Page 4 of King Among the Dead

Beck held the lamp high in one hand and pulled back the coverlet with the other; fluffed the pillows; picked a spot of lint off the white sheets. Stepped back and surveyed the room.

“I’m sorry it isn’t fresher, but I think it’ll have to do for tonight.”

“It’s fine. It’s better than fine,” she rushed to say. She didn’t want to offend.

He went to nudge open an adjoining door. “This bathroom is an en-suite. All for you. There’s soap and such under the counter.” He leaned in with his head and arm, scanning it, voice echoing off tile and porcelain. “I’m afraid the towels are a little musty, but no one else has used them. We can wash them fresh in the morning.” He pulled back, and walked toward her, surveying the room once more. It gave Rose a chance to study him, briefly, as he approached.

He wore thick-soled boots that laced halfway up his calves, his pants black and clinging, accentuating the length of his legs, the graceful way that he walked. He’d taken off his jacket, a black leather thing that flared around a waist that she could now see was sharply narrow, clothed only in clinging black cotton. She’d admired his bare arms, before, when they were washing dishes at the sink, when the suds had dripped down the veins and knobs of his wrists.

It was his face that entranced her, though. She wasn’t used to seeing anyone so calm. So very composed and buttoned-up, unbothered by what was happening around him.

“There’s extra blankets in that trunk, if you need them.” He drew up in front of her, lamplight wavering, gilding his nose, his forehead, those sharp cheekbones. He stared down at her a moment, expression inscrutable. “Do you think you’ll be comfortable for the night, Rose?”

Up close like this, he smelled like the tea he’d brewed, and the lavender soap they’d used on the dishes. Not like blood. Not like Miss Tabitha’s body, sitting in its own blood, slowly rotting a few streets over.

The blood was still on his nose, barely visible. Little flecks. She resisted the sudden urged to reach up and scrape at them with a fingernail; clean the marks of her foster mother from him. See if his skin was as smooth as it looked beneath the evidence of his violence.

Her pulse fluttered in her throat, nearly choking her, but she wasn’t afraid. Not at all. “Yes.” The word came out a whisper. “I will be. Thank you.”

He smiled, faintly, close-lipped, and it didn’t touch his eyes. “Sleep well, then. Breakfast is seven sharp.”

He stepped around her, out into the hall.

She stood a long moment, leaning against the doorjamb, breathing through her mouth, listening to his soft footfalls fade down the carpet, and then hit the wood of the stairs.

“She’s dead,” she whispered, when he was gone. She felt a smile split her face, and tears sting her eyes. “She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.”

Whatever happened now, she’d never have to see the inside of that pie safe again.

THREE

Rose didn’t expect to sleep through the night, but once she settled between the sheets, soft from many washings, cool, the mattress plush, sleep dragged her under, and the next thing she knew she was blinking against a silvery, rainy dawn. She lay still a moment, getting her bearings, watching rain sluice down the bit of window she could glimpse through the curtains.

A small, old-fashioned clock on the bedside table informed her that it was six-thirty.

Breakfast was at seven. Sharp.

In the bathroom, she found the promised soap and towels – a bit musty, yes, but cleaner than anything she’d had at Miss Tabitha’s – along with shampoo, and bath salts, disposable razors, deodorant, and moisturizer. The deep-bellied claw foot tub was clean, with only a thin film of dust that she rinsed away before she started the shower. The water was deliciously hot, and the soap smelled like herbs.

It was the most luxurious experience of her existence. She lingered, and felt like a thief for it; felt like Miss Tabitha would come banging in at any moment, screaming, and drag her out by her hair, add to the welts on her back. She shivered at the thought, and shut off the taps.

She’s dead, she told herself.She can’t hurt you again.

Dead because Beck had killed her. Beck of the tea, and sandwiches, and the herb-scented guest soap.

There was a hairdryer under the cabinet, too, and she stood in front of the mirror wrapped in a towel while she used it, running a borrowed comb through the heavy dark mass until it was mostly dry. It would take too long to dry it all the way, and breakfast as at seven sharp, after all.

She didn’t have a change of clothes, and so she pulled her old things back on, grimacing at the feel of sweat-stained fabric clinging to her clean, warm skin. But there was nothing for it.

She examined herself critically one last time – still pale, still with shadowed eyes, still bony-thin – and decided her hair was clean, and that was at least something. Beck hadn’t been bothered by pulling her out of a pie safe, so it was silly to want to impress him now.

6:58, the bedside clock read.

She hurried downstairs.

The scent of bacon frying reached her before she reached the kitchen; real, fresh bacon, savory and hissing. She found Beck standing over the range in the island, dressed in a thick, olive turtleneck, jeans, and cozy-looking socks. His hair, shiny and gleaming under the lights, fell forward in his face as he turned bacon slices with a fork.

She paused partway across the room, staring at him, an ache building in her chest. He was beautiful, and this couldn’t be real, absolutely couldn’t. He would take one look at her, and boot her out into the rain. Or he would pull one of the gleaming knives from the magnetic strip beside him and turn it on her, spill her blood all down her front, and freckle his nose with it. He would…

---