My Immortal (Seven Deadly Sins #1)(18)
Author: Erin McCarthy

"Marley Turner. Does she know what you are?"

"Oh, you mean the fact that I’m immortal, servant to the Grigori demons?" He gave her a mock bow. "At your service, as usual. But no, Marley has no idea exactly who she is dealing with. And I have no intention of telling her. I’m going to help her find her sister, get that letter from her, and then send them both on their way."

Without having ever tasted a single inch of Marley’s flesh.

Rosa scoffed. "You’ve never been at my service. But I’m willing to overlook that for now. And in case you hadn’t noticed, the girl is attracted to you."

"She is also incredibly innocent."

"Which would explain why she is drinking a martini that has been spiked with a hallucinogenic drug."

"What?" Damien pushed away from the wall. Marley wouldn’t be that stupid. "Are you serious?"

"Very. I saw the guy do the drop. And for some weird reason I felt compelled to find you and tell you, because she clearly doesn’t have a clue."

"Damn it." Damien pushed his hair back off his damp forehead.

Then went back into the house to find Marley and assess the damage.

Chapter Six

Marley felt like she was floating. Like even though she was still sitting on the couch where Damien had left her, her body was rising up, up, up, into the hot bright light of the candle flames.

Something was wrong. She felt like she’d had six martinis, not just sipped off one—like all the blood had rushed out of her limbs, and now her arms were useless, numb hunks of flesh. There was a man sitting next to her, talking, but she couldn’t seem to focus on what he was saying. She frowned, tried to concentrate, but his face seemed sharp, too close to her, his words floating in and out of her consciousness.

To be polite, she nodded from time to time. It made her feel bad that she was doing such a poor job of carrying her end of the conversation, and it was that guilt, that sense of manners, that kept her from protesting when he moved in closer still, his leg brushing hers, his arm sliding around her back.

She took another sip of her martini because she was thirsty and it tasted so good, like apples and cinnamon sugar, like a big, wet lollipop. With the edge of her tongue she licked the rim, and a warm, tingling sensation rolled through her, settling between her legs.

Suddenly black pants were in front of her and hands grabbed at her drink. Startled, Marley held on. "Oh, it’s spilling!" And it seemed very important not to lose it.

A glance up showed Damien staring down at her, frowning.

"Hi," she said, giving him a big smile. He was so very cute, and he had been so nice to let her stay. They’d been through the whole party, and no sign of Lizzie, but it had been very, very nice of him to help her.

Damien gave another tug at her drink, managed to take it, and dumped it into a potted plant next to the couch.

"I wasn’t done with that," Marley said, frowning, surprised by his behavior. She was amazingly thirsty. He had just wasted that tasty drink, still half full.

"I’ll get you a new one." Then he turned to the guy sitting next to her. "Leave. I want you out of my house in the next sixty seconds."

Confused, Marley glanced at the guy who had given her the drink. When had he put his hand between her legs? And why didn’t she feel it? Without hesitation, the guy pulled away from her bikini bottoms, stood up and left. No good-bye, no anything. That struck Marley as a little bit rude.

Damien took her hand and pulled her up. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk," she said, though she had to admit something strange seemed to have happened to her legs. She couldn’t feel them at the moment, which was really very funny. She giggled when she stood and the whole room swirled. Whoa. Psychedelic.

Damien pulled her, and she stumbled along behind him. They went out the door, through a dizzying maze of hallways and doors, up one set of steps, then up the big, curving staircase, and down a very long hall. They moved in slow motion, her legs heavy, head lolling, but at the same time with so much speed that Marley couldn’t follow where they were going.

Candles lit the way, and the upstairs was hushed and empty. Her feet stumbled and tripped over the carpets, her mouth felt dry, and her thoughts bounced from here to there, never really staying long enough to land on anything in particular.

She turned right and left, trying to see the furnishings in the hall, the portraits, the chandeliers. It was a mosaic of colors and sensations, and right in the middle was the stark white face of a woman. Marley pulled free from Damien and moved toward it.

"Who is she?" she asked, captivated by the eyes staring out at her. The painting shimmered in the light, undulating like they were on a ship at sea, that drawn, solemn face reaching out and arresting her. Marley lifted a hand, wanting the world to stop moving and shifting, wanting to touch that sorrow that was so clearly etched on the portrait, wanting to soothe and comfort.

"That is Marie du Bourg, wife of the first Damien du Bourg," Damien said, pushing her hand down so she couldn’t touch. "This was painted in 1790."

"Oh." Marley felt tears in her eyes, without explanation or warning. "She looks like her letter." That made no sense in words, but she knew it was true. The woman was dark-haired, very petite and delicate, her fair skin ethereal, lips and cheeks tinted with a blush of pink. "She looks like she could cry."

"That is possible. She was very unhappy here."

"How could anyone be unhappy in such a beautiful place?" Marley asked, stomach sick, tears swelling, throat closing off. She wanted to weep for the sorrow she saw in Marie. For herself. For her sister.

"There are many reasons to be unhappy. Perhaps Marie knew them all."

It is taking longer than I thought to write this, as it is now two days since I originally sat down, quill in hand. I have much more vitriol to dispose of than I realized, and I find myself reluctant to toss this into the fire until I have finished what I have begun. I need to write it, Angelique, to see it on the page in front of me, to acknowledge what I have done, who I have become, what went wrong so quickly.

The first few weeks after I fainted, Damien and I had a new understanding, though unspoken. He was more courteous, he spent more time at home and less in New Orleans, he watched what I ate and urged more on me when I picked. He discussed plans for a nursery with me, and expressed a preference for the name Phillipe, which had been his father’s. A trip to town was sanctioned for more appropriate clothing for me, as well as linens and lace for the nursery. A delicate rosewood cradle was purchased and brought home, displayed proudly in the room next to mine, and I visited it frequently to run my fingers over the shiny wood, to contemplate a baby resting in it.