Page 12 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Ivy rushed into the dining room, and Bristol pulled her hand away.
“Your aunt will be down presently,” Ivy announced. “She wants you to go ahead and choose the art while you wait.”
Again, the eagerness. Like they were trying to close a deal. Something about it wasn’t right. Bristol leaned over, pretending she was studying one of the sketches, pursing her lips studiously, but she could barely focus. This all had to be illegal in some grand way.What have you gotten yourself into, Bristol Keats?
“Hmm, I see the resemblance.”
She turned to see a woman standing in the doorway. Her gaze rested on Bristol like she was the prize at the end of a long quest. The woman was tall, slender, with a long gray braid trailing over her shoulder, all the way to her knees. Her face was an intricate map of elegant wrinkles, each one carefully drawn, a face rich with story. Her skin was as white as a flower petal, her nose straight and sharp, her eyes deep set and shimmering with the color of a pale summer sky.
Bristol couldn’t look away. It was a face that belonged in a painting, a museum, a face that had history, depth, something intangible that Bristol couldn’t name. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Bristol had ever seen—but the one thing she didn’t see in this woman was any family resemblance. She looked absolutely nothing like her father. And if this woman had ever seen her father, she would know that Bristol didn’t resemble him, either. This was not her father’s aunt.
“I really don’t look much like my father,” Bristol ventured in a gentle challenge.
The woman’s head angled to the side, taking a closer look. “You’re like him more than you may know.”
Bristol had to hand it to her—it was a good evasive reply. But she said it with perplexing sincerity. “You’re my father’s Aunt Jasmine?”
The woman nodded, then eased herself onto a chair set against the wall. “Let me get my breath for a minute and then we’ll talk. But please, while you wait, choose the piece you prefer.”
They all stared at Bristol, waiting.
She swiped at the moisture sprouting at her hairline. They were too eager. “I need to think it over for a few minutes. Maybe in the lobby? It’s so warm in here.”
“Of course,” Mr. Dukinnon replied. He started to follow Bristol, but she waved him off, saying she needed to be alone to think. Bristol didn’t know if she needed to think or to run, maybe both. But could she really walk away from a da Vinci—even a stolen one—when it could change everything for herself and her sisters? She sensed Mr. Dukinnon’s eyes glued to her back as she walked down the hallway, and it wasn’t until she sat on the settee that she heard theclickof the dining room doors closing.
Low murmurs rolled from the room, and her shoulder muscles relaxed a bit. At least the inn was no longer deadly quiet. None of these people seemed dangerous, but of course, appearances could be deceiving.
She took a tiny pink cake from the tray Ivy had brought in and popped it whole into her mouth—and then another. They melted on her tongue like little pieces of heaven, and she was certain they were the best cakes she had ever eaten. She popped a third. It helped settle her stomach.Just take the art, Bristol. Take it and get out of here.It’s not that big of a deal. You’re making too much of it.
She stood, surprised at the turnabout in her confidence. It was obvious now. Take it and go.
She headed back to the dining room, her decision made, but as she did, the low murmurs inside grew louder. There were more than a few voices now. She didn’t remember another door leading into the dining room. So where did the others come from? She paused, listening just outside the door. She was certain they were arguing, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were speaking another language. She leaned forward and pressed her eye to the narrow crack. It took her a moment to focus, and then—
She blinked, pulled away, and looked again. She squinted to be sure. Her blood drained to her feet.
What was she seeing?How?
It wasn’t just a room of people anymore.
Creatures were inside. No, worse, they weremonsters. A grotesque menagerie of them. Some had wings, some had fur like they were part animal, others had features molded from a nightmare. One had tusks protruding over its upper lip like a wild boar and yet it stood upright and wore clothes. In the corner a hulking creature hovering over them all had on a policeman’s uniform, and when he moved, she got a clear view of a badge pinned to his chest:Sheriff Tom Orley. Her stomach lurched.
Was it the cakes she had eaten? Costumes? There had to be a reasonable explanation.
She rubbed her eyes, but her gaping stare became obsessive. She desperately wanted to run away but at the same time, she was too horrified to leave. She was frozen to the crack in the door like she was witnessing a train wreck.
Standing beside the sheriff was a woman with the face of Freda the librarian, but small horns jutted from her forehead. Eris and the few humans who stood among the beasts didn’t seem disturbed by their presence. Ivy was there, too, but now veined black wings drooped from her back to the floor and iridescent scales covered part of her face. It wasn’t makeup.
In the middle of it all was a tall man with midnight hair who held their attention. He was human as far as she could tell—an angry human. He leaned across the table, still speaking low to Eris. A black cloak that matched his hair waved from his wide shoulders as if wind swept through the room. His bright blue eyes were an icy shade of winter, and a blizzard stormed in them. His words stung the air.
But then, midsentence, he went still and stopped speaking, his head turning slightly. His attention jumped to the crack in the door, his eyes now fixed on Bristol, like there was no door between them at all. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Terror pounded in her chest.Run! Get away!It was a chilling scream in her head, but before she could make her body obey, the doors flew open, and she stumbled forward.
The room instantly quieted. She was surrounded by beasts and their hideous eyes were on her.
How are you going to play this one, Bristol?Fear shot through her, then giddiness. Like she might start laughing hysterically. Why not? She was going to die. She was certain. What did she have to lose? But she began backing up an inch at a time, her survival instinct kicking in, preparing to flee.
“Choose,” the man with midnight hair ordered, now in a tongue she understood. His gaze held every inch of her like cold iron.
Choose?They were still fixated on the art? What was the matter with them? Were they all mad? Or was she?
