Page 165 of Nightshade

Pain struck my skull as I groaned and turned away from the light filtering in through the curtains. Even my eyeballs ached, so badly, I wished I could’ve popped them out for a quick massage.

Turning over in bed, I found a shadowed figure in the corner of the room, and on a sharp inhale, I jolted upright and kicked myself back toward the headboard, which sent a jagged pain up into my nose. I flinched and moaned at the agonizing ache pulsing in my sinuses.

The figure leaned forward into the faint light streaming through the curtain, illuminating clasped hands as he rested his elbows on his thighs, and finally, the light hit his face.

My shoulders eased only a little at the realization it was him. “Mister Van Croix. What are you doing in my room?”

Instead of answering, he stared back at me, the intensity of his expression prompting me to think back to the night before.

Flashes of memory created a humiliating montage inside my head. One set to the tune of absolute mortification. Vague as it was, a grainy recollection of me asking him to massage my foot while I proceeded to place said foot against his crotch and wriggle my toes sent bullets of horror through me. Not even a hole in the center of the earth would be far enough for me to crawl away. Cheeks burning hot, I sank against the pillows. “Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. I can’t eat anything right now.” Eyes clamped shut to avoid his gaze, I forced myself to ask the question chewing at my conscience. “Listen … did I …. I mean … we--”

“No.”

“Great.” The quickness of his response left me wondering if he was relieved about that, himself. “Good to know.”

“Were you able to retrieve the information you were looking for?”

“Pardon?”

“From the singer at the Harvest Ball.”

The singer. Alicia. Of course, I remembered talking to her, but as if the sound had been stripped from my thoughts, I couldn’t recall our conversation to save my life. “I don’t remember much?”

“Perhaps it’ll come back to you.”

“Right.” An ache throbbed at the side of my skull, and I rubbed my palm into it. Ache. Head. A visual of a head sliding off shoulders onto the floor slipped behind my eyes, for reasons I couldn’t imagine. “Hey, funny question …. Did you … kill someone?”

“I don’t remember much of last night, either.” As usual, he stared back at me, but something in his eye seemed less scrutinizing. More curious. “Tell me, what is the mark on your arm?”

Instinct had me lowering my arm to shield it away. “A birthmark.”

“Strange that it bears a striking resemblance to the Pentacrux symbol that you’ve prattled on about for weeks now.”

“And?”

The way he studied me from where he sat across the room had me feeling vulnerable for some reason. Exposed. The austerity in his gaze reminded me of a rabbit staring into the eyes, or eye, of a panther. “Such an oddity, it seems you’d have shown it to me. Perhaps it would’ve lent some insight into why you were inquiring about the Pentacrux.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I didn’t think you’d take it seriously.”

“You told me a while back that you felt a sense of familiarity around me.”

“At times.”

“Are you aware of the symbology cloaked within that mark?”

“What? The mark itself? I know it’s Pentacrux.” Duh.

Eye on me, he pushed up from his chair, his palm outstretched toward me, and the way he flicked his fingers had my internal alarms going off.

Hesitant, I rested my arm in his awaiting palm. As he ran his finger over the birthmark, something on my skin glowed, revealing tiny, silver symbols, like the tattoos on his chest. What the …. On a choked breath, I recoiled my arm and shook it, as if the glowy things would fall off. “What was that? What did you just do to me?”

“I didn’t just do anything.”

“Then, what was that on my arm?”