Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1)

by Jeanine Croft

  “You heard her,” he said at last. His gaze transfixed Emma, but his command was directed at Victoria. “Leave us.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Sleeping Dragon

  My Dear Mary,—Hic sunt dracones. Here there be dragons, Cousin.

  A sermon I once heard back in London about great dragons and dark angels has lately imposed a great weight upon my conscience. Would that I had better understood then what I now know I ought to have guarded against. All the novels I have read ought to have warned me about such wicked things… And now I fear I too shall be cast into eternal darkness.

  Emma.

  When Victoria slipped away, Emma alone stood illuminated beneath that frightening Hadean glare. Though there was ample room to enter past him, she remained rooted, her gaze deflected up at the glimmering firmament—to the seat of grace from which he’d fallen. A realm to which she might never be admitted.

  “What are you waiting for?” His voice was soft with menace.

  “For absolution,” said she, lowering her gaze from Heaven with a melancholic shrug. “Or for God to dispatch a thunderstone upon my head.”

  He considered her a moment before raising a sardonic brow. “Yet here you stand with impunity, my dark rose.” Then he too glanced briefly at Heaven. “It seems God has better things to do this night than smite you on my doorstones.”

  The cold had by now thoroughly saturated Emma’s damp skin. She gave an involuntary shiver and wrapped her arms tight about her chest.

  Her obvious discomfort instantly effaced what little calm Markus had been evincing thus far. His brow buckled beneath the substantial weight of choleric evident in his tone. “And why should He waste a thunderstone on you, hmm?” Markus ignored her shriek of fright as he snatched her up in his arms. “You are making fast work of dispatching yourself just fine without His intervention.” He then booted the door shut and marched her to his library and set her down by the hearth. The fire saluted her with hisses and sparks, its efforts so worthy that the heat it threw at her was such as to rival even Markus’s brimstone looks. It was with brusque energy that he began unfastening the buttons of her dress.

  Suspicion stiffened her limbs and she promptly slapped his hands away. “If you think for a moment that I would—”

  “Are you so determined to catch a cold and die just to spite me?” With an authoritative tug, the dress split down her back and swooned to the floor in a desultory heap. She was now only scantily covered in her clinging chemise and wet boots. Thankfully, the blade’s fall remained concealed beneath the slap of wet fabric.

  She could not have felt more exposed than if she was standing in nothing but the flesh God gave her, but Markus appeared not to notice or, rather, not to care a jot about her nakedness. His attention was far from romantic in nature.

  He pressed his palm to her brow. “You had better not do something so perverse as to contract an ague whilst I’m gone.” He then stalked directly from the room, threatening tea and a blanket on his return.

  As soon as his footsteps were heard no more, Emma fell into action. Flurried, she seized the dagger from her ruined dress and searched about for a new hiding place. She did not long indulge her surprise at finding a Horeb Blade in her hand, like the ones from the armory. But this one was short and edged with a menacing curve. The hilt was invested in weathered leather and the blade itself was forged in what looked like black glass. There was almost no heft to it at all except that which was enshrined by time.

  Where to hide it? She really could not say how long Markus’s domestic errand would occupy him, so it was best to act fast. She rushed towards his formidable armchair—the closest piece of furniture—all the while wary and listening for the door to open. She buried it deep between the upholstery and cushions.

  By the time Markus materialized at the door, she was lightheaded and clammy. He was accompanied by three of his wights, one of whom was the housekeeper. The sight of her thus wracked with tremors, if it could be believed, only further provoked Markus’s temper.

  He set the tea tray down with a clamor. With the blanket still over his arm, stalked towards her and cupped her cheek. His eyes tightened with suspicion. “You’re ill.”

  She stammered a negative and tried to move away from him.

  He held her firmly in place, turning her face this way and that, employing his keen nose and hands and searching gaze. His servants had by now deposited a tub by the fire and filled it with steaming water. Without tearing his eyes away from her, he said, “That will be all, Skinner.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Emma was soon alone with Markus again, and his silence was fraying her nerves. “It’s just a trifling cold.”

  His brow contracted with dubious furrows. At length, he released her and betook himself off to the wine cabinet. “It seems you require a palliative other than hot tea.” He moved to stand where the shadows chased back the firelight, his movements obscured. She heard the claret being poured, the silvery notes becoming deeper as the goblet was filled. He lingered beyond the firelight, an unnatural stillness pervaded as she tried to make him out. When he returned, it was with a gilded goblet brimming with dark wine—the same goblet he had denied her the night of the masquerade.

  Emma eyed the proffered goblet with suspicion and folded her arms.

  “Get in the tub,” he said, setting the goblet on the table beside his armchair.

  “I shall do so as soon as you quit the room.”

  “There is nothing beneath that chemise I haven’t already seen.”

  She could almost see the brimstone seething from his nostrils as he waited. The momentary impulse to defy him was swiftly quelled, for she had run out of steam, her head was throbbing, and she was beginning to feel nauseous; she was unable to summon a combative spirit. At any rate, she could see he was in a foul mood and not likely to bend to any commands she might issue. What did it really matter anyway? She was not so naïve as to think her chemise an effective shield against her nakedness—a fig leaf would have done a better job. The fire was, after all, quite illuminating.

  Without another word, Emma discarded the rest of her wet things and climbed into the hot water. Sighing, she surrendered herself to the heat, and to the strong fingers that began lathering soap over her back with careful strokes. Markus kneaded her shoulders until every last knot of tension snapped loose. She might have succumbed to sleep had he not lifted her out betimes and wrapped her in a thick blanket.

  Why was he so kind when all she wanted was for him to be cruel and hateful so that she could despise him? Raw tears dimmed her vision and she averted her head, for fear he’d see the love welling hot and rampant from the very naked depth of her soul. Behind the reprieve of closed eyes she felt his arms fold around her. Pressed to his chest, Emma was settled securely on his lap as he seated himself in his armchair by the fire. His fingers quested carefully through her tangled locks until the wet mass was lying splayed across the side of her back where the fire could better perform its duty. Her boots and stockings were left bestrewn by the fender to dry. The dress was ruined and therefore ignored.

  “I wish you would not touch me as you do,” said Emma, discomforted by the undragon-like care he was taking of her. “I wish you would not be so kind.”

  “Liar. I think you take great pleasure in my touch.”

  “Yes, that is the problem.” A headache was making its presence known, a cannon fire shattering her brainpan from within. “And for my pleasure I must wear the harlot’s scarlet shame.”

  “If you are determined to speak only nonsense then I wish you’d not speak at all.” His eyes pressed hard upon her, but, after a silence, he asked, “Have I ever treated you as such? If you are a harlot then where is the coin I paid you for my pleasure?”

  “You have bestowed gowns and jewels—a necklace, in fact!”

  “One gown worn only once and a necklace you saw fit to give away. In return you have surrendered that which is far dearer than coin—you have
shed blood for me. A harlot bares not the smallest part of her heart as you have done.” He held her gaze, becoming pensive. “What can be done to cease the inroads upon your conscience? What will you wear instead of your shame? A ring perhaps? Will my hand in marriage do?”

  “Do not tease me!” How cruel his humor was.

  His mouth flattened as he lifted and held his hand to her brow suddenly. “Your fever is worse.” He reached for the goblet and pushed the stem into her reluctant hand. “Drink it off at once; every drop.”

  “I’d rather have the tea.”

  “You shall have the tea after…” He nudged the goblet closer to her lips.

  “What is this?”

  “A panacea.”

  “What is it really?” She pressed her lips together.

  “Drink. It will cure your fever.”

  She glanced down into the goblet. The claret looked far thicker and darker than was natural. “Blood then.” He made no reply, which was answer enough. “Will I have more of those wretched blood memories?”

  “Perhaps. One of the side effects.”

  “What other side effects are there?”

  “Accelerated healing, for one. You might also find you’ve suddenly developed preternatural sight or hearing. It is usually very unpredictable and temporary.”

  “But if I drink your blood I shall be made immortal.”

  He shook his head and gestured to the goblet. “It does not work that way. You must drink directly from my vein, and your own blood must be envenomed by my kiss ere your heart beats its last. Those cursory drops of blood in the wine can do nothing permanent; leastwise not without my venom. Your mortal flesh is safe for now.”

  Emma sniffed tentatively at the claret. It was fragrant and wholly without the metallic taint of blood to sour its bouquet. But she dared not take a sip, though she knew he did not offer it lightly. Nevermore would she trust anyone’s truth except that of God himself.

  His face darkened as she set the goblet away, but he made no comment.

  “When you drank my blood, did you…?” She paused for a minute, flushing at the remembered intimacy the thought convoked. “What secrets did my blood impart?”

  “None. The blood memories are a consequence of immortality. We are made vulnerable by the act. Consequently, we take great care when sharing our lifeblood. It is done but rarely, if at all.” He glanced at the goblet with renewed irritation. “If I could know all you guard in the vaults of your mind,” he said, “I fear you would have no blood left to quench my curiosity.”

  She dropped her gaze, lest he saw in her gaze the secrets of her soul, and allowed him to tuck her head securely beneath his chin.

  “Keep your secrets if it gives you ease,” said he. “They are safe from me; safe for tonight at least. Now sleep.”

  She must indeed have fallen into a fitful sleep, her thoughts struck silent by the fever. The nightmare, however, had not been arrested. When she awoke again her skin was damp with fear. It was as though the Horeb Blade had whispered her awake, its call insistent, its presence a throbbing ache in her head. Though her lids had sprung apart, the rest of her body was as still as the grave. Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Kill Markus.

  What had the nightmare meant to reveal? It had felt too real to be merely a bad dream. Another blood memory, perhaps? Through a clouded lens, she had watched the lurid dream unfold through another’s eyes. The hands—her hands?—mixing and handling strange and pungent liquids from a vast array of vials and dirty beakers spread before her on an onyx floor. A seething adder had lain coiled in a basket near her ankle, the venom lately milked from its fangs. Beside the basket lay the warm and foaming remains of a servant girl, eyes sightless and milky. Such ghastly white eyes. Eyes of the unseeing dead.

  In fine, a scene of horror and despair had prevailed in the nightmare vision, the air fetid with that milky death. She’d stepped out of herself and watched from some distance as fat tears ran unchecked down the face of she that had poured the evil brew into a golden bowl. Even now, Emma felt those tears as though they’d been her own. The bowl was then lifted to blood red lips, lips trembling with silent sobs. Somehow, Emma had felt the woman steel herself against the agony to come. The murder of self.

  The sharp pain in Emma’s lungs was a swift reminder that she had lain all this time reliving the nightmare without drawing breath. The suspenseful realism of the vision had so affected her that she’d not, at first, remembered where she was, nor upon whose chest her head now rested. The scent of cold woodsmoke, leather, and of Markus’s crisp musk calmed her a little.

  She lifted her head with the leadenness of a rising fog. Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Her movements were painstaking, lest the sleeping dragon bestir. The nearer her fingers crept towards the hilt, the louder the shadows whispered their warnings, and the faster the torrents fell from her eyes.

  No! No! No! What was she doing? But her hands continued to reach without her consent, heedless of her horror. The furor of her heart seemed so deafening that she wondered at his stillness. She begged him silently to wake. Do not let me kill you! Why did he not wake up? Surely her movements must wake him?

  He is more powerful at night. Wait till dawn, then kill him.

  Terror-stricken, she felt the hilt settle coldly in her hand. All the while, Markus remained a dormant mountain beneath her, motionless, his lids sealed against the quickening dawn. Bile gathered hot and acrid in her mouth. Every nerve in her body revolted, and every new tear was a fierce invective. She was like a puppet to some alien hatred, powerless. She fought it so hard that for an instant her hand stilled, obeying for only a fleeting moment. In silence she struggled, but her muscles ached and trembled and her brain was pounding against her skull. Little by little she felt the strings—nay, iron fetters—compelling her hand into lethal readiness. How she despised that hand that raised the blade over his ribs. In horror, she watched his chest rise and fall. The black tip of the blade was poised to strike. Her mouth filled with bile.

  The heart is the seat of power—lay his chest open and pierce the heart.

  No! No! No! She shook her head violently. The hush in the library was absolute, but inside her heart a battle waged. To her everlasting horror, she was losing.

  Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Kill Markus.

  For one last time her hand paused and trembled against her will. In that dying moment of silent hesitation, the dragon opened his eyes.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Memento Mori

  Markus beheld her with a fixed and terrible stare overspread in complete, obliterating darkness. It was such as could freeze hell itself; it froze Emma’s hand as not even her own will had had the power to do.

  The quiet of the library was so absolute and dreadful that it disturbed nature herself. The want of birdsong outside was as discordant as the shriek of fright that withered in Emma’s chest and palsied every nerve. The only movement of life was the cold trickle of a tear down her cheek.

  “Do you weep for me,” he asked at last, “or for yourself?” The sound of his voice, detached and cold-blooded, instantly shattered the prodigious silence that had held her in catalepsy.

  Though she could breathe again, she could not tear away her gaping eyes, for they were still ensnared by his. Her horror was multiform, the greatest of which was for herself and the guilty hand interposed between them. Why had he not struck her yet or seized hold of the weapon? And why could she do naught but gawp stupidly at him?

  “It behooves you to act with great dispatch if you wish to kill an immortal,” he said. Notwithstanding his dilating nostrils, he made no move nor undertook to extricate himself from the reach of her weapon. “Make a choice, Emma, or I will make it for you.” The latter was said in deadly tones.

  It was warning enough to spark her limbs into frenzy. Emma scrambled backwards, sick with fright and disgust, her movements careless. The abrupt entanglement of the blanket around her legs foiled her escape, coiling about her like a snake. The unexpected
cumber tore her screams from their bridles as she fell, flailing hopelessly. The ground came fast to meet her.

  “Emma!” He flipped her onto her back and, straddling her, snatched the blade from her fingers. A look of surprise and fury mottled his brow as his gaze settled over her naked chest.

  She shut her eyes against that hellish stare, her mouth agape in silent screams, the pain in her heart omnipotent. Whatever he said thereafter was suffocated by the peel of thunder in her ears as the blood pummeled her drums and her vision flooded with red.

  With his eyes still swathed in blackness, his great black wings rampant overhead like some diabolical halo, he bared his fangs. His head descended swiftly, his face contorted exactly as it had done in the blood memory—a cruel phantasmagoria she was reliving. The blow of fangs against flesh and bone was so stunning that her vision splintered. The shock of impalement was piercing and instant! It choked the breath from her so that she could neither breathe nor scream.

  Was she, like Cleopatra before her, to die beneath this angel of death—her dark lover from whose sanguinary kisses she would nevermore awaken? Were the wolfish sounds of his kisses to be the last sounds to ever touch her ears? Who would save Milli after she was dead?

  The violent cessation of his gorging, however, wrenched her back from the gathering darkness. That snake-like whispering that had become a constant intrusion in her head was finally silent. The red receded from her eyes and her vision became as crystal clear as it had been yesterday. Her hands too were now hers to command. Coughing, she rolled to her side, benumbed with shock. Markus doubled over as though in pain.

  The last thing on earth she expected was to see him turn and purge all the lifeblood he had siphoned from her heart! The carpet was soaked in blood. The next instant his fangs were brutally employed in opening the veins in his wrist. His breathing was belabored as he shoved his bleeding flesh against her mouth. “Drink!”