Page 98 of Nightshade

“A tea. And where exactly did you find this cambion who helped you?”

“Chicago. And since I’m being honest with you, how about you share a little honesty with me.”

Gaze lifting to mine, he crossed his arms again and rounded me. “Fair enough,” he said at my back.

Head kicked to the side, I only caught his shadowy form in my periphery. “I know you know about the Pentacrux. My father sent me to you. I don’t know why, but he did.” He came around to the other side of me, like a circling shark , as he made his way to his chair. Everything from his unrushed stride, to the way he wore that suit with tailored precision, was predatory. And there I sat, feeling vulnerable. “He felt that I was in danger from them and believed that you would …. Well …that you would ...”

He ran his thumb over his bottom lip, a glint of amusement darkening his gaze. “That I would what? Save you? Protect you?” At that, he sneered. “Do I look like the hero in one of your books, Miss Ravenshaw?”

Certainly not. The heroes in books I’d read were nothing like him. They were normal, colorless and bland. Van Croix would’ve been the crafty villain in the story who saw right through them.

“All I know is that I can’t go back to my old life until I know if this group is after me, or if I’m part of some elaborate prank. I have a theory, however crazy it is.”

“What is your theory?” he asked with an air of boredom.

“I believe Pentacrux might be … the dark ones.”

“The dark ones?”

“The Fallen. Please don’t play with me, Mister Van Croix. I know you’re aware of more than you admit.”

The corner of his lips lifted into an artful smile. “I can assure you, my sense of play is far more sinister than boring conversation about the Fallen.”

“I found a feather in my bedroom. And it had strange symbols on it. A weird symbol my father called Libidine. And another … I can’t remember what he might’ve called it, but it was odd.”

“Perhaps you could draw it.” His tone held a hint of mocking, which only stoked my frustration.

“Sure.” The paper he handed me bore a logo at the top, of a hooded reaper-looking figure with black wings and a sword. Van Croix & Associates. When he offered a pen, I sat puzzling what the logo, coupled to the company name, implied. Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t ease any fears one might’ve had about his reputation being Death.

In the space below the logo, I attempted to sketch the symbol I’d seen from memory. “It’s not the best drawing,” I said, turning it around to face him.

His brows came together in the first serious expression I’d seen since our meeting began. “This feather …. You say you found it where?”

“In my room. I had a dream that I was walking through a church. A message appeared on a brick wall. Find Van Croix in Nightshade. And the feather appeared in my dream. When I woke up, it was lying on the floor. That dream was premonitory in nature.”

“How so?”

“The wall crumbled to reveal two nuns who’d been hanged inside of it.” An unsettling feeling crawled over my skin at the memory of the night Hines had come to the house. “The next night, I learned of their murder. I don’t know who they were. I’d never seen those women before.”

“You’ve had dreams like this before?”

“Not entirely premonitory. I do dream violent things, sometimes, but I’ve a feeling the Pentacrux are behind not only the murder, but that feather, too.”

“And what gives you that feeling?”

“Because what my father believed to be their emblem was left behind at a different murder.”

“How was your father qualified to know it was their emblem?”

“He studied it for a number of years. Lost his mind over it. Literally.”

“Show me what he believed to symbolize the Pentacrux.”

Perhaps it was the way he framed the question as a challenge that kept me from showing him my birthmark. With its rough edges and questionable similarity, I didn’t want him dismissing me as a fool. Instead, I drew the symbol onto the paper beside the first sketch.

The furrow in his brow deepened as he examined the drawing closer. “As illuminating as this conversation has been, I’m afraid I need to cut it short.”

“Mister Van Croix, please. I’m begging you. Any morsel of information you could share would be greatly appreciated. I’m … admittedly lost.”