Mathieu (White Flame Trilogy) - By Paula Flumerfelt Page 0,66

careful. There isn’t a grip.” The blond said.

Every edge of the blade was sharpened to perfection. Mathieu held it gingerly, avoiding the edges. “Don’t these cut your hands?”

“Yes. But my gift is resilience. I heal faster than even you. And my blood has some sort of extra properties or something that helps intensify wounds when my blood gets into the wounds my blades inflict.” Solomon smiled.

“It’s light…” Mathieu handed it back. “They’re pretty, too.”

Nodding, the blond just tossed both blades over his shoulders and they were practically sucked back into the cabinet; it clicked closed. “Now, to Ithaine.” Solomon said.

Mathieu wasn’t sure if Ithaine was a person, a place, or a torture device. Therefore, he silently held his hand out to the man, ready to run if he needed to. The sinking darkness twined around him again, pulling him down. Closing his eyes, he pressed closer to Solomon, hating the feeling of choking. It hurt. He suddenly realized they’d never cleaned up the swords.

As they came out of the darkness, this time in an old fashion house that reminded him of the orphanage, he was slightly better prepared. There was a large grandfather clock against the wall and if it was accurate, his little dance with Solomon had taken almost a full hour. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. His eyes slid around the room, taking it all in. The foyer was done in tastefully warm hues of browns and reds with seating aplenty. He could have heard a pin drop.

Solomon sat down and motioned for him to sit, as well. The loveseat sunk under Mathieu’s slight weight, as did the carpet. For the most part, the room they were in was rather empty, but he didn’t comment. If the owner of the place wanted to decorate sparsely, the only things other than the clock and the loveseat were a painting of a light house and long thin table with a single doll on it, then it wasn’t his business to judge. Mathieu stared at the painting, looking at the way that it seemed to be alive, the water sort of rippling and the grass softly swaying.

“This is a nice place.” He tried to compliment, “Very…quiet.” Mathieu’s voice was just above a whisper.

The blond seemingly ignored him, however, his gaze riveted on the small doll. It had a porcelain face, painted white with red lips and rosy cheeks. It had no eyes. The dress it wore was grey wool with white accents; clearly a handmade outfit, possibly by a child. Solomon’s fingers were tapping a very slow beat on his thigh, and it was maddeningly distracting to Mathieu. He wanted to cover the other’s hand with his and ask him to stop, but he was somewhat sure he wouldn’t get the appendage back. So he continued to look away from the blond and anywhere but at the eyeless doll.

There was a rustle of fabric and his companion stood to pace the length of the room. Mathieu couldn’t read the expression on Solomon’s face, so he busied himself with other thoughts, such as how time had seemed to slip from him so easily when he had been fighting with the blond. When it came down to it, he was not a fighter; that much he was sure of. He accomplished more with his words than his fists, although he needed it, he had the temper of a killer. He was following that train of thought when a slight movement attracted his gaze. It was the doll moving, nodding slowly. “That’s so creepy.” Mathieu said, covering his mouth.

“It’s time. We can go in now.” Solomon said, turning and heading down a hallway, opening the third door on the right. A plume of smoke wafted out, smelling strongly of apples and something sinfully dark.

Mathieu followed Solomon into the room, taking in the near darkness. Only a white colored fire that sat harmlessly on the carpet and the glowing cherry of a cigarette provided light.

“Ithaine.” The blond man bowed before a girl.

Wrinkling his nose, Mathieu did the same. He peeked up into a startlingly young face with milky eyes. She was fifteen, at the most and draped languidly across a loveseat. Her hair was tucked under a scarf, and her dress was bunched around her thighs. Her feet propped up against the wall, baring her legs.

“Solomon,” her voice was high-pitched and she sounded like she was at the other end of a long tunnel, despite her proximity in the small room, “You