From his side of the room, Peter watched both the figures of Becile and Mary and that of his brother, who was across the room from him. Becile and Mary stood in the doorway overlooking the beach and the ocean beyond. The tension in Mary's frame was obvious, her hands clenched at her sides in small fists as he spoke in her ear. She looked ready to slap him, and he wondered why she didn't. Why hadn't she contacted them except to send that single payment toward a perceived debt? It was something she'd have to tell them herself, he supposed. This was not the time for questions, it was the time to act.
The flock of girls, each one wanting to be the first one there without running outright, were moving undeniably toward the couple as they turned to move back into the ballroom. The bevy of pretty girls with stars in their eyes broke against the stony impediment of Becile's presence, and just as Pete had supposed, he ate it up with spoons in both hands. He kept Mary at his side by a grip of iron around her wrist, unrelenting as he walked, the group moving with him in a knot of flirting femininity. He reached a table and gave Mary a little nudge to sit, then stood beside her chair.
"Ladies... please. I'm only one man." He smiled that bright predator smile. He knew no matter how charming he might be, there was no way he was going to have the sort of end to an evening that he preferred with his current date, but he might find one or two willing in the group before him. They somehow had gotten the idea he was a casting director of some kind, and he could easily play that up. He lifted a finger to stem the girls' chatter as he leaned down to speak near Mary's ear. Her face went pale and she nodded softly. He then offered his hand to the nearest girl a bright-eyed blonde in a dress of white with black spiders and webs embroidered all over it. He lead her to the floor and the other girls moved to find spaces where they could keep an eye on him so to be the first to catch his eye when the next dance came.
Peter was so angry he could have bitten a railroad spike in half. He waited until Becile was embroiled in his dancing to offer a nod to his brother who made his way out to the car to keep the engine running in preparation for their departure. With one eye on Becile and the other on the beautiful woman he had missed so much, he crossed the room with as casual a stroll as he could manage, dropping down into the chair behind her. "Mary!" he hissed softly. "Don't turn, just answer quietly if you hear me. Are you alright?"
She heard his voice, and her instinct was to turn, but he stopped her with his words and she merely shook her head to hide the begun motion of turning, then quietly answered. "I am." She wanted to tell him she wasn't. That he needed to get her out of here, but she could only hear the last words Becile had said to her before he left to dance with another girl. 'If you're not here when I return, your little friends are dead.' and she knew he meant it. There was no pity, no humanity in him.
"What are you doing here? With him? I thought I warned you to keep away from that guy." He couldn't help himself. He wanted to understand why she'd come to a party with a man who had tried to kill his whole family. "No, never mind. Just tell me when he's not looking and I'll get you out of here before he notices."
Shaking her head faintly, she bit back a sharp pang of tearfulness. "I can't. He'll hurt people and it would be all my fault." She faked a yawn, covering her mouth as she did. "Saint Anne's. Where we took the jelly. Tomorrow morning." She leaned forward and set her chin upon her hand, her every fiber wanting to turn and look at him, but she didn't. She felt less like Persephone and more like Orpheus at the moment, several minutes passed with no clue that he was there, and eventually she surmised he must have gone already. A few minutes after she'd allowed herself to accept he was gone, a slightly portly harlequin stepped up and offered his hand. She smiled and shook her head, offering apology and the seat beside her. Becile had said she couldn't dance with anyone else, not that she couldn't talk to them.
They chatted about the party and interests and as she was listening to him go on about his job at the tuna cannery, she spied a girl sitting by herself across the way who looked to be as in need of a dance partner as the gentleman was. She was jut in the process of encouraging him to go and ask her to dance when Ignatius returned. "Ah, Mr. Becile, this is Mr. Gagliardi. He works at the tuna factory. Mr. Gagliardi, this is Mr. Becile. He's the devil's envoy." Ignatius gave a curl of his lip and she supposed she'd suffer somehow for it later, but hope had been sparked in her breast and she could not help herself.
Ignatius turned to the man and offered his black-nailed hand. "Not the devil, per se. Hades, ancient ruler of the Underworld and so I suppose it's an easy mistake to make." He shook the man's hand with a grip that was far too strong to be polite. "It was kind of you to keep her company while I was away." The implication that now that he'd returned, such company was no longer desired was clear. Gagliardi nodded nervously, rubbing at his hand. A muttered goodbye and last look of concern flashed toward Mary before he moved across the room.
"What do you think you were doing?" He spoke without sitting, looming over her with his hands linked in front of his waist.
"I agreed to come with you, to eat and drink without throwing it in your face, to dance with you, and only you, when asked." She looked up with elevated brows. "He asked me to dance, I said no. You never said anything about being civil."
He narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring faintly before he suddenly smiled and gave a little bow of his head, his hands moving out to the side. "True. Nothing was said about being civil." He looked around then back down at her with that smile that never touched his eyes. "I noticed you yawning earlier. If you are tired, I can take you home. Perhaps have a cup of tea and... talk."
Again, she noted the calculation in his face, a frisson of cold running down her backbone as she realized there were no good options. "I am weary, yes. However you have acquired a full dance card. I do not wish to keep you from it, perhaps you will meet someone nice." She looked past him. "Ah, Mr. Gagliardi took my advice." Noting the man approaching the girl she'd pointed out to him earlier, her hand taken and the pair moved to the dance floor.
He didn't turn away from looking down at her, not when she mentioned the other girls, not when she mentioned Gagliardi. "No, I think that you need to be taken home now. Get you out of that costume." He held out his hand, and she took it, though not instantly. He could see the gears in her mind twisting in attempt to find a way to defy him, but wisely chose to do what was best. He drew her close and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he steered her toward the exit. "You're so cold. I must have misjudged how warm it would be tonight. We'll see you warmed up soon enough."
Her head kept erect, her form stiff under his arm, she walked with him out of the ballroom and to the car. He opened the door for her, never losing that calculating smile. A few moments later they were pulling away from the party. She remained silent, and he did not attempt to draw her out. The drive across the bridge, for once, didn't inspire a fluttery urge in her stomach to throw open the door and jump off of it. She forced her thoughts away from Peter's voice, knowing she might smile despite herself and invite questions. She could indulge when she was finally alone.
He insisted on walking her up to her room, his footsteps dogging her all the way. She had no place for a key, so she'd not locked the room. What did she have that she cared about if it got stolen? Opening the door, she noted all seemed to be where it belonged. Turning in the doorway, she set her palms on either side of it, blocking the passage. "Good evening, Mr. Becile. I trust we will not be ruining the night by fighting." She nodded and stepped back, closing the door in his face, expecting the whole time for him to stop her, but he didn't. She twisted the lock and stepped back, the sound of whistling fading down the hall. She moved to the window, looking down through the iron grate of the fire escape until he slithered back into his car and drove away. She could not shake the feeling that he had given up far too easily.
She undressed quickly, hanging the gown up. She winced as the glued down scraps of fabric were peeled off, the comfort of proper underthings quickly donned, as was a real dress. It was hardly a suit of armor, but it made her feel far more protected and safe. All the while she kept listening for the sound of Becile's footsteps on the stairs outside. The silence was worse than noise, she'd just thought when she heard a growing commotion, heavy footsteps thumping up toward the first floor landing and Mrs. Jennings' voice screeching in protest.
"It's simply not done, Sir! Gentlemen are not allowed any further than the lobby! If you do not go this instant, I will call the police!"
"Then call them you old biddy!"
Peter?! Her mind began to race. He must have tailed her home. Opening the door a crack as the heads of her landlady and Peter Walter the second popped into view, the former being backed up as she squawked and pushed at the much taller and stronger figure. She closed her door quickly and tried to make her brain work. If he heard that Peter had been here or if she left, her friends would likely suffer. He wasn't the kind of person who dropped things or took losing well. The knock to her door was accompanied by the sharp voice of the nigh-hysterical woman.
"I'll not warn you again, Sir! I'll have the police down on you before you can spit!"
She hadn't planned the whole thing out, but she had the start of an idea and with no time to run it out and weigh the options, she simply opened the door and looked at Peter with a mildly surprised face. "Mr. Walter... What are you doing here?"
"You know this man?" Mrs. Jennings asked before Peter could speak, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Yes, I used to cook for his family, Mrs. Jennings, but I do not know why he is here." She turned her attention back to him with lifted brows, hoping he saw the look she shot him ever so briefly, not wanting it to be seen by the other woman. "How may I help you, Mr. Walter?" Keeping her voice bored and mildly annoyed sounding.
Peter was ecstatic to see her, wanted to pluck her up and carry her out of this place, but her reaction struck him dumb. He could not be sure but that she'd looked, for a moment, happy to see him. Then she was cold as a fish. "I have ... I want..." he swallowed, suddenly unsure what to say. "You're the best cook we ever had. I .. I mean we, the family, would like you to come back and cook for us again." He tried not to make it sound as if he were really trying to imply she was no more than a cook to them.
"I have other employment, Mr. Walter and if you thought I would return for you... " She stepped closer to him, an act that forced him to step back, and put her between him and her landlady. She gave him a swift 'please, go with this' look. "... you are sadly mistaken. You're a weak, sad, pathetic man. I need a man like... Valentino." She had seen his face fall a bit at the insults, but the moment the name was spoken, she gave a quick, faint flick of her head toward the still open door and then back to his face, lifting her brows expectantly.
He cottoned on swiftly, grabbing hold of her upper arms and she lifted her palms to push at his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and pinned her hands between them, his other hand tangling in her hair, dragging her head back and kissing her, hard, as he pushed her against the wall. Mr. Jennings cried out and he felt her striking his back, but he didn't care. He felt the hands at his chest tighten and grab hold of his shirt, tugging softly as she leaned back in his arms, and he stepped forward, the hand dropped from her hair to feel for the door. He broke the kiss and pushed her to stumble back through it. He followed and slammed it behind him, turning to twist the lock as Mrs. Jennings ran down the hall, no doubt making good on her promise to call the police.
It was déjà vu to see that face coming at her so fast, and the squeal of fright that passed her lips was not feigned but fear fled in the next instant. The feel of his arms, the warmth of his kiss was worlds away from those of his brother. She did not feel ashamed or shocked, she felt perfectly wonderfully thrilled. When he turned to lock the door, she grinned and ran away, moving to the drawer to pull it open and lift out a pad and pencil. She wrote quickly and held it up as she spoke. "Get out!" The page though read
YOU ARE READING
Clockwork Firefly
FanfictionThe true story* of how Peter Walter II met his future bride. A tale involving, but not limited to, musical automatons, voodoo, trains, murder, revenge, bat meat sandwiches, danger, dancing, mistaken identities, and an absolutely to-die-for carrot ca...
