Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,89
own voice. “What plan? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Forget it.”
The truth, a soft voice whispers in the back of my head. Fate always finds a way.
My eyes fly open. “No, I won’t forget it. You told me you gave him our address to give me a better life. But that’s not what I’m hearing. It’s sounding like you and Dominic had more of a conversation than either of you ever let on.”
Violet’s tough demeanor weakens. “I knew about his Romanov scam.”
“I’m sorry?”
“When I sent him to the apartment, I knew what he was after.” She lifts one shoulder in a deflated shrug. “Word gets around if you pay attention. I have two eyes, Ang.” She turns to look at me, pity in her eyes. “Even I could see the resemblance.”
I can’t process this. It’s too much. I grip the edge of the chaise, rocking back and forth in perfect rhythm with the noise in my head.
“I won’t apologize. Look where you are.” She flings an arm out toward Bel Air, then swings the other toward the mansion. “Look what you have. I’d do it all again to see you live the life of a queen.”
“As long as Dominic’s not a part of that life, right?”
“I don’t think he’s being truthful with you, Ang. There’s something about this whole thing that rubs me the wrong way. He’s a ruthless bastard who I think is playing you. I kept my mouth shut as long as I could, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say anything. You’re my best friend. I’m your glue, remember?”
Maybe once upon a time. But even glue leaves a stain.
“So is Dominic.” I turn away from the devastated look on her face. “I love you, Vi, but if you’re going to badmouth him in my own home, then you can leave.”
Even as the French doors click behind her, I don’t move.
Violet once told me that Angel Smith chips, but she does not break. That might have been true before, but things change. People change. Chips become cracks and cracks become fractures.
And eventually, Angel Smith breaks.
I look around, disoriented at first. It’s dark. So dark I can barely see my own hand in front of my face. The only hint of light comes from the single bulb shining brightly in the middle of the wreath outside the window. It’s pretty. I’ve always liked Christmas wreaths.
Christmas.
A rock hits my stomach so hard, I almost double over. Why does Christmas hurt? I don’t have any feelings toward it. It’s just another day to me.
“Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.”
Pulling my attention from the window, I settle it on the dark outline a few feet in front of me. “Who’s there?”
Why can’t I see anything? Reaching out, I slice my fingers through the darkness only to knock into something hard. Where am I? I remember taking a hot bath and then climbing into bed. Extending my other arm, I knock into something soft. Muffling a gasp, I jerk them back.
But I’m not in bed. I’m not even in my room.
I’m shaking so hard, my teeth clack together, but I seek the objects out again, eventually recognizing wood and cotton. And I’m sitting on the floor in between them.
Then I hear it. The scratching. A light wisp along with movement. My breathing escalates as the dark outline draws closer and closer. I have nowhere to go. Balling myself as tightly as I can, I tuck my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around my legs, my tattered cotton nightgown wet and sticky.
Face your fears.
Slowly, I open my eyes, the light from the wreath candle illuminating her long dark hair, her hollow green eyes, and her tattered, wet, cotton nightgown.
It’s me.
I’m looking at me. I’m sitting in front of me.
But that’s impossible.
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice brittle and thin.
“Shhhh,” she whispers, holding one finger against her mouth.
I’m about to demand more answers when gut-wrenching screams filter in from outside the door. They don’t stop, and along with them come angry shouts. They both grow louder and louder until my heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest.
“What’s happening?” I cry, but just like before, she doesn’t seem concerned.
Turning toward the horrible sounds, she pauses a moment before looking back at me, a serene smile on her face. “He’s coming.”
“Who?”
“The Angel.”
Jesus, what kind of dream is this?
Rising up on my knees, I press my hand to my chest. “I’m Angel.”