watered as we approached, for the table was topped with trays and trays of food. There were sausages, tarts, baguettes . . . it was far too much for the two of us, yet it all looked tantalizing. And as if that were not enough, Theresa stood next to me, holding a tray of pears, berries, peaches, and grapes.

I wasn’t used to seeing maids serve food. “Don’t you have footmen?” I asked.

“I prefer female servants,” said Salem.

My stomach growled again. Forgetting my suspicions, I plucked a peach from the tray and sunk my teeth in, filling my mouth with a wonderfully sweet taste. My lips sticky, I reached for a tart, and a piece of pheasant, and a sausage. I ate heartily, more than I would have thought I could contain . . . and then I noticed that Salem was having none for himself. He merely studied me with a quietly intense gaze.

“Aren’t you having any?” I asked.

Salem smiled. “Lilitu do not consume mortal food. We derive sustenance through . . . other means.” His eyes glazed over me once more, and within them I saw that same growing hunger. I had seen this hunger before, in the eyes of men as they looked at my sister, but never at me. As frightening as it was, something about it made my breath cease and my palms grow damp with sudden sweat.

“Miss Blackwood, allow me to be blunt. I stated before that I am not subject to the queen’s jurisdiction, and this is true. However, that does not mean that she or Mr. Cillian are under my command. I want to protect you . . . but for that to happen, you’ll have to accept the offer that your family refused.”

A lump formed in my throat, but not from the food. “I thought you wanted to help me.”

“I can hide you until you’ve made your decision, but it would be dangerous for you to remain a mortal for very long. Mr. Cillian will be looking for you, after all. At best, you can expect to become a slave, like the mortals of the lower classes—toiling away, forced to give blood to your demon masters. But as you’re from a family of known dissenters, it is more likely that Mr. Cillian will execute you, and turn your corpse into one of his Reapers. Either way, you will be made to serve.”

A moment ago, it had seemed romantic that he’d had so much food prepared for me. Now I understood that he meant it to be my last supper.

“I won’t betray my family,” I said, putting down my fork. “If you truly wish to help me, then smuggle me out of England.”

Salem gave me a sad, pitying half-smile. “And where should I take you? The Nightfall is happening all over the world. Even if Mr. Cillian does not follow you, there is no place in this world where mortals will be safe. Please think on this, Miss Blackwood. It is an opportunity most mortals will never be offered. What happened to your family was a great tragedy, but they would want you to live on, would they not?”

“You don’t know what they’d want.” I stood, and headed towards the door.

In a flash, Salem flew above me and landed between me and the door, his wings stretched out to block me. “I urge you to reconsider,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp. “I am trying to save your life.”

“Why do you even care so much?” I asked. “Why should I matter to you at all?”

“Because I have seen your mind!” Salem hissed. “And I . . . adore it.”

I halted in surprise. He lowered his gaze, his face suddenly full of pain. “Does it not say something that I came back to you each night?” he whispered. “As I entered your dreams, I felt your mind . . . bore witness to your very soul. And I wanted more. I did not simply use you for sustenance, Miss Blackwood, as I would any other. No—you demonstrated a willpower that I have rarely seen in women of your time. When I tried to seduce you in your dreams, you never let me go too far. Do you understand? It was not I who was holding back. It was you, stopping me. It has been a very long time since anyone has done that to me successfully. But . . . ” He sighed. “I see now that I have offended you . . . that my presence is unwanted.”

He looked frail, and defeated. Even his wings drooped. Despite my anger, I was touched. How could I not believe that he cared for me? And he was so beautiful. I wanted to kiss him, to run my hands through his hair, to bring a smile to his lovely face.

“This is exactly what I did not wish to happen,” he said. “An argument.”

I lowered my gaze, avoiding his eyes so that I would not be tempted by them. “I am sorry, Lord Sotirios. You must, however, be able to understand why I wouldn’t want to become like the man who killed my family.”

“I do understand,” said Salem. “And if you truly wish to stay mortal, I will respect your decision. But just so we understand each other, I would not have you become a vampire like Mr. Cillian. I would have you become a succubus. I would have you become lilitu, like me.” He stepped closer, until we were inches apart. “If you become a succubus, Mr. Cillian will have no quarrel with you. You’ll be safe. Indeed, you’ll thrive. You’ll be able to enter dreams, as I entered yours. You’ll grow wings, and possess eternal youth . . . even eternal beauty. Think of it, Maraina. A new life. A new you . . . ”

I didn’t want to think it over. I feared that if I even considered the idea, I would be lost. But my chest tightened at these words, and it must have showed on my face, for Salem smirked. Then he turned around, as if he knew he’d already won.

“I have matters I must attend to beyond these walls. If you wish to leave, I will not stop you . . . but I cannot guarantee your safety as long as you remain mortal.”

I reached out, and realized that I wanted him to stay—that I was upset he was leaving, just as I’d always been upset whenever I’d awakened from a dream he’d given me. I reminded myself that Salem was a demon . . . but he had also saved my life.

“When will you be back?” I asked.

“In a matter of hours. Please be safe. I would hate for you to be harmed.” He headed for the door, not stopping to look back.

~

When I was done eating, Theresa led me back to the room Salem had given me. There I rested, and considered his offer.

The ability to enter dreams intrigued me, as did the thought of having wings. And what of the beauty I was so certain I lacked? I’d felt lonely for so long, and now that my family was dead I’d be all the lonelier. More than ever, I wanted love. Had I found that in Salem?

It was simply too perfect: an impossibly handsome, wealthy lord had saved me from certain death, and now he was offering me everything I had ever wanted.

There was also, of course, the fact that I would probably die if I refused him.

Did any of that—even the threat of death—truly justify becoming a demon? It would be a betrayal not only to my family, but to the faith they’d taught me to hold dear. Even if my mortal body perished, was my immortal soul not more important? What were wings or beauty compared to God’s grace?

But then, I wondered, how could God truly have grace if the world had been taken over by murderous demons? Had He been rendered powerless, or was He simply apathetic to mankind’s suffering?

Later that night, Theresa knocked upon my door and said that Salem had returned, and wished to speak with me. I was not ready to give him an answer, but I followed her anyway. Hesitant though I was, I did want to see Salem again. I longed to feel his eyes on me once more. It was intoxicating, the feeling of being noticed—perhaps even desired—by someone as handsome as him, even if he was a demon.

Salem waited in a small ballroom, dressed in a manner that seemed designed to flatter me. His opulent cravat drew attention to his wealth, while his tight black waistcoat and white shirt accentuated the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and chest. Embarrassing though it was, my body tingled at the sight of him. He evoked in me the fear and excitement of an adolescent crush.

“Have you considered my proposal?” he asked as I approached.

I heard distant music, though no musicians were around.

“Where is the music coming from?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“The other room. I wanted us to have privacy for this.” He offered me his hand. “Dance with me, won’t you?”

A private waltz? The thought of being close enough that our bodies touched was almost too much. My hand shook as I reached for his, but as he clasped it, I felt soothed.

He placed his other hand on my waist and steered me, leading me into a waltz. His footwork was perfect, his lead both gentle and insistent. Our bodies grew closer. My breasts pressed against his chest, separated only by his waistcoat, and the bloodstained dress that I refused to shed.

“You never danced with me in my dreams,” I said.

“I wanted to,” he whispered. “I wanted to do so much more . . . ”

I felt hazy, almost drunk, from the smell of him. For weeks, I had desired him. He’d teased and tantalized me, training my body to respond to his touch, and now even here in the waking world I was desperate for him. He knew it, too—I could tell from the way he looked at me, like a wolf closing in on its prey. I couldn’t pull away from him, and I didn’t want to, either.

“What more did you want to do?” I asked. I told myself it was so that I had a warning, but of course this was a lie.

His dark laugh was enough to make me tremble. “Shall I show you?”

My breath became caught in my throat at the thought. “I don’t know.” I wanted to appear modest, no matter how perverse my thoughts. “It’s different now that I’m awake.”

“Why?”

“It feels more sinful.”

“And why is that?”

“Because dreams aren’t . . . ”

“Aren’t what? Aren’t real?”

That was indeed what I was going to say. But here I was, dancing with a demon who had entered my dreams . . . who had touched me within them in a way that had affected me in the physical realm. Remembering the dreams made me squirm in his grasp.

“How about this?” he said, and he turned me around so that he was behind me, his hot breath against the back of my neck, his wings curving around me like a cage. “I’ll touch you as I would in a dream . . . and if you want me to stop, say so. How does that sound?”

My breath quivered. I wanted it, but I was so afraid. If he started, I didn’t know if I’d ever tell him to stop. “Yes,” I said.

Salem ran his hands across my body, from my waist to my breasts, and I could not help but whimper in pleasure. He kissed the tender skin of my neck, his teeth brushing against my veins. He pulled up the bottom of my dress so that his hand could slide further down to caress my inner thigh.

“You’ve never even touched yourself, have you?” he whispered, before continuing to kiss my neck.

“No,” I said again, thinking of my parents—then feeling awful for it. Who was I to think of them now that they were dead, while I was letting a demon molest me? “Mama said that I’d go mad. She said that it’s sinful.”

Salem laughed cruelly into my ear. “According to what? A bible, written by mortals, and, more importantly, for mortals? How does it feel when I touch you here?” His finger teased the place between my legs.

“Good,” I moaned. Was this where Amelia had been cut, all those years ago?

“Have you truly thought about Hell?” His free hand squeezed my breast. “An eternity of unspeakable torture is no little thing. Think of everyone you know. Think of all their secret sins. I doubt there’s anyone left for Heaven, all told. And if everyone goes to Hell, that means everyone suffers eternally.”

I gasped as he slipped two long, gentle fingers into me.

“Why worship a God that condones the eternal suffering of the children He claims to love? A God who would punish you for indulging in life’s greatest pleasures?”

He probed deeper and deeper until I moaned, overwhelmed, and all too aware of the bulge in his trousers pushing hard against my rump. My muscles tightened. A warm, aching throb spread through my body in waves. I felt squeezed all over, drenched in waves of heat, my moans matching the rhythm of the pulse, my blood tingling, warmth building. Then a sensation of pure, unbridled release spread through my entire body. I shook uncontrollably. My breath came out in heavy gasps. I was drenched in sweat, and . . . more than sweat. I didn’t understand what I was feeling, but I knew that it felt wonderful. And when it faded, and I was limp and dizzy, Salem laughed, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck.

“Do you still think that something as wondrous and natural as what you just felt could be sinful?”

I panted, still recovering. This demon had made me feel as though my body, which I’d always thought of as disgusting, was pleasing to inhabit. My skin was so drenched that the bloody dress clung to it.

“More,” I said, turning around, staring at him with desperate eyes. I wanted to be corrupted, to succumb to every exquisite blasphemy that Salem offered. “Please . . . ”

He looked down at me, his gaze hungrier than ever. The corner of his lip pulled up just enough to show teeth. “Not until you change.” There was a finality to it that told me arguing with him would do me no good.

I let out an angry sigh. What he’d just made me feel was too intense to ever forget—especially after so many years of repressing my desires. If there was any reason to refuse him now, I could not remember it. I could choose more pleasure—more delightful, intoxicating pleasure—or I could choose death.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Salem’s eyes burned with excitement. “Are you sure?”

I recalled the desolate London spires, and the blackened clouds above them. “I’m sure. I will become like you. I will become a succubus.”

Was it my lust that made me decide? Or my fear of dying as my family had? I still don’t know. But at that moment, it was clear to me that this was my only option. The world was changing, and there was nothing I could do but change with it.