The Opal Blade (The Ashen Touch Trilogy Book 1) Page 3

  “Your Uncle finally hired someone for the security position,” he informs me as he moves toward the bathroom, abandoning the laundry to run me a shower.

  “Security? What on earth do we need that for?” I ask him, and he cocks an eyebrow with a half grimace.

  “Oh, haven’t you seen today’s paper?” He reverses a few paces to the breakfast tray I had left unattended upon heading out for riding this morning, picking up the paper, which has been folded up and left untouched beside my empty breakfast plate. He opens it and hands it to me as I look at him, mystified. “Page five,” he orders as I flick through the flimsy paper, my fingers leaving sweat marks and smudging the ink at the edges of the many columns of supposedly breaking news.

  When I reach page five, I see an unwelcome and familiar face with slurring lips and an alcohol tainted expression. Mine.

  “Oh, crap,” I cuss, seeing the article about my late-night activities and cringing.

  “Yes, you made quite the impression on the Daily Herald.” Jules condemns me with his tone, but I shrug it off.

  “It’s just a crappy article,” I sigh and he cocks his head as he turns on the shower. The wet room is built into the corner of the bathroom next to the tub, and the entire ceiling is equipped with twelve separate faucets, making the experience inside not unlike standing under boiling hot rain.

  “Look, I’m just your butler, but I’m sure you’d hear it far clearer coming from me than your Uncle if I say that your shareholders don’t like to think that their money is in the hands of a drunken teenager with no self-control.” He reminds me of the fact I’m tied to the stupid Sinclair name and I roll my eyes, exhaling heavily.

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t explain why we need a security guard.” I change the subject.

  “If you’d have had a security guard around, maybe he could have tackled that photographer. I’m sure you’d agree it’s not your most flattering appearance.” Jules explains, going back to putting away my laundry as he walks past me with continuously perfect posture.

  “I really don’t care what other people think of me. Least of all shareholders. I’ll party if I want to. It’s just another great reason for me not to sign the paperwork Peter keeps trying to ambush me with.” I make the excuse automatically, moving up the two small steps and into my bathroom before stripping off completely in the shower. I sit down on the quartz seating within the wet room, relaxing back into the cool pearlescent tiling and letting the hard, fake rainfall of the shower cleanse me. My sweat is washed away, and in the heat, my tense muscles reluctantly relax before I take them out for round two… or is it round three?

  “You shouldn’t be so careless,” I hear Jules call in warning as he clears away the breakfast tray and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him with a bang. He’s probably pissed off at me, and for a moment as my fiery red hair becomes sodden through, I almost feel bad for him. Almost but not quite. After all, he’s getting paid a pretty penny to put up with my crap, and it’s not like he’s even responsible for me in any way shape or form.

  I take deep breaths in the thick, moist steam of the shower as the smell of cinnamon fills my nostrils, and I lather up, ready to party, ready to let go and ready to get the hell out of this house and back to where I belong. Roaming the streets of Chicago looking for my next easy thrill.

  Thick bloody lips, black rimmed eyes and high-set cheekbones are applied to my pale face as I put on the last of my makeup. I’m dressed in leather pants with partially transparent lace panelling in the sides and a black backless halter-top. Silver chains hang from the ruched material down over my bare midriff; they reach just below my pierced navel, tickling my skin with their coolness.

  I sling my leather jacket on over my shoulders and take a look down at my knee-high platform stiletto boots. This is me, the real me. Not Persephone. Sephy.

  My red hair tumbles down over my shoulders, fading from its natural, rich auburn to strawberry blonde right at the tips. Everyone is always convinced I dye my hair, but the truth is I’m just a natural firecracker. Or that’s what my mom used to call me anyway. Pushing the nickname away and into the recesses of memory, trying to forget it exists, I get ready to head out the door, Cerb at my heels.

  I don’t carry a bag, only ID and my credit card stowed safely in my cleavage, as well as my phone and a set of car keys, which press into the flesh of my ass in the back pocket of my skin-tight pants.

  “Persephone!” My legal name is called, and I jump mid-step, not realising I’m really making a break for it and feeling like a criminal for trying to get out of my own ridiculously luxurious home.

  Raising my gaze from the sexy black of my boots, I see Peter approaching me from across the landing, and he’s not alone.

  Well, hello there… I purr internally as I take in the tall drink of water approaching.

  “Who’s this?” I demand, suddenly curious and semi-interested in what my Uncle has to say.

  “This is Xion; he’s your new security guard,” Peter informs me and I scowl.

  “You know you can’t hire someone who looks like this dude and then tell me not to sleep with the staff,” I complain and Peter looks over his shoulder to the new security guard with an awkward expression.

  As he’s making this face, I take the chance to linger too.

  This guy is seriously hot, with a stubble-lined jaw that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo himself. I catch his gaze, liquid gold and warm bronze alloyed eyes staring into mine with an intensity not unlike that of something actually molten. He’s got olive skin, much more tanned than mine, and an enormously wide chest that’s smattered with hair and covered in a long black beater vest with a knee length leather coat over the top. His hair is thick and glossy, coifed somewhat effortlessly to make him look both handsome and intimidating at the same time. His eyes are enormous and his nose looks like it’s been broken a few times because it doesn’t quite line up with the rest of his face, and yet this does nothing but enhance his gorgeousness. His biceps bulge against the leather of his jacket, and he’s even taller than me, which is saying something because I’m five feet eight inches and wearing enormous freaking heels. As the air around us stills, he raises a thick, dark and perfectly arched eyebrow and the side of his mouth rises into a smirk.

  “Hello to you too, Persephone.” I almost don’t get mad that he doesn’t use my preferred name, but then remember that I’m not one of those women who will lose her inner bitch over a guy with a hot as hell face and nice ass to boot by the looks of things…

  “It’s Sephy,” I reply with a scowl and a nonchalant gaze. He smirks.

  “Whatever you say, Princess.” I look between the two of them and go to leave, but Xion stands in my way, stopping me with his broadness as he crosses his arms and spreads his legs. A stubborn ass human barricade in all senses of the word.

  He really is enormous, but I can’t help but start calculating how messed up it would make my hair if I tried to take him on. I do love a challenge.

  “Don’t you have some paperwork to sign?” he asks me, raising that pesky eyebrow again and making me narrow my eyes, unimpressed.

  “Does a restraining order count? Get out of my way,” I retort, my temper flaring again. I don’t like being told what to do, least of all by handsome strangers.

  Uncle Peter speaks up, coughing to get my attention in the most cowardly way possible.

  “You’re not leaving here until you sign these contracts, Persephone. I tried doing this the painless way, but you’ve refused. So, it’s come down to this. You only have yourself to blame.” My Uncle brings out the papers and the same black crystal pen, like he’s been carrying them around just so he can ambush me whenever I leave my suite.

  I look at Xion with a semi plea in my stare, but his expression deadens to one of emotionlessness. I feel my heart sink. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to sign these stupid contracts.

  I take a moment to calm myself, my anger making my thought processes slow ever
so incrementally as we stand on the landing, none of us moving. Peter continues holding out the black crystal pen to me with a hard-ass look on his stupid pretentious face that he really can’t pull off.

  If I sign them, then I’m free. I guess that’s one thing I can take comfort from. Peter will stop bothering me, and maybe I can even sell the company to someone else. My father had always said that you can have anything if you have enough money, and I have nothing but, so maybe I can buy my way out of this ridiculous shackle round my ankle.

  “Fine!” I snap, making the decision hastily and without care for the real consequences. I just want to go out, get drunk and find a guy to grind with. Even if I have to sign these stupid papers to do it.

  I stride over to my Uncle, swinging my hips and fully aware that Xion is watching me from behind. My stilettos perk up the curve of my ass, and as I grab the pen and sign on three separate dotted lines in swirly and well-practiced motion, I cock my hip and look back over one shoulder, scowling at the security guard and hoping that he gauges the smoulder behind the hatred in my gaze.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Peter asks me, and I look up to him with an incredulous stare.

  “If I do, will it change the fact you’re forcing me to sign them?” He sighs at my query, so I take this as a no and give him a pissed off stare, puckering my lips as the issue falls moot.

  Once I hand back the fistfuls of papers listing the responsibilities I have never wanted, I turn on the ball of my foot and storm up to Xion.

  “Can I go now, Sir?” I ask him, cocking one eyebrow and looking up from beneath my lashes with wide fiery eyes, pretending to be furious but unable to deny the fact that I find him practically delectable.

  “Be my guest… I’ll be close behind,” he informs me as I take off down the stairs, balancing expertly in my heels and making sure I flip my long hair over one shoulder as I go.

  “You know if you want to stare at my ass some more, all you have to do is ask…” I call back over my shoulder, cocky and carefree as I shrug off the resentment of both the men forcing my hand so I can enjoy my night.

  Without turning to look back at them, I pull the Aston Martin keys out of my back pocket and head out into the chill air of the Chicago night, strutting all the way.

  Chapter Two

  Night Fever

  XION

  “Well… that wasn’t what I expected,” I grumble, my deep voice reverberating around the airy landing of the Sinclair mansion. I haven’t been here in years, but to be honest, it really hasn’t changed at all.

  “I told you she was a handful,” Peter reminds me, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the white crumpled shirt beneath the tweed of his jacket. This man is seriously style impaired.

  “She’s not like I thought she’d be…” I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to insult the girl, but I’d kind of expected her to be doe eyed and young. Instead she’s… well, she’s certainly not doe eyed.

  “The last time you saw her she was six years old. A lot has changed. She’s lost more than you can imagine,” Peter comments, though there is a lack of sympathy in his tone, and he states this more as fact than disappointment. I peer around at the bottle green runner beneath my feet, the deep midnight blue of the walls, the highly polished rich wood of the balustrade and surrounding bannisters. Persephone may be, in fact, the only thing about this place that has changed. It’s almost haunting in its timelessness.

  “Well, I’ll be needing those contracts to take back with me for the courts.” I hold out a hand, and he exhales heavily again, reaching into his pocket before halting and looking up at me.

  “I should probably make copies of these actually, just in case. Though that may take a while, these are pretty hefty and my copier is ancient.” He moves his hand from within his jacket, patting the fabric protectively, as if this could stop me taking them if I wanted to.

  I frown. I’m on a deadline, though the fact his copier is ancient doesn’t surprise me; this guy could give Rupert Giles a run for his money.

  “What am I supposed to do? Go play fake security guard?” I demand, irritated as I feel the obsidian pendant around my neck cool against my skin in warning. Peter’s gaze burns into me, bored and unimpressed.

  “Why not? It’s not like you have anything better to do, she needs looking after right now. She’s developed the least healthy coping mechanisms I’ve ever seen. Speaking of which… how is he?” His eyes widen a little at the mention of my boss, and I shrug.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like we’re friends. I’m just the muscle. You know that.” I don’t give anything away; I’m not supposed to talk about Mortarian affairs with mortals, let alone one who needs to be manhandled into getting a young woman to sign a couple of damn papers.

  “Well, as the muscle, I’m sure you’re more than up to the job of making sure my charge doesn’t get herself intoxicated beyond what’s sensible. Take my car, it’s out front. The Beetle.” Peter reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a pair of keys, which he throws carelessly to me as he begins to stalk past back towards his office.

  “Look, I really don’t have time to be chasing after her…” I begin to protest, running my fingers through my thick, dark hair nervously. “I don’t even know where she’s going,” I remind him, my voice getting even deeper still with my growing reluctance. Peter pivots to face me, smiling a satisfied smile.

  “Oh, she’s headed to a club called Retropolis. You’ll find it on North State Street on the outskirts of Chicago. Tell Barry I sent you.” He waves me away with a flutter of his pale hand, and I nod, not knowing where the location is but too bored of this conversation to want it to continue any further. Maybe I’ll just go and drive around for a while, I haven’t been in a car for ages.

  “How do you know she’ll be there?” I call back, beginning my descent down the steps toward the chequered marble floor of the open plan lobby.

  “Because that’s where she goes every night.” Peter relinquishes this information, looking down at me over the bannister, and my eyebrows rise in surprise. Not at the news, but at the melancholy note which it strikes with me.

  “Oh… right.” I shrug, turning on my heel and feeling the leather of my coat move with my momentum, brushing against the harsh denim of my jeans. My boots thud on the remaining stairs, then pound heavier against the stone as I make my way out of the mansion, annoyed that I don’t yet have the contracts in hand.

  Like I need more delays; these papers are already late as it is. I curse internally feeling my face fall back to its regular stoic expression.

  Outside, I hurry down the wide front steps which are surrounded on either side by two high Grecian pillars carved from mocha coloured stone, my heart thudding slowly as my feet hit the gravel, and my muscles relax at the smell of pine from the surrounding forest.

  I remember this place so vividly; the deep woods, the wet, pristine grass and the gargantuan high ceilings, which had been perhaps my only saving grace as smoke had filled the upper west wing.

  I still remember her terrified screams, the way her enormous cognac eyes had brimmed with tears and her ribs had shuddered as soot filled her lungs. I still remember knowing beyond all else that I had to save her. That she had to remain alive. It is just a shame I could not have done the same for her parents.

  Guilt overcomes me in an unexpected wave. I’m drenched in the emotion I so often try to flee from, that which I try to push down back into the depths of my darkness where it belongs. But being here again, seeing her, however different she may be, is making me wish I could have saved her from the pain of losing her family altogether.

  I spot the car parked at the edge of the semi-circular gravel driveway before it narrows into a long expanse, distancing the estate from the busy road beyond the thick copses of trees that stand on either side.

  Slipping the keys into the old-fashioned lock, which I’m grateful for as I have absolutely no patience with technology, I duck under the hideous mouldy gr
een of the car’s metal frame, wondering exactly how much torque it would take to twist it beyond recognition. Cars these days fascinate me, mainly because I can’t believe people drive around like psychopaths in them. They’re weapons for sure, and I have to wonder what kind of person has the balls to speed in one of these things, let alone pull crazy stunts. I mean, if you ask me, that’s just a death wish in disguise.

  SEPHY

  “Ma’am, do you know you were doing a hundred miles per hour in a fifty mile an hour zone?” The officer asks me, his teeth far too white and his face far too young for me to take seriously, though, this may be usable to my advantage.

  “Was I? That’s fast.” I comment with a cool reserve as I relax my posture and unfurl my fingers from the steering wheel. I shrug and he rolls his eyes as I flutter my eyelashes.

  “License and registration please?” he demands as I lean back into the heated leather of Spectre, my pride and joy. My father had passed his love of Aston Martins down to me, and I haven’t been able to help but follow in his footsteps by naming mine after Bond villains either.

  I reach into the glove compartment on the passenger side of the car and brush aside a pile of grocery store gift cards, pulling out my registration as I extract my license from my cleavage and hand it to him with a flourish of my long dark fingernails.

  “Sinclair? As in Sinclair Diamonds?” he enquires, and I smile.

  Gotcha.

  “The very same. I own the company actually,” I express, and he gapes at me, his eyes giving an unmistakable twinkle of impress.

  “I’m saving up for an engagement ring for my high school sweetheart…” He looks hopefully at me, and I smile at him, even though he’s making me feel nauseous with his besotted puppy-dog eyes.