Wicked as She Wants Read Online Free PDF

black-scaled fingers curled around the cool glass on instinct, and I was already thinking of how good it would taste going down. I’d never drunk more than two vials in a day, but I felt that I would never be full again.
    “Drink it,” he said, his voice dull and deadly. “I have errands to run. If you still want to strike this ridiculous bargain, you’ll stay here, in this room, and sleep. You’re going to need strength and stamina for this to work. I’ll be here when you wake up, and I’ll be ready to leave.”
    “So you’ll help me, then? You’ll take me back to Freesia?”
    The naive hope rose in my voice. Maybe that was what finally tipped his scales.
    “Anything is better than this.” He nodded once and stormed out of the room.
    I was swallowing the blood before his bare feet slapped down the stairs.
    I had guessed right—he was a fool. And I knew exactly what to do with fools.

5
    I couldn’t sleep. There was too much to contemplate—and I didn’t want to give Casper the satisfaction of my obedience. The longer I lay there, staring at the low ceiling, the more I thought of what I had lost. My parents had not been warm and loving—how could they, predators and royal to boot? And my sister, Olgha, had been even worse. But they had been my family, my anchor, the structure around which my life had been planned. And now that plan was gone, and I was alone and distraught.
    All that, and the stupid cat kept making an entirely inappropriate rumbling noise from underneath the bed. So I gave up on sleep and did something I had never done before.
    I snooped. I tossed drawers, rifled through pockets, hunted for loose floorboards, and even turned over the mattress, much to Tommy Pain’s chagrin. And I wasn’t sneaky about it, either. If Casper wasn’t going to play nice, neither was I.
    The infuriating man appeared to own very little. His clothes, a hidden bottle of wine sealed with wax, and a small notebook with bizarre poetry in nearly illegible handwriting. Angry slashes marred almost every page.The first page said “Leaves of Grass,” which seemed beyond ridiculous. Blades of grass, maybe. But leaves? I flipped through the book, trying to understand what appeared to be a very angry and scattered mind.
    One phrase stood stark on a page, each word written in block letters with a heavy pen.
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Fuck you, Walt Whitman.
    What a singularly bizarre man. With his things arrayed before me, I was no closer to mastering the servant I would pretend to befriend for the sake of my country. And I was running out of time. Improper and awkward as it was, I flopped onto the dusty floor and stuck my arm as far under the unkempt bed as I could. My hand grazed something small tucked against the wall, and I withdrew from the shadows with the object in my hand and a scratch from Tommy Pain for my trouble.
    It was a little box of polished wood with a simple hinge and clasp. I flicked it open. Inside I found a single copper coin and a deep red feather.
    “Trying to kill the Maestro wasn’t good enough. Now you’re stealing from him, too?” someone said from the door.
    I slammed the box shut and threw it back under the bed, where it hit the mad cat with a hearty thwack . He shot out of the darkness and curled up in the corner to lick his nethers in an extremely improper fashion. I coughed politely.
    Even if my height was never going to make me imposing,I still stood before I faced my accuser. And for once, I was taller than someone. Through the successive layers of grimy and stained clothing and the leather aviator’s hat and goggles, I couldn’t tell what it was. A girl, a boy, a child, a youth. Only one thing I could tell from across the small room: it was human.
    And I was going to drain it.
    “I lost a hairpin under the bed,” I said crisply. “It’s not my fault if he chooses to keep his sundries among the dustlemmings.”
    I glided