Page 39 of The Villain
“Which book do you want?”
“That one and the notebook. My pencil case, there. And toiletries.”
He takes everything out, searching through the pencil case and the toiletry bag. He removes a small manicure set and drops it back in the backpack, but hands me the rest.
“My iPad?”
“When Cassian’s back. Go to bed, Allegra.”
“How about clothes?” I raise my eyebrows. “Or you think I’ll smother someone with a sweater? Maybe choke one of you with a scarf?”
“When Cassian’s back. He gave clear instruction you’re to eat and go to bed. You’ll be free to roam the house tomorrow, if you do as you’re told tonight.”
“If I do as I’m told? Of course. Fine. If you’re in communication with him, deliver a message for me, will you?” I wait until he raises his eyebrows, which I guess is hisgo ahead. I flip him my middle finger then pick up the things he allowed me and carry them into Cassian’s bedroom. I know I don’t have much choice and he’s not going to give me more than this. If I had my iPad, at least I could get online and figure out what the hell happened to Cassian’s brother. Hadn’t he told me he was dead? And was my brother suggesting Cassian had killed him?
But I don’t have it, and I won’t get it. I look around the bedroom, then at the adjoining door to the other room where he’d first put me. I’d like to set up there,cold as it was, rather than Cassian’s bedroom, but the door is still locked so, with a sigh, I take out my textbook, sit on the comfortable armchair and find the page that contains information on the baptismal font. I begin reading the history as much as I can focus, which isn’t much.
I have no idea when Cassian will return. I guess morning, but I’m wrong. Another night passes, then one more. No one will tell me anything. I feel like I’m just waiting and nothing is in my control. At least I’m allowed to wander around the house, but I’m only allowed outside for brief periods with Enzo hovering nearby. He’s the only one of the soldiers who must be allowed to speak to me. He did finally go through the duffel when I threatened to walk around naked which I wouldn’t actually have the balls to do, so at least I’m dressed in my own things.
I spend what feel like endless hours going through the various chapels and finding my favorite one. It’s near one of the fireplaces so it’s warm and in this massive church-home, it’s cozy and feels lived-in. There’s a mural of Azazel chained up as fire licks up the walls around him. A thousand angels watch him burn, his punishment for the role he played in the corrupting of man. It’s gruesome, but so much of what is depicted on church walls is. There are very few scenes without some horrible thing being done to someone.
There’s a comfortable oversized loveseat in here where I can curl up. It’s one of the few chapels that has seating, and I wonder if Cassian spends time in here. I wonder if it’s for this mural. I feel like every time I lookat it, I find something new to see. I’m copying it into my notebook piece by piece. It’s good practice. I’m working on an Art History degree although I’ve always known I wouldn’t do anything with it. Maybe Cassian was right about me being a pawn all along. A piece to be played to the greatest advantage. Marriage, a union that would benefit the Moretti family. I used to think my parents’ marriage was for love. Or maybe I believed that when I was little. After her death, though, I saw things differently even starting to remember the past differently.
My father was very possessive of my mother, and I thought for a long time that that was just how love worked. He wasn’t unkind to her. Never raised a hand to her. She was a lot younger than him, though, and he was a very domineering man. My mother was a pianist, a very good one, and with that gift came a melancholy know was real. Her music was always dark, even when we were little.
Thinking of her makes me remember how much I miss her.
Sometimes I can’t tell if a memory is a memory or something I made up. It’s been five years since her death and the one part I wish I could forget, the last time I saw her alive, that seems to be the one face of my mother my mind won’t let go of. She’d been terrified. Terrified for herself. For me.
I lit the dozen candles on the altar earlier and I watch how the light of the moon changes how everything looks in here. I tuck the throw I’d found in the living room closer and burrow deeper into the oversized seat restingmy head on the arm while I take in the half-face of Azazel.
Was he angel or demon or both?
I only realize I must have dozed off when the sound of something scraping loudly followed by a curse startles me awake. I gasp, heart racing, upright in an instant. I rub my face, and it takes me a minute to remember where I am, for my eyes to adjust in this half-light, the candles still burning on the altar, wax melting into the stone, dripping onto the floor.
I sit up, turn to where the sound came from and watch as Cassian comes into view. He must have knocked his shin into the coffee table in the dark. I’ve done it. It hurts. He looks at me, pauses as if surprised to see me there. I wonder if he was looking for me or just coming to sit in here on his own.
He climbs the three stairs that lead into the chapel, and I straighten, the notebook in my lap sliding to the floor.
“Moth,” he says, coming to stand before me.
I push the blanket off to get to my feet, touching the corners of my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling. I’m wearing a pair of leggings and a sweater with thick wool socks. Even through them, the church floor is freezing. It’d be tough to add under-floor heating considering what is under the floors of this and many ancient churches.
I take him in, this giant of a man. He’s disheveled, and that’s being kind. He’s wearing the same shirt and slacks he had on when I last saw him, but everything is crumpled and I’m not sure where his tie or his jacketwent. He also has three days of growth along the lower half of his face. Another couple of days and he’d have a full-on beard. Right now, he looks outright savage.
“You weren’t in my bed,” he says, stepping toward me, wild eyes taking in every inch of me.
“No, I’m not your whore,” I force myself to say even though the way he’s looking at me has warning bells going off in my head.
“I have no whore.” His mood darkens. I guess he was expecting a warmer welcome. Too bad.
“Where were you?” I ask. “Just disappeared and just left me here.”
He pushes a hand through his messy hair that’s unruly on a good day. “I had business,” he mutters, his mood darkening.
“Business? What business kept you away for three days and three nights?”
He looks me over and his eyes narrow, something shifting between us, the air itself charged.
