Kiss of Fire (Imdalind, #1)(92)

I was grateful it took so long to get all of the hair dye out. The bright red and dark black streams of color swirled around each other as they slid across the floor of the tub on their way down the drain. I watched the water as I thought about all the people Edmund had hurt, all the people he was still hurting. Strangely, I didn’t feel like I wanted to cry; I just felt sick and angry. I fought the anger; I didn’t like the way it consumed me.

The swirls of red against the tub began to fade as I thought of my mother, even though the pain of her loss was still an open wound. I thought of how Ryland had hugged her the last time I had seen her alive. I thought of our happy smiles and of painting our fingernails ridiculous colors. I thought of Ryland when we got lost in the cemetery, when we played in the fountain at the park near his house. Also, strangely enough, I thought of my father.

He had, in his own way, tried to save me, too. I thought of the good memories from my childhood, part of me wondering where he had disappeared to since giving me the stone. Even Ilyan had said he didn’t know where he was. Before long, I was smiling. While the anger at what Edmund had done was still there, it no longer dominated me.

As I continued to rinse the dye out of my hair, it became apparent exactly how much Wyn had cut off. I wasn’t even sure I had any hair left. The hair on the back of my head was all but gone; only short hairs, about an inch long, were left. The front half was longer, one side more than the other. I guess I needed some hair to cover the kiss.

I stepped out of the shower reluctantly, not really wanting to look in the mirror yet. I threw on my pajamas and went to find Wyn, a towel wrapped around my head, even though there was no point. I walked into the bedroom to find not only Wyn, but Talon, Ovailia, Ilyan and about seven other Sk?íteks as well. I wished I could run back into the bathroom, but the sight of Ilyan made me stop short.

He was dressed in one of the many perfectly-laundered tunics I had seen in his closet that first day. The shirt was long and white, with simple trim in deep gold and purple. A large gold medallion hung around his neck, reaching down his chest halfway. The shirt was cinched to him with a dark leather belt that matched the boots that came to his knees. The worst part was the intricate, jewel-encrusted gold crown he wore on his head. He looked like he was going to a masquerade party. I fought the urge to laugh, instead opting to stare at him, open-mouthed.

“Manners, Joclyn, mr?vy,” Ilyan scolded roughly.

I looked around me confused and then did the only thing that made sense, given the situation; I curtseyed.

“My Lord.”

“Let me see it, Joclyn,” Ilyan commanded sternly, his eyes glancing toward my hair line. I removed the towel obediently, feeling uncomfortable. I felt the two remaining clumps of hair swing forward, a chilled breeze tickling my neck.

Ilyan came forward and ran his fingers through my wet hair as he dutifully inspected Wyn’s work. My hair was now so short, I could feel his fingers rub against my scalp. The touch sent a shiver down my spine, and my shoulders jerked up toward my ears. Ilyan just smiled at me.

“Good, Wyn. The darker, the better on the face, I think.” He moved away from me, his small entourage following him to the door.

“We leave tomorrow at nine. Sleep well, Joclyn.” His voice softened just enough to take away the tension that had formed in my neck. He motioned the others out and closed the door behind him, leaving Wyn and me alone.

“Tomorrow,” I repeated.

My nerves and butterflies came back instantly; twenty-four hours and Ryland would be here. Safe.

I could do this.





Thirty


After Wyn had finished with me, I didn’t even recognize myself. My eyes looked like pools of black on a pure white face. Every time I opened them, the glittering silver of my irises flashed menacingly, the shimmering color surprisingly bright against the black. My lips were dark, too; the dark burgundy setting off the vibrant red that saturated the front of my hair. The severe cut was nothing near what I would have chosen for myself. It was almost like a reverse mullet; a short, boy-cut in the back and stark, straight, longer lengths plastered to my head near my face. The back was dark black that faded into the bright red framing my face.

Wyn had gone one step further by giving my body the persona to match my hair. She had insisted I place a small magnet in my nose that resembled a nose ring and had taken about an hour to draw on a tattoo with a ball point pen. The constant pressure of the tiny pen-tip against my skin had hurt, although not as much as I assumed a real tattoo would. After an hour of being drawn on, my skin had thankfully gone numb, and she had left me with an intricate spider web that stretched all the way down my left arm and across my back.

I wore what could only be described as “club clothes”: tight black pants that Wyn had to magically get me into, matched with what my mom would deem stripper heels, and a lime green, loose-fitting, backless shirt. Combine the face and hair with the tight-fitting, revealing clothes, and it gave me the appearance of a popular girl on her way to the club. I felt a desperate need to appear more confident than I really was.

I still felt like the insecure, scared girl I had always been. I looked at myself in the mirror and tugged at my clothes, desperate for some sort of comfort. Standing there alone reminded me so much of my first day without my hoodie. I clutched my necklace, remembering how Ryland had been right there to support me that day, how he had only looked into me and told me how beautiful I was. I exhaled deeply, the memory heaving through me like caffeine.