Audition - Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde Page 0,13
house the dead sometimes grander than the ones we live in. In the corner, wrought iron curls away from its crushed-stone corner. A hundred years of vagrants have worn away the rock. I pull my messenger bag close to my body so I can squeeze through. Damp fills my lungs, that familiar scent of rot and sickly sweet flowers. A trail of dirt guides me through the cemetery—the shortest distance through without stepping on graves.
I’m focused on the scrubby toes of my sneakers.
A shadow is my only warning. It moves. My heart rampages through my chest, and I look up suddenly, blinding myself. A large male body swings into view. Someone strong. Someone holding a white paper bag with the words Café du Monde.
“A peace offering,” he says, holding it out.
I make myself breathe deep and slow. Calm down, Bethany. The scent of fried dough makes my mouth water. I can almost feel the powder dissolving on my tongue. “No, thanks.”
He shrugs and tosses the bag onto the grass. “Suit yourself.”
Before I can think it through, I snatch it up. “Don’t do that.”
A smirk. He must know how badly I want these beignets. Cafe du Monde makes the best in the world. “Thought you might be hungry. Your teacher’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”
I continue walking on the path, the heavy bag clutched in my fist, and he falls into step beside me. My teacher is a bitch, but I’m not about to agree with him. She’s mean, but she’s good. Every time she corrects my form, every time she shouts, again, every time she slaps a ruler against my thigh for missing the beat, I’m one step closer to leaving this city.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask, reaching into the bag. God, there must be ten of them in here. Still warm. I pinch off a large chunk and put it in my mouth. Yeast. Sugar. It tastes like pure heaven. I’m not sure it would be bad to have a stalker if he brought beignets.
“Your brother asked me to.” He snorts. “A bit like the fox watching the henhouse.”
I pause only a moment in bringing the beignet to my mouth. Don’t let him see you afraid. Don’t let him see you weak. “You’re not a fox. I’m not a hen.”
Those sharp green eyes don’t miss a goddamn beat. He sees my hesitation. Maybe he even sees my fear. Knowledge can be a weapon, and this man seems especially dangerous. “More afraid of your brother than me, are you? What does the fucker do to you?”
“He doesn’t touch me.” Too much bravado. It sounds like a lie.
“Should I kill him for you?” The question comes out light, almost playful. It makes my heart skip a beat. These are the kind of men my brother makes friends with. Killers.
“No.”
He glances sideways at a particularly intricate angel spreading her wings above a crypt. “You sure? I wouldn’t mind. It would give me something to do besides drink and fuck.”
My stomach clenches around the bites I’ve taken. I force the rest of the beignet into my mouth. I’m sure my lips are covered in white powder. “You’re an asshole.”
He grins, unrepentant. “Why do you think I get along with your brother?”
I pull out another beignet before shoving the rest into my messenger bag. They aren’t exactly expensive, but there’s never extra money for sweets. Not when there are rips in my leotards and holes in my shoes. “Don’t let him hear you talk like that. Even if you’re joking.”
Then he’s standing in front of me, moving so swift and quiet that I almost run into him. I’m around dancers every afternoon. Athletes. It still takes me by surprise. How does a soldier move with such grace? “Awww, are you worried for my safety? You think your brother is going to bury me in one of these unmarked plots?”
You wouldn’t be the first one. I don’t share that part. This man doesn’t deserve my protection. He hasn’t earned it, not even with the sugary goodness in my messenger bag. Dinner. That’s what I’ll eat for dinner. It will be a welcome respite from endless spicy stew. “He really asked you to follow me?”
“Wanted me to make sure you got home safe.”
More likely he wanted to make sure I didn’t take a detour. My brother has a lot of friends in this city. He has even more enemies. I wonder how much Josh knows about that. “Who would want to hurt me?” I ask,