That harsh chemical stench? It was hair dye, all right, just like I’d thought. And now I realized why the scent was so strong. It had been used on me.
Instead of its normal dark brown, my hair was now a bright, shiny, platinum blond that had been curled into loose waves that rested against my shoulders. He’d even taken the time to do my roots, so that I looked like a natural blonde. I didn’t know whether to admire his effort or be disgusted by how far he would go to make me resemble his dream woman.
Yeah, disgust won out.
But the worst part was the fact that my face had been carefully made up—and my lips were painted a bright, glossy, familiar color.
Heartbreaker red.
• • •
I blinked and blinked, staring at myself in the mirror as if I could somehow change my own horrible reflection. My stomach roiled again, and hot, sour bile rose in my throat. Of all the things that I’d been subjected to over the years, all the beatings, all the fights, all the deadly duels, this was one of the worst things that I’d ever experienced.
I felt violated in a way that I never had before.
I wasn’t Gin Blanco right now. I wasn’t the assassin the Spider. I wasn’t even a person anymore. I was a canvas, a doll, a plaything, primped and painted to Damian Rivera’s exact specifications.
Bile rose in my throat again, but I swallowed it down, along with the primal scream of rage that went with it. I might have rescued Elissa, but it was obvious that Rivera was determined to make me his next victim. And since he’d already transformed me into his perfect woman, it didn’t seem like he was going to keep me around for nearly as long as he had kept the others. That was me, Gin Blanco, classic overachiever, always on the fast track to death.
I had to get out of here before he came back. Since I couldn’t break through the ropes myself, I looked around the cottage again, but my knives weren’t in here, and I didn’t see anything else that I could use to saw through my thick, heavy bonds. Even if I could have scooted myself all the way around the couch and over to the kitchen table, the china there looked far too old and delicate to be of any use. It would probably crumble to dust if I broke it.
Well, if I couldn’t slice through the ropes, then I’d just break the damn chair and get out of my bonds that way. So I started swaying back and forth, trying to judge exactly how sturdy the chair was. The wood was thick, but it creak-creak-creaked with every move I made, telling me that it would break if I put enough force into it. Now, how to do that? I could either use my Ice magic to freeze and crack the wood, or I could try to lurch to my feet, stagger over to the fireplace, and dash the side of the chair against the stone.
I decided on the second option, not wanting to waste my magic on something as simple as getting out of a chair. I had far better plans for my power tonight.
I’d used up some of my magic taking out the guards at the mansion, but Rivera had foolishly left my spider rune ring on my finger, and my matching pendant still hung from my neck, glimmering against the black fabric of my vest. He wasn’t an elemental, so he hadn’t sensed the reserves of Ice and Stone power rippling through the silverstone jewelry.
That mistake was going to cost him dearly. I was going to use every single drop of magic that I had left to kill him dead, dead, dead.
But first, I had to get out of the chair, so I drew in a breath and tensed my muscles, getting ready to surge to my feet—
A beam of light flashed across one of the windows. My head snapped in that direction, and I looked at the window, wondering if I’d imagined the light. But I hadn’t. A second later, another beam of light appeared, and several sets of heavy footsteps thump-thump-thumped on what seemed to be an old, creaky wooden porch attached to the front of the cottage.
The footsteps whipped back and forth, back and forth, from one side of the porch to the other, almost as if someone outside was pacing out his anger, anxiety, and frustration.
“. . . bitch killed all my men . . .”
“. . . can’t believe you captured her . . .”
“ . . . giving her exactly what she deserves . . .”
Muffled voices sounded outside, drowned out by the whistling winter wind. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I recognized one of the voices as belonging to Rivera. Of course he was outside. He’d spent far too much time and effort turning me into his pretty little plaything not to want to finish acting out his delusional fantasy.
The voices stopped, the knob turned on the front door, and Rivera stepped into the cottage. He was still wearing the same expensive suit he’d had on before, and he looked as handsome as ever, right down to the stubble that darkened his jaw.
He studied me from head to toe, his black eyebrows arching in his face, as if what he saw surprised him. After a few seconds, he pulled a small silver flask out of his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a long, healthy swig of the contents. I could smell the caustic burn of alcohol all the way across the room, even stronger than the hair dye.
“Well,” he slurred. “I see that you’ve been busy. You’ve only had her, what, three hours? And you’ve already got her all dolled up just the way you like ’em. That’s quick work. Even for you.”
I frowned, wondering who he was talking to. The things he was saying made it almost sound like . . . like he hadn’t done this to me. Like he wasn’t the one who’d dyed my hair, painted my face, and tied me down.
I thought back over everything that had happened over the past few days and all the clues that had pointed to Rivera—the lipstick, the men he’d sent to Jade’s house, the threats that Tucker had made against him about dealing with his mysterious problem. And I realized that while those clues pointed to Rivera, they also led to another person. Someone else who also had access to all of those things.
All along, I’d thought that this whole thing was like two separate but connected jigsaw puzzles that I’d been trying to work at the same time. Well, all of the pieces had just snapped into place on one of them, and my heart dropped as I realized just how wrong I’d been about the Dollmaker.
Instead of its normal dark brown, my hair was now a bright, shiny, platinum blond that had been curled into loose waves that rested against my shoulders. He’d even taken the time to do my roots, so that I looked like a natural blonde. I didn’t know whether to admire his effort or be disgusted by how far he would go to make me resemble his dream woman.
Yeah, disgust won out.
But the worst part was the fact that my face had been carefully made up—and my lips were painted a bright, glossy, familiar color.
Heartbreaker red.
• • •
I blinked and blinked, staring at myself in the mirror as if I could somehow change my own horrible reflection. My stomach roiled again, and hot, sour bile rose in my throat. Of all the things that I’d been subjected to over the years, all the beatings, all the fights, all the deadly duels, this was one of the worst things that I’d ever experienced.
I felt violated in a way that I never had before.
I wasn’t Gin Blanco right now. I wasn’t the assassin the Spider. I wasn’t even a person anymore. I was a canvas, a doll, a plaything, primped and painted to Damian Rivera’s exact specifications.
Bile rose in my throat again, but I swallowed it down, along with the primal scream of rage that went with it. I might have rescued Elissa, but it was obvious that Rivera was determined to make me his next victim. And since he’d already transformed me into his perfect woman, it didn’t seem like he was going to keep me around for nearly as long as he had kept the others. That was me, Gin Blanco, classic overachiever, always on the fast track to death.
I had to get out of here before he came back. Since I couldn’t break through the ropes myself, I looked around the cottage again, but my knives weren’t in here, and I didn’t see anything else that I could use to saw through my thick, heavy bonds. Even if I could have scooted myself all the way around the couch and over to the kitchen table, the china there looked far too old and delicate to be of any use. It would probably crumble to dust if I broke it.
Well, if I couldn’t slice through the ropes, then I’d just break the damn chair and get out of my bonds that way. So I started swaying back and forth, trying to judge exactly how sturdy the chair was. The wood was thick, but it creak-creak-creaked with every move I made, telling me that it would break if I put enough force into it. Now, how to do that? I could either use my Ice magic to freeze and crack the wood, or I could try to lurch to my feet, stagger over to the fireplace, and dash the side of the chair against the stone.
I decided on the second option, not wanting to waste my magic on something as simple as getting out of a chair. I had far better plans for my power tonight.
I’d used up some of my magic taking out the guards at the mansion, but Rivera had foolishly left my spider rune ring on my finger, and my matching pendant still hung from my neck, glimmering against the black fabric of my vest. He wasn’t an elemental, so he hadn’t sensed the reserves of Ice and Stone power rippling through the silverstone jewelry.
That mistake was going to cost him dearly. I was going to use every single drop of magic that I had left to kill him dead, dead, dead.
But first, I had to get out of the chair, so I drew in a breath and tensed my muscles, getting ready to surge to my feet—
A beam of light flashed across one of the windows. My head snapped in that direction, and I looked at the window, wondering if I’d imagined the light. But I hadn’t. A second later, another beam of light appeared, and several sets of heavy footsteps thump-thump-thumped on what seemed to be an old, creaky wooden porch attached to the front of the cottage.
The footsteps whipped back and forth, back and forth, from one side of the porch to the other, almost as if someone outside was pacing out his anger, anxiety, and frustration.
“. . . bitch killed all my men . . .”
“. . . can’t believe you captured her . . .”
“ . . . giving her exactly what she deserves . . .”
Muffled voices sounded outside, drowned out by the whistling winter wind. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I recognized one of the voices as belonging to Rivera. Of course he was outside. He’d spent far too much time and effort turning me into his pretty little plaything not to want to finish acting out his delusional fantasy.
The voices stopped, the knob turned on the front door, and Rivera stepped into the cottage. He was still wearing the same expensive suit he’d had on before, and he looked as handsome as ever, right down to the stubble that darkened his jaw.
He studied me from head to toe, his black eyebrows arching in his face, as if what he saw surprised him. After a few seconds, he pulled a small silver flask out of his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a long, healthy swig of the contents. I could smell the caustic burn of alcohol all the way across the room, even stronger than the hair dye.
“Well,” he slurred. “I see that you’ve been busy. You’ve only had her, what, three hours? And you’ve already got her all dolled up just the way you like ’em. That’s quick work. Even for you.”
I frowned, wondering who he was talking to. The things he was saying made it almost sound like . . . like he hadn’t done this to me. Like he wasn’t the one who’d dyed my hair, painted my face, and tied me down.
I thought back over everything that had happened over the past few days and all the clues that had pointed to Rivera—the lipstick, the men he’d sent to Jade’s house, the threats that Tucker had made against him about dealing with his mysterious problem. And I realized that while those clues pointed to Rivera, they also led to another person. Someone else who also had access to all of those things.
All along, I’d thought that this whole thing was like two separate but connected jigsaw puzzles that I’d been trying to work at the same time. Well, all of the pieces had just snapped into place on one of them, and my heart dropped as I realized just how wrong I’d been about the Dollmaker.
