Page 11 of Beast of Blood and Roses
He paused, his shoulders tensing. When he glanced over his shoulder, I caught the gleam of those too-sharp teeth in the dim light. “Because that’s when I’m the most dangerous.” And with that, he slipped out into the hallway.
I pressed my hands to my face, trying to process what happened as I slid down the wall until I hit the floor. My legs had finally given out. Trapped. I was trapped in a monster’s mansion with no way out.
Just yesterday I’d been slinging drinks at Crimson Stakes, forcing smiles while calculating how many more shifts I needed to cover Dad’s latest marker. I was used to feeling Angelo Santi’s cold gaze track me across the casino floor, but this was different. Now I was collateral—payment for debts I never agreed to, locked away with a creature who made even the most dangerous gangster of the city seem tame by comparison.
I had to get word to Mr. Danvers. There had to be a phonesomeplace. Or a computer. If I could contact him at the casino…Angelo was terrifying, and Enzo Di Salvo was even worse, but Mr. Danvers had connections. He might know someone who could help us, someone who could protect my dad from the beast.
If I could get word to him…I had a chance.
I ran over to the door and put my ear against it. Footsteps scraped against the floor. I held my breath, waiting until they became faint.
I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it, but it wouldn’t budge. There had to be something in this bedroom…
In the movies, heroines or heroes always found a hairpin that would open the lock; maybe there was one here. I headed into the bathroom, opening up every single drawer, hunting for anything that might work.
Damn it! The place was spotless.
I slammed the last door in frustration.
No hairpins, no paper clips, nothing thin and metal I could bend into the right shape. I ran a frustrated hand through my hair, and my frayed scrunchie finally gave up, falling to the floor. I paced back into the bedroom, scanning for anything I might have missed.
The closet.
I pulled open the double doors and found it filled with outdated clothes—some men’s suits, a few old-fashioned dresses that clearly wouldn’t fit me. What caught my eye, though, were the hangers. Wire hangers.
After three years of working at Crimson Stakes and watching gamblers talk their way out of trouble, I’d picked up a few skills that weren’t on my resume. I grabbed one of the hangers and untwisted the hook from the neck. The metal wasthin but sturdy. I bent it into an L-shape, then created a small hook at the end.
I needed a tension wrench too. I scanned the room again and spotted the metal toiletry tray in the bathroom. Perfect. I snapped off one of the thin decorative strips from its edge.
Armed with my makeshift lock-picking tools, I returned to the door. I slid the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and applied slight pressure, then inserted my hanger pick above it. This would be tricky without proper tools, but I’d managed harder locks in practice sessions with the security guys during slow nights.
“Come on,” I whispered, feeling for the pins inside the mechanism. “Just like picking Crimson Stakes’ supply room when Mr. Danvers loses the key.”
Time was my enemy. Moonlight streamed through the window, but it was growing fainter. The cocktail waitresses at Crimson Stakes had whispered about girls who got mixed up with the wrong men—shipped off to private clubs where screaming wouldn’t help. My fingers ached, but I refused to give up. The first pin clicked into place, then the second. I kept working, ignoring the cramp forming in my hand.
Finally, the lock clicked. Yes! Yes! I wanted to cry with relief but forced myself to stay focused. I held my breath and put down my tools. I pressed my ear against the door. There was still silence.
Taking a deep breath that did little to calm my nerves, I peeked out the open door. The hallway was empty except for a life-sized statue. That hadn’t been there before. A cold finger of dread traced down my spine. How did that get here?
I looked around for my shoes, but remembered they came off when Colette dragged me up the stairs. Squaring my shoulders,I slowly crept out of the room. The floor was ice-cold beneath my stocking-covered feet, each step sending small shivers up my legs. I was determined not to make a sound and stick to my plan—follow the road until I found a phone and somehow convince Dad to pick me up—even as fear threatened to send me scrambling back into the false safety of my locked room.
As I got closer to the strange statue, I froze. The dim light from outside fell on it, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was a statue of Colette, the beast’s servant. It looked exactly like she had when I had last seen her, down to the small scar near her temple. Her sad face touched my heart, the craftsmanship so lifelike it captured even the weariness I’d noticed behind her eyes.
I placed my trembling hand on her cheek, flinching at the contact. It was as cold as granite. A wave of confusion washed over me. Why would the beast have a statue that looked exactly like his servant? And why place it in the hallway in the middle of the night?
Through the window at the end of the hall, I could see the faintest lightening of the sky. Dawn was approaching. I had to hurry if I wanted to find a phone, find help. But something about the statue kept me rooted to the spot, a nagging feeling that there was more to this place, to Colette, than I understood.
The room became lighter, the first golden rays of sunrise spilling through the window and crawling across the floor like ghostly fingers. As I watched, transfixed, the light touched her face—illuminating the granite features with an unearthly glow.
Her eyes moved.
My breath caught in my throat, a strangled gasp escapingmy lips as I staggered backward, my knees nearly buckling beneath me. What was this?
She turned her head—the sound of stone grinding against stone sent chills racing up my spine—and then her body moved, granite limbs flexing and shifting as the cold, hard statue transformed before my eyes.
Terror exploded through me like gunfire, hot and violent. I let out a desperate scream that tore at my throat, my body finally unfreezing as primal fear took over. I raced back into my room, my stockinged feet slipping on the polished floor, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. I slammed the door shut tight, throwing my weight against it as though that could possibly keep out whatever unholy magic I had just witnessed.
My breaths came in ragged gasps, tears of panic streaming down my face as I pressed my back against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. My entire body trembled uncontrollably, the image of those stone eyes blinking to life burned into my mind.
