The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

Another sunset, another sunrise. A few fitful hours of sleep somewhere in between.

I’m lying on the bed, counting the carved roses on the ceiling when there’s a sharp knock on the door.

It’s instinctive to tug open the bedside drawer and grab another gilded shard. “Go away,” I yell. I hate how the fear catches in my throat.

“Ah, come on,” a soft, female voice purrs. “I’m nice, I promise.”

Suspicious, I creep along the floorboards and peer through the keyhole. On the other side, I can just make out a pair of slim legs in black jeans and a hem of a white shirt. Not the Devil, at least.

“Fine,” I say, but I don’t let go of my makeshift weapon. “You can come in.”

The lock pops open, and a small woman appears in the doorway. She drags wide eyes over the length of my body before her face hardens. “That fucking fool,” she says, stomping into the room. “Look at the goddamn state of you.”

Once the surprise settles, I realize I must truly look a mess. I haven’t showered in three days, my hair is matted at the nape of my neck, and my face is swollen from bouts of sobbing.

I tug the robe tighter around me, ashamed. Her eyes land on my chest. “Is that blood?” She asks, incredulous. “Yours or his?”

“His.”

“That explains the cut on his cheek. You got him good, huh?”

Her face splits into a wide grin. This woman is beautiful. Thick, black curls tumble down to her waist, a stark contrast to her pale skin. She smells like French vanilla and soap, a welcome scent in this stale room. And those amber eyes… the same as Lorcan’s.

“I’m Orna,” she says, softer this time. Only now do I notice a tinge of an Irish accent. “I didn’t catch your name, lovie?”

“Poppy,” I say meekly. “Poppy Valentina.”

She nods. “Poppy, all right. Look, I’m sorry you’re in this situation, but I’m here to give you anything you need.”

“My freedom? A one-way ticket back to Stanford and a restraining order against that monster?”

Her smile this time is sympathetic. “I can’t help on that side of things, I’m afraid.” She sinks onto the chaise lounge and pats the velvet fabric next to her. After a few reluctant seconds, I take a seat. “Look Poppy, I’ll keep it real with you. Lorcan… he collects things. Those things usually don’t come with a pulse, granted. But he’s been a little bit unpredictable since his father and brothers died. Could be the stress. Could be the…” she lifts her hand to her mouth, pinky out, like she’s taking a sip from a glass. “You know. Anyway, one thing that always remains true is that he gets bored easily. This won’t be forever, I’m sure of it.”

My mind flicks back to the night I woke up here. You won’t like the way I’ll discard you.

“Have there been others?” I all but whisper.

She shakes her head.

“So, where am I?”

“The Museum. It’s where Lorcan keeps his…” she flashes an apologetic smile, “most prized possessions.”

I scan the room with fresh eyes. Marie Antoinette’s bed, Monet’s Poppies on the wall.

“And… I’m back in Boston, right?”

She nods. “Back? You’re from here, are you?”

My mouth forms a tight line. “Unfortunately.”

Orna doesn’t press the issue.

I glance out the window, clapping eyes on one of the men who patrol the perimeter. “Who are they?”

“The Henchmen. All my second and third cousins, so I forget that they can look a little scary. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to them and they’ll be part of the furniture soon enough.” Then, she scans the room and lets out a loud sigh. “Right, well, let’s make your hopefully short stay with us more comfortable.” She leaps to her feet and disappears inside the dressing room. “No clothes?” she says, reappearing in the doorway. I shake my head. “Fucking hell. All right, I’ll get you everything you need—in fact, I’ll put a good dent in Lorcan’s Amex as a big ‘fuck you’. And you must be starving, poor thing.”

Right on cue, my stomach growls like an angry stray dog. But I shake my head, remembering what Lorcan said to me last night as his weight pinned me to the bed. You eat when I tell you to eat.

“I’m not hungry.”

Orna dismisses me with a sweep of her hand. “Nonsense. I’ll be back with food.”

As friendly as she is, she still locks the door behind her. I pin my ear to the wooden frame, straining to listen to her movements. Down the stairs. Across some more floorboards. And then there’s a beep, beep, beeping, sound, as if she’s tapping in a pin. A whirring noise—some sort of mechanism, I’d guess—and then the hiss of a door opening.

My heart sinks.

It’s going to be impossible to get out of here.

Left alone with nothing but hundreds of antiques once more, I hash over the conversation with Orna. In a way I feel lighter; her anger towards Lorcan seemed genuine. At least I know that this isn’t the norm around here. Maybe gaining her trust will help me escape?

It feels like only a few minutes pass when Orna comes back with a huge tray of spaghetti and a stack of books tucked under her arm. She sets them down on the bedside table. “Hopefully these will keep you entertained,” she says. “And please eat. Don’t starve yourself for a man.”

But I’m not starving myself for Lorcan, but because of Lorcan. I’m sending him a message. He can lock me in a gilded cage, along with his other artifacts, but he’ll never have control over me.

When Orna comes back a few hours later, I’m curled up on the window seat, three chapters in to Pride and Prejudice. She takes away the cold tray of food by the door and replaces it with another meal. The smell drifts across the room, making my mouth water and my stomach growl in protest, but I refuse to bring even a morsel to my lips.

I will not give in to the Devil.

Another sunset framed by the bay window. When the last of the golden rays disappear behind the towering hedges, I close the book and curl up on the bed, weak with hunger.