wiry hair, streaked white at the front. Her eyes are almond-shaped, the color of burnt cinnamon and umber. The bridge of her nose is smattered with freckles. Her downturned mouth has an overripe crudeness to it that makes me feel uncomfortable. In her late fifties, perhaps, she looks great for her age, but there’s something off about her appearance, made severe by the steel-grey pantsuit that she’s wearing, that just doesn’t seem…right.
“You’ve made yourself at home,” I muse, making a show of studying our surroundings. “A man would be hard pressed to remember that he’s standing on a beach when he walks in here.”
“Call me spoiled, Mr. Mayfair, but I like my creature comforts. Where would you like to sit? On the couch or at the table?”
I don’t like the way she says my name, her tone so full of condemnation. She addresses me like she knows exactly how many men I’ve killed during my lifetime and she considers every single one a black mark against my soul. Perhaps she can read the aggression on me. Maybe she can sense the blood that stains my hands. But that doesn’t give her the right to stand in judgement of me. I’m a perceptive guy, too. I can tell from the cold, detached, sharp edge to her that she’s far from innocent herself. Wouldn’t surprise me if a person or two has died at her hands.
Her eyebrow crooks up, and I realize she’s still waiting for me to pick where I want to sit. “I’ll stay on my feet, if it’s all the same to you.”
She blows down her nose, faintly amused. She shrugs as she walks around the sofa and sinks down onto the faded floral print. “Suit yourself. In that case, you can pour the tea?” Her voice rises at the end, but this is not a request. She expects me to obey.
Four times now, I’ve killed someone by wrapping my hands around their throat and snapping bone. The scene plays out in my head as I cross the tent and pour the tea—kneeling on the edge of the sofa and taking the witch by the throat. Digging my fingers into her skin. Her heels hammering against the carpet. The look of wild panic on her face, as she quickly turns purple. The startling, sickening snap—
“Do you always think such dark thoughts so openly, Mr. Mayfair?”
I set the teapot down with a thud and stand there with my back to her, grinding my teeth together. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, please. You radiate a kind of malevolence that would send most hardened criminals running home to their mamas. You don’t like me, do you, Zeth?”
A chipped porcelain cup and saucer in each hand, I turn and face her, making my way over to the couch. I hold out one of the cups for her to take. “Not particularly, no.”
She smiles a serpent’s smile. “You’re honest at least. That’s a start.”
“Sorry if I’ve offended you.” I’m not fucking sorry, though. I’m far from it.
Madame Shelta chuckles, peering over the rim of her cup at the liquid inside. “Far from it. I’m not a likeable person. I have gone to great lengths to make sure of it. And I’d be worried if a creature such as yourself liked me. That would hardly be a glowing endorsement. No offence.”
I love how people say ‘no offence’ right after saying something offensive, as if those two words will erase their lack of manners or their harsh words. “None taken.” I sip from the tea, wincing when the scalding liquid burns the roof of my mouth. “I’m supposed to kill you, I think. So, we’re probably even.”
Her hands remain steady. No flinching. No fretting. No pleading. She nods. “Charlie always was so short-tempered. He was very upset last night when he left here.”
“You beat him at cards?” I have to ask. Charlie won’t tell me what happened. The only way I’ll ever know is by asking Shelta directly.
She grins. “No. Your boss propositioned me. It was quite a surprise. A man hasn’t dared flirt with me in many years.”
“And you turned him down?”
She gives a quick shake of her head. “Oh no. I’ve always held on the belief that bravery should be rewarded. Sadly, Charlie was in his cups. The flag…” she says delicately, “refused to rise beyond half-mast.”
Jesus. If Charlie was wasted and couldn’t get his dick hard, he would have been furious. But mortified enough to have the woman who witnessed his shame