Page 28 of Nightshade

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m certain of it.”

“Then, what more do you need to know?”

From the satchel bag strapped across my chest, I pulled out the long black feather, which I’d tucked inside a plastic storage bag. After removing it from the bag, I held it up to him, watching his eyes widen and spark with intrigue. “I would love nothing more than to return to my perfectly boring life, but I can’t. Some things cannot be unseen. And now? I want to know more. I want to know everything. My father mentioned a man by the name of Van Croix. Do you know him?”

That flicker of intrigue from moments ago darkened. “Jericho Van Croix?”

“I don’t have a first name. Maybe?”

He reached out for the feather and twisted it around, running a finger over the plume. “Where did you get this?”

I could’ve lied and told him I’d found it on the ground, that it had somehow landed haphazardly in my path, but the intense look in his eyes told me he wouldn’t have believed me. “Does it belong to you?”

“I wish. But no.”

“It was left in my bedroom. Following a very creepy dream that warned me to seek out Van Croix in Nightshade.” With reluctance, I lifted the sleeve of my jacket and the shirt beneath, stretching the fabric up past my elbow. “Have you ever seen this symbol before?”

Something between intrigue and turmoil shined in his eyes as he stared down at it.

“What is it?” I had to push my sleeve back down in order to divert his attention.

Rolling his shoulders back, as if to compose himself, he resumed his haughty posture. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“Then, help me understand Nightshade.”

“You should know, I don’t give such information freely.”

With a suspicious frown, I lowered my gaze. “What do you want?”

“What do you have?”

“I’m not …. I’m not sleeping with you. If that’s what you’re looking for.”

“No. I’m looking for something much more interesting than sex.”

“Like what? My soul?” I snorted at that, but when he didn’t so much as crack a smile, I frowned harder. It was then I noticed the subtle flash in his eyes, as if the fiery amber flickered like a flame. A tickle of fear bloomed in my chest. “Who are you, really?”

He rubbed a hand over his smooth, clean-shaven face. “Perhaps I’ll entertain your questions, after all.”

“You just said you needed … something for payment.”

“I can oblige this once.”

Nothing that fell from the man’s lips held any modicum of ease. Not a single clue that I might’ve been able to trust him. I should’ve walked away, but doing so meant no answers. A lifetime of always wondering. Always doubting my father and questioning his sanity.

I wanted to know more. I needed to know more.

“Well, then. Come in,” he said, using the feather to usher me inside.

He stepped aside, giving only a quick, downward glance toward my knife, and allowed me entrance without requesting that I put it away. As if he wasn't threatened by it in the least. Fingers tightening around it, I passed him, eyes scanning the dimly-lit interior. The chipped and weathered bricks of the abandoned factory on the outside gave way to the bright green of vines climbing the ceiling and walls. A small stainless-steel kitchenette stood across from a matching rolling island, where a bowl of fruit added a splash of color. Sheer white curtains hung from the broken windows I’d noticed on the outside, their hems fluttering with the cool October breeze that should’ve made the place freezing, if not for a massive flame in the center of the room, where a steel pit housed a bonfire. Pots of plants lay about the open floor space in all varieties and sizes. Extravagant fabrics and prints covered the cushions that had been strewn about the floor, where Xhiphias directed me to sit.

With a quick examination for any strange substances in the fabric, I sat down on the plush cushion, while he took the one across the bonfire from me and tucked the black feather behind his ear.

From his coat pocket, he removed a small, golden box with intricate leaf patterns and beautiful iridescent pearl accents. He opened its lid and pinched up a small bit of its contents onto his hand, which he then snorted. The brownish tint of it led me to believe it was tobacco snuff, though I couldn’t be sure. Graceful in his movements, he reached for a gorgeous, black teapot painted with silver skulls wearing crowns from a tray beside him, and he poured its contents into a cup. When he hovered over a second cup and glanced my way, I shook my head to decline.

“Look, you were right when you said I didn’t quite believe in all of this.” Anxious to begin, I sat fidgeting, my head spinning with all the questions I wanted to ask. “I’m going to do my best to keep an open mind. I want to understand my father, what drove him, and it seems the only way to do that is to cast aside my skepticism. So, tell me. What is Nightshade?”