Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,88
when she was five, there’d been very little hair-rumpling from Niko. Even now, his touch made her flinch, remembering the beatings—those cold, methodical beatings as she’d lain naked on the cot in the main house basement, strap lashing down again and again until she was sobbing so hard she could barely draw breath to gasp her apologies, to promise she’d stop asking for her mother, stop crying for her, stop trying to run away.
Finally the beating would end. Niko would tell her she was a good girl, his breath coming fast, as if the exertion of the strapping was just coming upon him and he’d stroke her hair, her shoulder, her thigh until he’d abruptly leave the room. A few minutes later, she’d hear his footsteps on the stairs, leaving her alone in the cold, black basement until morning, when Lizette would come with fresh-baked lemon loaf and tell Adele she had to stop being so selfish, so naughty, wishing for a mother who’d abandoned her when the kumpania was happy to take her in, even if she was a durjardo—an outsider clairvoyant.
Once Adele’s rebellion stopped, so did the beatings, as if she was a wild horse that had been broken. From then on, all she got from Niko was rumpled hair and avuncular smiles and, occasionally, a wistful look, as if he wished she’d show a little spark again, so he could take her back to that basement room and strap it out of her.
Now his hand rested on her shoulder as he talked to her. She didn’t know about what, and faked a yawn, stifling it and saying, “Sorry, sir. It’s really been a long night. What was that?”
“I said you might find getting photographs of Jasmine Wills easier than you think. Seems she’s a fan of yours.”
“Fan?”
“Her publicist called True News. With Portia dead, Jasmine is very interested in your—” He flashed a smile of too-bright veneers. “—creative talents. Now, you can’t meet with her; that wouldn’t be in the kumpania’s best interests.”
“No, of course not.”
“And what’s not in the kumpania’s best interests . . .”
“. . . is not in my best interests.”
The rote response came automatically, and earned her another smile. “That’s my girl. I left the publicist’s number in your room. You may want to call her, see if you can get Jasmine’s schedule. It would be a nice shortcut. Save you from long nights chasing her.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
Niko’s chest puffed, as if he’d arranged the whole thing. Adele thanked him again—with Niko, there was no such thing as too much gratitude.
As Adele passed Lily’s door on the way to her bedroom, she glanced in and saw the young woman sitting on the edge of her bed, smoothing her rumpled skirt, her eyes red, her underwear a white ball at her feet.
Adele glanced back at Niko’s balding head as it disappeared down the stairs. Then she looked at Lily’s nightstand, where his watch lay.
She smiled.
For a moment, she enjoyed the scene, then she erased the smile—or most of it—and leaned against the doorway. “I guess the phuri finally decided Hugh wasn’t up to performing his husbandly duties.”
Lily looked up and swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “They gave him longer than they had to, and we’re grateful for their consideration, but it’s my obligation to provide the kumpania with children and I’m happy for the chance.”
Puling idiot. Even now she didn’t have the guts to complain. Adele would have preferred sobbing rage, but her quiet tears were enough. By the end of her fertile period, she would be sobbing, curled up on the bed, with cold compresses between her legs. The thought cheered Adele, if only for a moment.
“I’m all right,” Lily said, misinterpreting Adele’s reason for lingering. “But thank you for stopping in. You’re a good sister, Adele.”
Sister, my ass. If Adele had a sister, she’d be a lot brighter than this twit, who’d thanked Adele for bringing her coffee every morning, never noticing the bitter aftertaste of birth control pills. At the last meeting, when Niko had declared they might need to take the next step to impregnate Lily, Adele had watched the men’s faces as they struggled to console Hugh, to act as if resigned to an unpleasant task. For the next year, the kumpania would monitor Lily’s cycles and, when her time came, she’d be confined to her room for three days, while the men streamed upstairs to take their turn.