The Book Eaters(46)
White shelves discreetly filled the alcoves, the books upon them arranged by color and size to create an undulating rainbow of spines. A crisp bibliosmia scent of freshly printed paper, with a faint undercurrent of petroleum. Devon wrinkled her nose. Modern books had good stories, but she hated the oily taste of glossy pages.
Celebrations were already underway. A handful of people drifted past, laughing and drinking from flutes that refracted yet more light. All in formal dress and all wearing jewelry. Sparkles and shine everywhere. Devon put a hand to her head, overwhelmed by the glittering.
“There you are, Aike.” Matley Easterbrook came down the main stairwell with casual confidence, two other men at his heels. All three of them in pale suits.
Matley was younger than Luton, though still older than Devon; taller than Luton, though still shorter than Devon. Sepia skin and dark, tightly curled hair spoke to their Mediterranean heritage.
Book eaters often had complex and convoluted ethnicities. The different households across different continents had long ago blended with lineages, bolstering failing lines on all sides.
Only delaying the inevitable, she thought. Increasingly, there were just fewer book eater families to merge with, and those who survived in other countries were harder and harder to access. Passports, immigration, paperwork, visas, and all that official stuff made cross-continental marriage almost impossible to arrange in modern times.
“Always a pleasure.” Aike had recovered his poise. He wore a wide, toothy smile that he reserved only for other men of the Families, and had never shared with her. “I am pleased to introduce you to Devon.”
Every eye fell on her, and she stiffened under the onslaught of attention.
“Hullo, kid.” Matley was difficult to look at; that pearl-colored suit turned him into a blazing beacon in their over-lit house. “Good lord, you’re a tall one, aren’t you?” He gave her shoulder a squeeze, gripping much too hard.
Devon steeled herself into not flinching. Showing weakness to this man would invite derision, she felt. Luton had been cold and indifferent; Matley, she suspected, might be actively unpleasant. The kind of man, in fact, who trafficked humans without a whisper of remorse.
When he got no response, Matley wheeled away and said, “These are two of my brothers, Wight and Jarrow.”
“Congratulations on your wedding, cousin.” Wight picked a cuticle on his nails. His real attention was on the party happening in the reception room.
“Congratulations, cousin,” Jarrow echoed awkwardly. He looked even younger than her, and she was only twenty-three. “Happy returns.”
“Thanks.” The banality of the exchange grated on her. “Very kind.”
Matley swept his arm to one side. “Wight, please escort the knights to the barracks where they can check in their dragon. Jarrow, if you’d be so good as to escort our bride to the celebrations.” He offered a twisting smile to Aike. “And cousin, if you’d like to come with me to the office, we can finish discussing the business side of things.”
Ramsey and Paulton left with Wight, dragon trailing after them. Aike disappeared with Matley, none of them so much as glancing her way.
Devon stood in a daze, feeling as if nothing about the day were real or tangible. Get through the wedding, she reminded herself. One day at a time. Wedding, marriage, child—then Salem. Eventually. There was nothing else she could do.
“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Fairweather.” Jarrow’s strong Norfolk accent clagged her ears. “We’ve a party on for you.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, almost truthfully. At least the party would be a distraction, with plenty of alcohol. Devon thought she understood Faerdre a little better these days. The other woman’s smile, so cheerful at the time, seemed brittle and forced on reflection.
As they approached the reception room, a pair of young men pushed past in a rush, carrying stained glasses. One of them shoved the dining room door wide and as it swung back, the figure of Luton Winterfield was briefly visible, laughing and joking.
Devon froze in place. Cold sick built up in her stomach and threatened to rise in her throat. How dare he come here, be here, torment her again, see her like this when he had her daughter, beautiful Salem, tucked away in—
“No.” Her feet wouldn’t move. She could not face Salem’s father. Salem’s kidnapper.
Jarrow paused. “Is something wrong?”
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to celebrate. I don’t want to be here.” Her voice seemed to echo in the waiting room, ricocheting off the stupid glass everything and the too-bright lights.
He tugged at an earlobe. “You don’t want to go to the wedding celebration? I thought brides liked the parties.”
She was supposed to say something, a chance to recover the facade and pretend everything was fine. Submit. Be passive. Be cowed and give no threat, and earn the chance to see Salem again.
Somehow, she managed to stutter out the words, “They’re very noisy. Too many people.” Stupid. Like she was a small child, frightened by lightning. Except she was afraid, of this Easterbrook boy whose family trafficked in lives, even if they were human; of Matley, cruel and arrogant, whom she would have to marry. If Jarrow took offense to her words, she would be in trouble.
But even as she filled her lungs with breath to say All right, let’s go in now, Luton half turned to address someone else and Devon’s resolve crumbled afresh. She pressed up against the wall where he wouldn’t see her. The door slowly drifted shut again, obscuring the room.