Page 114 of Dance of Devils
The door to the carriage house bangs open, startling us both. I turn in surprise when a woman who looks maybe thirty walks in, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed tokill.
She’s in Dolceeverything,except for the red-soled Louboutin shoes. She’s also carrying what I at first think is a stuffed animal before the little dog shoots me a hate stare and yaps at me.
Dove exhales tightly, turning to glare at the woman as she click-clacks in.
“You couldknock,” she mutters coldly.
The woman ignores her, pausing to give me a superior look.
“And you are…?”
I turn to glance at Dove, who sighs heavily.
“Brooklyn, this is my evil cunt of a stepmother, Medusa. Medusa, this is my friend, Brooklyn.”
The woman rolls her eyes at Dove before she turns her attention back to me. “Friend? From where?”
“From ballet?” I offer. “I dance with Dove at?—”
“Thetheater,” she sighs dramatically. “Ofcourse, of course.”
Her demeanor shifts. I guess I’ve somehow proven my worthiness. She sticks out a dainty hand, still clutching the little fluffball in the other one.
“Felicity Marchetti,” she drawls like we’re at a country club. “And this little lovey here”…she boops the mean-looking dog on the nose with a manicured finger…“is Chanel.” She looks back up at me. “As in Coco.”
I smile politely. “Of course.”
“Felicity, take your devil spawn and get the fuck?—”
“So rude.” Felicity cuts Dove off with a snap—like a literal finger snap—in her face, before turning back to me. “I apologize for my daughter’s poor manners.”
The “daughter” part is weird. Dove literally just introduced her as her stepmother, and also Felicity looks all of maybe five years older than Dove.
“Stepdaughter magically turns intodaughterwhenever she’s recently had more work done,” Dove smirks. “She wants you to say ‘oh, you're far too young to be her mother!’ But the real reason you can tell we're not related is, obviously, my lack of horns, forked tail, and my inability to turn men to stone with a glance.”
Felicity turns to level a withering look at Dove. “Hon, therealreason it’s clear I’m not your mother is thatIwould have had the sense to abort you.”
Jesus Christ.
Dove glares daggers at her stepmother as the woman turns back to me.
“Brooklyn, was it?”
I nod. “Brooklyn Ellis.”
“Oh!” She brightens a little. “Of the Upper East Side Ellises?”
“Afraid not.”
Her face falls again. “I see.”
“AndIsee you’re still leaving brimstone footprints on my floor, so get the fuckout,” Dove snaps.
Felicity twists her face into a fake, overly-concerned look. “Aww, Dovey. Are we not feeling well today?” She smiles viciously, a wicked glint in her eye. “You’re not relapsing, are?—”
“FUCK. YOU.”
The sheer ferocity of Dove’s voice startles even me, but it almost topples her stepmother and the “dog” right over. Felicity recovers, then sniffs primly.
