Nightshade, p.1
Nightshade, page 1
Nightshade
Fiona Zedde
Red Hills Publishing
Contents
Seed
Flower
Pistil * Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Poison * Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Seed
Bronwynne St. Just’s parents died in a fire. The blaze melted the skin off their bones and turned their eyeballs to soup. Wynne hadn’t been there. She was at school being a good girl that Thursday evening, practicing with the archery team. Her sister, Celeste, saw the last of the fire and tried to save their parents. Celeste, her fifteen-year-old sister, ran, arms flailing, toward the fire-eaten Tudor that had once been their home. Wynne wasn’t there, but she heard the neighbors talking and she imagined.
Orphaned and with no family in Canada, Wynne and Celeste were shipped to the United States with their Aunt Kelia’s family; but they preferred the casual brutality of life on the streets to their cousins’ pity and the contempt of Aunt Kelia’s husband. They grew up quickly then, at twelve and fifteen, hardening their shells to everyone but each other. It came as no surprise to anyone who knew them after the fire that Celeste became a pimp and Wynne embraced the life of a contract killer. She and Celeste were survivors. Their parents would’ve been proud.
Flower
It was raining. The smell of damp earth and rain-battered flowers rose up from the garden below to sink into the stone and steel of the large circular balcony where Wynne stood. Alone. From behind, the sound of laughter lifted suddenly above the sensuous base pounding from hidden speakers. The women looked exquisite; moist and hard in leathers, soft and feminine in silks, or dark and inviting in velvets. They could fulfill any fantasy, any decadent wish. For a price. Celeste’s women. Only the very wealthy could afford them, and only the desperate—and in some cases, the desperately bored—became one of them. Wynne’s sister planned it that way: an exclusive supply to meet any demand. Celeste was an enterprising woman, but Wynne knew only too well that she was deadly. A trickster in the clothing of a benevolent.
At midnight the place already reeked of bartered sex and hashish. Wynne hoped she would come soon. It was getting warm and crowded. A woman stumbled out from the party, laughing at the serving girl she pulled roughly along with her. The girl seemed delicate and vulnerable with her violet dress and soft mouth. Her bare arms were bruised, but she didn’t protest. This was just another game to her. Celeste paid her well enough not to fight. The woman dragged her to a corner of the balcony farthest from Wynne, barely ten feet away. She pushed up the skirts of her black dress. Before the girl could sink obediently to her knees, the woman grabbed her hair and pulled her face down into her shaved pussy.
Wynne leaned back against the railing to watch them. The girl’s pretty pink tongue worked the woman’s pussy, darting over the full cunt lips and clit like a hummingbird until she could no longer hold back her moans. She guided the girl with rough pulls of her hair, grunting and gasping when her whore gave her what she paid for, making her come with a muffled shout and a thin spray of cum that caught the girl full in the face. The woman’s eyes met Wynne’s above the servant’s head and Wynne nodded once in acknowledgement. She didn’t stay to see what else the woman had in mind for the girl.
She went inside, beyond the French doors and into the belly of the house. The room’s brightness momentarily stunned her eyes. Black-clad women were not enough to subdue the gold tapestry and chaise lounges. Or the opulent banquet set in the middle of the room, surrounded by lightning bright silverware. Only the rooms beyond were darkly lit, staged scenes for numerous trysts or merely quiet time with the drug of choice. Celeste provided for everything.
Crystal chandeliers with their daggers of light illuminated the room that was too much like a scene from Poe’s Masque of the Red Death. Women. Every color, every shape, in masks and with bare faces; with stilettos strapped to their thighs and dressed as reluctant nuns with their habits ripped from their cool, but inviting bodies. Nothing was real. Except her.
The woman she’d come for slid easily through the crowd, touching those who unintentionally paused to block her way, before moving past them. The dim light revealed her to be a full-lipped specter of crippling sensuality. Delicious.
No one impeded Wynne’s progress across the room. Few acknowledged her presence, preferring instead to turn away, glad she was in search of someone else. If the woman chose to come home with her (would she give her a choice?), no one would question it. Wynne stopped when she was within whispering distance. But, as she stepped closer, people she assumed were friends suddenly surrounded her prey. They touched her without asking.
Wynne leaned against a column and admired the cobalt blue silk of her dress and the smooth length of bare back it revealed. Her skin wasn’t perfect. A network of scars ran from her left shoulder blade down to the small of her back; they were slightly lighter than the rest of her skin and could only be seen from a certain angle. They made her want the woman even more.
“Champagne, Madame?”
A soft, feminine voice whispered the invitation in Wynne’s ear as she felt the crush of firm breasts against her back. She turned. The girl looked little more than sixteen in her Catholic school uniform and pigtails, but her dark eyes spoke of an experience far beyond those years. As she held out the tray of amber wine, the wide bronze circlet on her arm gleamed in the light from the swaying chandelier. Her smile was intimate, but a hint of mischief tugged at the curving bottom lip.
“Not tonight, love.”
Wynne took a glass from the tray and discreetly tucked a fifty-dollar bill inside the ridiculously prim collar of her blouse. The girl’s look was knowing, but she accepted Wynne’s answer, shrugged, and moved on. Wynne noticed her giving someone else the same invitation, the press of breasts, that smile. The woman, handsome and gray-haired, kissed the girl on the mouth and led her, smiling, to her group of friends. The girl passed her tray to another servant before turning her full attention to her new admirers. They touched her breasts through the uniform, tugging at the hard nipples, sliding their hands under the short skirt. While they touched, the girl gave herself over to the first woman, draping her young body across the older woman, all while widening her legs to the seeking fingers of her companions. A woman retrieved her pussy soaked fingers and licked them, to the delight of her friends. They led the girl away to a more private room.
Once, Wynne would have found someone like that servant girl exciting, more appealing than getting involved with women outside the Society. But not anymore. She had already served her time inside the Bronze Circle. There was only one thing Wynne wanted from this party tonight, and she was looking right at her.
The crowd shifted and grew closer, almost cutting her off from the rest of the room. She spoke with someone with his back to Wynne, a beautiful man in something very tight and very yellow. Her lips—with their full, inviting curve and the animal sheen of teeth beyond—fascinated Wynne. She laughed, arching her neck, and Wynne could see the soft pink lining of her mouth. The intensity of Wynne’s gaze drew her eyes and, with a slow smile, Wynne told her of her desire. Wynne lifted the glass of champagne to her lips before putting it aside and walking to her.
“Hello, Jenna.”
Her name came easily to Wynne’s tongue. It didn’t seem to surprise her that Wynne knew it. She smiled and they touched, palm to palm and the light brush of cheeks.
“I thought you’d be here long before now.”
Smoky wet heat, that voice. And she knew Wynne had been watching.
“You were occupied,” Wynne said, laying the blame for their delayed meeting squarely at Jenna’s feet.
“And what if I still am?”
“Are you?” A look passed between them.
Wynne’s hand slid up her arm of its own volition, the fingers curling around firm biceps and pressing gently against the artery they found. The skin was so fragile. Jenna didn’t shake her off or cause a scene. Too well trained? No, she was playing with her. Jenna took her time looking her up and down, as if assessing the worth of the silver dress that hugged Wynne’s body, the diamond studs in her ears and the short, neat cut of her hair.
“Come home with me,” Wynne whispered as her hand tightened on Jenna’s arm. It was a command. Before Jenna answered, Wynne motioned to a passing servant girl, scribbled a message on her embossed note pad, and sent her to Celeste.
Jenna slid into Wynne’s car as if she’d been there before, immediately marking the upholstery with her heady, yet subtle, rose perfume. Wynne’s hand on the wheel trembled when the scent reached her. She started the car.
“Where do you live?” Jenna asked.
“Close by.”
She didn’t feel like talking, but she wanted to hear the sound of Jenna’s voice, to feel the woman’s breath against her ear. She turned her eyes from the road to glance at Jenna.
“Talk to me.”
Jenna smiled, revealing again the delicate pink of her mouth. When she spoke, it was in a low, confident voice, easing the tension of what would have otherwise been a silent ride.
“What should I talk about?” Jenna’s bare fingers moved over the armrest, stroking the supple black leather.
“Tell me about the Circle.”
Jenna looked at her a long time before she spoke, as if weighing the words already on her tongue to see how much she could trust Wynne. If she could.
“Celeste and I worked in the Circle together until a few years ago.” She slid off her shoes and curled up against the seat. “We were friends in high school, so after she heard I was having a bad time in the real world, Celeste offered me a job as one of her women. That lasted for about three years, maybe more. I didn’t find what I needed, so I left. She didn’t mind.”
None of this surprised Wynne. Jenna had the air of chameleon-like sophistication Celeste demanded of her highly paid “pleasure consultants.” She remembered a particularly cold evening in Bermuda a few years ago. The assignment had been an easy one and she’d completed it with time and energy to spare. Wynne called Celeste and, in less than an hour, a woman appeared at her door smelling of the ocean and Shalimar. All they did was talk but she seemed to know exactly what Wynne needed her to say. Her sister kept only the very best women in her employ.
Perhaps it was because of her scars that Celeste had let Jenna go. But they certainly wouldn’t spoil her appeal. Wynne knew quite a few women, as well as men, who would have paid well for her favor. Celeste was a woman who expected perfection in all things, especially women. That was yet another expectation they did not share. Wynne had had enough experience to know if something seemed perfect, then it was likely to be an illusion. A betrayal waiting to come to fruit.
“Did you enjoy it?” Wynne changed gears to push the car uphill, brushing her knee in the process. “The life, I mean.”
Jenna laughed, a low hungry sound that made a mockery of their conversation.
“I did, actually.”
She touched the loose curls at her temple and tilted her mouth in an ironic smile.
“The money, the women. Who wouldn’t? Celeste encouraged us all to be a family to each other so it wouldn’t seem like such a lonely life. At first it was like a dream come true. A paradise. But I didn’t know anyone or anything else. All my lovers were disposable and so was I, for the right price. Do you know what I was doing on my twenty-first birthday?” She looked past Wynne to the blur of trees and dark sky outside the car window.
“I was in Switzerland, on my knees in front of some woman whose name I didn’t even know. She gave me a five hundred dollar tip and a mouth full of bleached blonde hair, but she never said a word.”
A shudder tightened the muscles of her neck.
“I bet you didn’t want to know all that.” She laughed uneasily and shifted against the leather.
“Yes, I did.” Wynne put out a hand to still her movements. “Tell me, why did you come to the party tonight?”
Jenna shook her head and laughed again, this time with genuine humor. The diamond teardrop in her ear winked in the passing light.
“Normalcy gets boring after a while. I missed the girls and the extravagance. There’s nothing like the Society in the real world.”
“That’s a fortunate thing for some.” Wynne said. “Celeste’s is a dangerous place to get trapped in.”
Wynne pulled into the underground garage, brought the car to a halt, then slid out to open her door. Smiling slightly, she stood aside for Jenna to step past.
“The elevators are this way.”
Their heels tapped a single rhythm as they made their way across the deserted garage toward the elevator. Once inside, Jenna stood against one wall and she another. Her eyes drank their fill of Jenna, moved slowly over her hair and arching eyebrows to the high forehead, glowing with a layer of sweat. Jenna closed her eyes to put temporary distance between them, but the tiniest flicker of her lashes betrayed the effort. Fine brown skin plumped over well-made cheekbones, framing a nose too low for some, but perfect for her. The pulse beat steadily at her throat.
“Do you play in the Circle?” Jenna asked. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not paying for that pleasure tonight.”
“I see.”
Wynne watched her, looking for any trace of the duplicity Celeste had accused her of, but found none. She was very good.
The elevator stopped its ascent and sighed to a halt, opening into Wynne’s sitting room.
“Come.”
They walked in together, with her hand nestled in the small of Jenna’s back. Behind them, the elevator doors slid closed. The dull metallic sound of Wynne’s purse hitting the glass surface of the coffee table startled Jenna. She stepped away and moved across the carpeted floor.
“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked. Her bravado couldn’t hide the faint tremor in her voice. Here, in the dark seclusion of Wynne’s apartment, everything changed. The romance of the evening was over.
“This way.” The prepared room was at the north end of the hall, as far from the elevators as possible. Moonlight bled through pale curtains then ribboned across the wide expanse of burgundy carpet before coming to rest on the bed draped in white satin. The door closed with a soft click behind them.
With the darkness and moonlight enfolding them, she brought Jenna’s hand to her mouth and kissed her fingers, one by one, stroking the tip of each with her tongue and inhaling the slight scent of champagne and sweat they carried. With a graceful twist, Jenna turned her back to Wynne as she slid the dress from her shoulders.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked. Her skin shimmered under the light. “You like my scars?”
The dress slithered off her. She wore a complication of garter belt, stockings and very high heels. No panties. Like a veil falling, Wynne could see her slip back into the role of a courtesan, becoming what Jenna thought she wanted. Jenna settled back on the bed and slowly spread her legs until her nutmeg and cream pussy lay open and gorgeous. Waiting. Her eyes captured Wynne’s, held them, and drew them close.
“Do you want to fuck me?” She asked, sliding her hands over her belly and up to caress the slight weight of her breasts. “Do you want to bend me over? Tie me up?” Long fingers tugged at her nipples, squeezed them until they stood up like pebbles. “Do you want to put your pretty little fist up my pussy and tell me what a slut I am for it?” Still watching Wynne, she licked her fingers, wrapping her tongue around them until they were wet. She slowly stroked her shaved pussy, baring her pearly clit and inner lips. “Or do you have a big fat dick you’ve been saving just for me?” Her head fell back as she fucked herself, sliding the fingers in and out in an easy rhythm. A sigh slid past her glistening mouth. Dark eyelashes fluttered as she watched Wynne then finally fell closed, helpless to her pleasure.
“No.” Wynne touched her ankle. “We’re not going to play it like this.”
She seemed startled for a moment, then quickly recovered herself to lay back, quiescent under Wynne’s gently stroking hands. A light coating of sweat appeared on her flesh.
“Take off that little dress, baby,” Jenna said. “Come play with me.”
“Did you take money from Celeste?”
For the second time that night, Jenna lost her composure. Her head tilted to one side as she seemed to consider Wynne’s question. “Do you want some of it?”
Wynne laughed. “No.”
She had taken Celeste for over a half a million dollars. With another smile, Wynne shrugged out of the dress. Without hesitation, Jenna came to her. Her mouth was as soft as it looked. Softer. With the texture of wet silk Wynne knew would be echoed between her legs. They knelt in the bed together and she drew fingertips down Jenna’s back, pressing to the point of pain until Jenna gasped and Wynne released her mouth to feast on the fruit of her breasts and nipples like black grapes. She made passionate little noises, pressing her fingers into Wynne’s hair as Wynne gentled her with her mouth and fingers, stroking the breadth of her powder soft skin, the slightly raised scars on her back, the curves of her hips. She gasped again—such a pretty sound—and parted her thighs. Wet silk. Just as Wynne thought. Her pussy swallowed Wynne’s fingers and she groaned, opening herself more and rising to meet the fingers in smooth, languorous thrusts. Breath trembled in her throat.
