The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

I push the remaining stray peas around my plate, enjoying the sun beating down on my back.

“All done?” Orna asks, refilling my iced tea and picking up my plate.

“Uh-huh,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. “Who knew fish and chips could be so good?”

She grins. “I’ll pass the compliments on to my sister.”

I watch Orna amble towards the main house with the remnants of lunch balancing in her arms.

It’s nice out here. The soft breeze in my hair, the blades of grass between my toes. It sure beats being locked in the Museum.

But that contentment swirling in my stomach, it’s poisoned by the constant reminder that this is it. The grounds may be sprawling and Orna might be fun to talk to, but just because the Devil has given me an inch of freedom, it doesn’t mean that I’m free.

You’re still here against your will, Poppy,the niggling voice rattles around my head.

Don’t forget about your escape plan.

I squeeze my eyes shut and transport back to the rose garden a few days ago. When my heart felt as heavy as the iron bench I was sitting on and I decided on what I had to do.

Once I have no use for you, I will discard you.

Despite the sun, my blood runs cold. There’s no denying that my body wants it. In fact, it aches for it every time I’m in the Devil’s company. But I know, I just know, that I’m simply swept up in this new, warped reality. That when, if, I’m allowed back to my real life, I’ll regret letting him take what belongs to me. He took everything else from me—my childhood, my freedom, my father. He can’t have the last bit of me too.

Perhaps there’s another way.

With newfound gusto or maybe just feeling high from all the sugar in the iced tea, I rise to my feet and stalk towards the house. I bump into Orna as I step into the corridor.

“You okay?” she says with a frown.

“I want to see him. Lorcan. Where is he?”

She glances down the hall to check we’re alone then pulls me into the shadow of an alcove. “What are you planning, Poppy?” she asks wearily. “Look, what happened on the patio earlier. That wasn’t Lorcan getting soft, that was Lorcan distracted. Please don’t put yourself in reach of his wrath.”

I gently slide my arm out of her grip and flash her a reassuring smile. “I don’t want to rock the boat, Orna. I promise. I just want to speak to him.”

She runs one last look over my face and lets out a dramatic sigh. “Your funeral. I’ll show you to his study.”

I’m led through the entrance hall and up a snaking twin staircase, then down corridor after corridor, until we come to a stop outside a solid oak door.

She stops, mid-knock, to give me one last chance. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Rap, tap, tap, then she scurries down the hallway, mouthing good luck over her shoulder.

“Enter,” comes a grunt from the other side.

My palm is sweaty as I twist the doorknob and creak open the door. Lorcan is sitting behind a desk, a stack of papers in front of him. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me.

“What’s wrong?” he glowers.

“Nothing. May I come in?”

His eyes narrow but he nods, inviting me into the room. Feeling his burning stare following me, I run a finger over the wood. “This desk…” I murmur. I recognize it from the Christie’s archives magazine I used to study in the school library.

“Roosevelt’s.”

I can’t help but mutter “wow,” as I feel all the history it holds under my fingertips.

“What is it, Miss Murphy?”

There’s more than the grand desk separating us. It’s the ice-cold darkness in his eyes; the way he sits deathly still in his chair, fingertips clasped together in a prism. Pinning me with a glare that says he wishes I wasn’t here.

I wish I weren’t here either.

But I straighten up and match his gaze. “It’s Valentina. And I have something to ask you.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

Steam hisses from his nostrils. “Fine. What?”

“I want to help you.”

“And how, in the ever-loving fuck, can you help me, Miss Murphy?” he says, with something resembling a smirk.

“With your accounts. I’ll get them straight for you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, not caring when black curls fall in front of his forehead, then twists in his chair to stare out of the window. “Then I’ll change my question. Why, in the ever-loving fuck, would you want to help me?”

“Because I’m bored.” And I might have a better chance of escaping from your office. “I need something to stimulate my brain.”

“No.”

“Please,” I say in a desperate exhale. My shot at freedom is slipping through my fingers.

The sound of his fist slamming against the desk makes me jump. “I said, no.” he snarls, “I don’t need help with my accounts, little girl. And certainly not from you.”

Little girl.Heat rises to my cheeks, along with a flurry of anger. “You do,” I snap back, “they are an absolute shit show—if you keep hemorrhaging money at this rate, this time next year you won’t have a business—”

He rounds the table in two strides and cups his hands around my face. Not with the tenderness he did last night in his office. Nor with the passion he had before he flipped me over and spanked me in the Museum. No, his grip is vice-like, harsh. My eyes are trained on his lips as they curl into a cruel line. “You’re overstepping the mark, Miss Murphy. You need to remember your place. You’re nothing but a hole with a heartbeat, one that I’ll fuck whenever I please.”

His voice is low and scary, and I immediately pity any of his enemies who have had to hear that in a dark alley somewhere.

A knock on the door cuts through the tension. “Go away,” he snarls, eyes never leaving me.

Orna’s voice floats under the door crack. “It’s important.”

Lorcan’s jaw ticks and his lips purse, before he lets me go.

“Fuck you,” I rasp, the memory of his grip still burning my cheekbones, “I hate you, I hate you so goddamn much, Lorcan Quinn. Whoever you’re trying to protect yourself from,” I stab in the direction of the window with a trembling finger, towards the security lining the bushes, “Whoever is after you, I hope they win. I hope they find you and I hope they kill you. And I hope it’s a slow, painful death.”

Before he can respond, I turn on my heels and fling open the door, pushing past Orna and running down the hall.

I have no idea where I’m going. No idea what corridor will lead to a dead-end, and what will lead me further into the Devil’s lair.

“Poppy, wait!” Orna’s voice sounds a million miles away; I can barely hear her over the blood thumping around my ears. She catches up with me fast, wrapping her soft hands around my waist.

She whispers, “I could hear you screaming and I thought it best if I interrupted.”

Only now do I realize I’m sobbing. “I hate him. I really, really hate him.”

She guides me through the corridors and down the stairs, until the sun I was enjoying so much a few moments earlier is beating down on my back again. Only this time, it burns, the rays boring into my skin like a million angry lasers. “I just want to go to bed,” I mutter, wiping my blurry eyes.

Orna nods, saying nothing, but takes me back to the museum and lets me in. I’m numb as she helps me slide on my pajamas and tucks me into bed. “Are you going to be okay?” she asks, perching on the bottom of the mattress, concern clouding her big amber eyes.

No. No I’m not.

Did I really expect Lorcan Quinn to give me a little more freedom? No, not really. But I’m just tired. Tired of being held captive. Tired of living under the Devil’s reign of terror.

It’s never going to end.

Without another word, I roll over and close my eyes, burying my head between the gap in the pillows. “I’ll let you sleep,” she soothes, patting my leg, before I feel her weight leaving the bed.

But I don’t sleep, not until the sun starts to set, anyway. Instead, I soak the pillows with my tears, letting the feather-down filling muffle my sobs. And only when I have nothing left in me, I give in to sleep.