Fourth Debt
Page 45

Shit.
Bonnie’s eyes glinted. “Could you keep us company, dear? Just sit quietly and don’t interrupt. There’s a good chap.”
“No problem.” He flicked a glance at me.
I hid my scowl as Marquise did as bade and perched his colossal bulk on a dainty carved chair. I was surprised the tiny legs didn’t snap under his weight.
“Now, what were we saying?” Bonnie patted her lips with a fresh rose.
I didn’t know how she’d read my body language so perfectly, but it put me on the back foot. I swallowed, letting go of my dirk. Grabbing a lily, I twirled it in my fingers. “Nothing of importance.”
Bonnie glared. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. It was very important.” Snipping the end of the rose with sharp shears, she jabbed the stem into the green foam at the bottom of the vase.
She caught me looking. “It’s called an oasis. It’s flower arranging basics. If you’d applied yourself at all, you would know that.”
My skin prickled. Hemmed between Bonnie and Marquise, my hands were tied, my mouth effectively gagged.
Damn you, witch.
“Applied myself? I was working until 10:00 p.m. most nights before I’d even turned twelve. I sewed my way through high school and college—I had no free time to indulge in useless hobbies.”
Bonnie swivelled in her chair. Her eyes shadowed, cheeks powered white. “Watch your tongue. I won’t put up with such contumelious talk.”
I sucked in a breath, doing my best to be quiet even though I wanted to stab her repeatedly. My eyes skittered to Marquise.
Damn him, too.
Grabbing a sprig of leaves, she wedged the plume into the oasis. “Know why I summoned you?”
My fingers tightened around the lily. I wanted to crush the white petals and scatter them over Bonnie’s coffin.
A coffin I’ll put her in.
“I’ve long since given up trying to understand you.” I narrowed my eyes, unable to hide my livid hatred. “Any sane person could never guess what madness will do or not do.”
Bonnie scowled.
Her tiny stature sat proud and stiff; arthritic fingers tossed aside a newly snipped tulip and wrapped around her walking stick. Never breaking eye contact, she stood from her chair and inched forward.
I stood my ground even though every part of me vibrated with the urge to smash the crystal vase over her head.
We didn’t speak as the distance closed between us. For an old woman, she wasn’t bowed or creaky. She moved slowly but with purpose. Hazel eyes sharp and cruel and her signature red lipstick smeared thin lips. “That mouth of yours will be taught a lesson now that you’re in my youngest grandson’s care.”
Not if I kill him first.
I balled my hands, keeping my chin high as Bonnie circled around me like a decrepit raptor. Stopping behind me, she tugged my long hair. “Cut this. It’s far too long.”
Locking my knees, I forced myself to remain tall. She’d lost the power to make me cower. “It’s my hair, my body. I can do whatever the hell I want with it.”
She yanked on the strands. “Think again, Weaver.” Letting me go, she continued her perusal, coming to a stop in front of me. Her eyes came to my chin. The height difference helped me in some small margin to look down on her—both physically and metaphorically.
This woman was as twisted as the boughs of an ancient tree, but unlike a tree, her heart had blackened and withered. She’d lived long enough. It was time she left the world, letting bygones be bygones.
Her breath rattled in antique lungs, sounding rusty and ill-used.
Minutes screeched past, both of us waiting to see what the other would do. I broke first, but only because my patience where Bonnie was concerned was non-existent.
Jethro’s alive.
The sooner I evicted Bonnie from my presence, the sooner I could think about him again.
“Spit it out.”
She froze. “Spit what out?”
My spine curved toward her, bringing our faces closer. The waft of sugar and flowers wrapped around my gag reflex. “What do you want from me?”
Her gaze tightened. “I want a great deal from you, child. And your impatience won’t make me deliver it any faster.” Snatching my wrist, she grabbed a thorny rose from the table and punctured my palm with the devilish bloom.
I bit my lip as blood welled.
She chuckled. “That’s for not knowing how to flower arrange.”
She let me go. Instead of dropping the rose, I curled my hand around it, digging the thorn deeper into my flesh. If I couldn’t withstand the discomfort of a small prick, how did I hope to withstand more?
This is my weapon.
Conditioning myself to pain so it no longer controlled me.
Blood puddled, warm and sticky, in my closed fist. Taking a breath, I reached around Bonnie and elegantly placed the rose into the oasis, opening my palm and raining droplets of blood all over virgin petals and tablecloth. “Oops.”
Bonnie’s face blackened as I wiped the remaining crimson on a fancy piece of ribbon. “Anyone can arrange flowers, but it takes a seamstress to turn blood into a design.” My voice lowered, recalling how many nights I’d sliced myself with scissors or pricked myself with needles. I was used to getting hurt in the process of creation.
This was no different.
I would be hurt in the process of something far more noble—fighting for my life.
“You can’t scare me anymore.” I held up my palm, shoving it in her face. “Blood doesn’t scare me. Threats don’t scare me. I know what you are and you’re just a weak, old woman who hides behind insanity like it’s some mystical power.”