Hidden Huntress

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Closing my eyes, I let our time together pan across my eyes, right from the moment we’d met. Even though I’d been terrified and in pain, I’d thought he was handsome. Except that wasn’t even a strong enough word: he was beautiful in a way that was almost painful. Flawless in a way that seemed surreal, like a figment of imagination. So perfect, it was off-putting, because while it was something that could be worshipped, it wasn’t something that could be touched or loved. He’d been snide, nasty, and wicked, and I’d loathed him. Except even then I’d sensed something wasn’t right, that there was a mismatch between what I was seeing and hearing and what I felt. It was this mismatch that made him captivating, and even as I was grasping for ways to escape, the need to know more about him had lurked in my heart.

  That need had only been compounded when we’d been bonded; the veneer of his exterior cracked to reveal a young man so different from the one he pretended to be. A Tristan whom I was uniquely privileged to know. He became a puzzle I needed to solve – the key, I’d thought, to my freedom.

  Except solving him hadn’t relinquished his hold on me. I remembered the moment in the empty palace stables where the truth had come out, when I’d finally seen the emotions filling my head written across his face, and the veneer had fallen away entirely. It was then I stopped seeing the troll and began to see him. He became my friend, my ally – and the leader of something I could believe in.

  I’d admired him, and yes, lusted after him, but then I’d fallen. Fallen for a man who felt too much and took on too much, who believed if only he worked tirelessly and ceaselessly enough, that he could improve the lives of an entire race of people. And I’d had that depth of passion turned on me – seen it in his eyes, felt it in my heart. He loved me, and I loved him. And I’d love him as long as I lived, and if my soul endured, I’d love him for eternity.

  “I forgive you,” I whispered, closing the distance between us and falling to my knees at his back, and I saw then that the damage on the outside matched that within. I didn’t know why seeing it made my heart hurt as badly as it did, because I’d witnessed the torture inflicted upon him. I suppose part of me was so confident in his strength that I’d believed nothing could mark him permanently. How wrong I’d been.

  Silver ribbons of scars from the iron-tipped lash snaked across his back from the base of his neck down to the waistband of his trousers. Puncture marks from sets of manacles had left behind coin-sized scars below both shoulders and above both elbows, and his wrists… There was black fabric wrapped around both to hide the skin between cuff and glove, but he was wearing neither. The injuries had healed, but not without leaving their mark, veins still black and skin a dull grey. A permanent reminder that he was not invincible.

  With one fingertip, I traced one of the scars on his back, but he cringed away from my touch. “I don’t know how you can stand to look at me.”

  “How could you say that?” I whispered.

  “Because I’m not like I was.” He drooped forward, hair falling into his eyes. “Not anything you should have to look upon.”

  “Is that what you think? That scars change the way I feel about you?” I asked, rising to my feet. My fingers trembled as I reached behind my back, unfastening the buttons that reached from below my shoulder blades to my waist. Letting my gown fall to the ground, I kicked it aside. Then, taking a deep breath, I pushed the straps of my shift off my shoulders, the silk sliding down to catch on my hips and leaving me bare to the waist.

  The half of me facing the fire burned hot while the other half prickled with goose bumps, and my bravery wavered. He’d never seen me like this before, and my arms trembled, uncertain of whether to hang at my sides or fold across my chest. I stared straight ahead, too nervous to look down and see how he would react. But not seeing didn’t stop me from sensing the moment he turned his head, or hearing the soft intake of his breath. Or from feeling…

  “You know I didn’t mean you.”

  My chin jerked up and down once. “I know.”

  “It’s different. You’re… I’m…” He stumbled over the words as though his ability to use them had abandoned him.

  “It’s never going to go away,” I said, my knees shaking so hard they knocked together as I visualized the livid red scar running down the side of my ribcage. “For the rest of my life, it’s going to be there, so if you cannot bear to look at…”

  The heat of his lips pressing against the flaw marring my skin turned my thought into a gasp. I swayed on my feet, but his arms wrapped around my hips, holding me steady. “Don’t say it.” His voice was muffled. “Do not ever even think it.”

  Letting my fingers tangle in his snow-damp hair, I finally looked down. Tristan sat on his heels at my feet, face pressed against my side, arms gripping me so tightly it almost hurt. He was half-holding me up, and yet I felt as though he were clinging to me like I was a rock in a storm.

  “Part of me would erase it, wipe it away if I could,” he said. “Because seeing it makes me remember when I thought I was going to lose you. Reminds me of all the hurt that has come to you because of us. Because of me.” Letting go with one arm, he traced the scar from top to bottom with one finger, and I shivered, feeling it in places I should not.

  He tilted his face up, his eyes no longer dulled to grey by magic and once again the strange silver pools I never ceased to lose myself in. “But part of me is glad that it will always be there for me to see,” he continued, “because it is a sign of how much you can endure and survive. And it makes me less afraid.”

  His hand caught at the silk hanging on my hips, and I waited for him to pull it up. For him to cover up my skin, and for both of us to back away from a moment that we both wanted and yet always retreated away from. Because it was not wise. Because it could cause complications. Because, because, because.

  But instead, his hand drifted lower, fingertips scoring a line of fire against my bottom, the back of my thigh, and the curve of my calf. And before I could breathe, the warm silk of my shift pooled around my ankles. He let his hand drop to his side, and I watched his eyes take me in.

  I let my knees buckle, not because they were weak, but because it was what I wanted. Tristan caught me, pulling me against him, and when he kissed me, he tasted like spilled wine and melted snow, and I drank it in like one who has walked desert sands for days. I buried one hand in his hair, kissing him back hard enough that my lips felt bruised while my other hand skimmed the hard muscles of his back, my nails digging into his skin and teeth catching at his bottom lip.

  Then my back was against the floor, the plush weave of the rug rough between my shoulder blades and Tristan’s breath hot against my throat. He caught my hands in his, our fingers interlocking, and the fabric wrapped around his wrists all that was left between us.

  “Cécile.” He lifted his head up so that we were eye to eye, his fingers squeezing mine tight.

  “Yes?” His voice was serious, and concern made my heart beat a little faster.

  He let go of one of my hands and pushed back the tendrils of hair crossing my face. “I know we shouldn’t do this,” he said, eyes flicking away from mine, then back again. “There are risks and consequences, and logic, reason, and… and good sense say that I should stop now.” He bit at his lower lip, and I held my breath. “But I don’t want to. We’ve almost lost each other too many times, and I don’t want to regret not giving you everything when I had the chance.”

  The flames burned high next to us, the heat leaving half of me hot and half of me chill, but all of me was on fire. The choice was mine, and for once, it was easy to make. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled myself up until my lips brushed against his ear. Then I whispered one word.

  “Yes.”

  Forty-Three

  Cécile

  Tristan lay on the sofa with his head on my lap, one leg bent at the knee and the other heel resting on the arm of the sofa – with the disregard of someone who has never had to scrub upholstery in his life. His silver eyes gleame
d like coins, distant and unblinking, his mind a twist of dread and frustration as it raced through scenario after scenario. As we waited to see what or who would come.

  Both of us were fully clothed, and had been since I’d woken in the dark hours of the night, silken sheets twisted around my legs and my skin cold from Tristan’s absence. My eyes had found him standing at the window, one hand pressed against the glass as he gazed out at the night sky. “My father has sent me a letter every night since I left Trollus,” he’d said, sensing I was awake.

  “What do they say?” My throat parched and voice hoarse. My head throbbed, though I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it.

  “Nothing. Everything.” He dropped his hand from the glass. “They are reminders that he knows all of what I do.”

  Reminders that he was in control, I thought, wrapping a blanket around my bare shoulders.

  “There was no letter tonight.”

  “Perhaps it is at the front desk and they are waiting until morning to deliver it.”

  He shook his head. “Chris has already been down to check.”

  I bit the inside of my cheeks, realizing that while I’d slept he’d come and gone, without my even noticing.

  “Something has happened in Trollus,” he said, his voice sharp with trepidation. “Angoulême wouldn’t have made a move like the one he did tonight if he was not confident that my father could not retaliate.”

  I hesitated. “Do you think he’s dead?” And as I had said the words I’d realized I was afraid he’d say yes. That the troll I’d wished dead more times than I could count was now the lesser evil – the only man who stood between Trollus and the blackness of Angoulême and Roland from within, and the relentless hate of Lord Aiden without.

  “You tell me.”

  I realized I was on my feet and pulling on my dress, though I had no memory of getting out of bed. My skin burned with tension and my head ached with the single-minded purpose of an addict. And I knew what had pulled me from sleep. “He’s alive,” I whispered, my fingers pausing on my buttons. “But he is very desperate.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  I lifted my head. Tristan had turned from the window to face me, eyes filled with a helplessness I’d never seen before. This young man who was undeniably brilliant. Who’d been raised on plots and strategies and schemes; who’d faced down the most dire of predicaments without faltering, was looking to me for an answer.

  I ran my tongue over my lips, but it was very nearly as dry as they were. “That necklace matters to Anushka. We need to get it back.”

  * * *

  That had been hours ago. We’d dispatched Chris with a pocketful of gold to track down the stockman and buy back the necklace. We’d tasked Sabine with discovering what she could about the fallout from Esmeralda’s death; most importantly, whether Aiden or my brother had pointed a finger at Tristan. Neither had yet returned, and after discussing every possible contingency, we’d both drifted into our own thoughts.

  Tristan sighed and shifted, and I felt his fingers interlock with mine. Glancing down, I saw he’d pressed his face against my stomach, his eyes closed and lashes black against his fair skin. My heart softened, warmth chasing away the tension and ceaseless pressure of the King’s compulsion. I smoothed the disarray of his hair and traced a finger along the curve of his ear, my thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone.

  He relaxed, and a smile curved my lips as I thought of this hard-won gift of his trust. That he’d finally stopped trying to hide his fears and weaknesses, and was willingly turning to me for comfort was worth more to me than all the gold in Trollus.

  “I love you,” I mouthed silently, and his fingers tightened around mine as though he had heard. It made me think of last night. The way it had felt. The intensity of the moment. But then an unwanted thought intruded. “Anushka was Alexis’ mistress,” I said, half to myself. “Do you know for how long?”

  “Two years. Possibly three. It’s not something he would have cared to have documented. Nor would his wife.”

  I frowned. “What was her name?”

  “Lamia.” Tristan cleared his throat. “Other than my great-grandmother who ruled Trollus for almost forty years, Lamia is said to have been the most powerful queen in our history.”

  “Did not help her much,” I muttered.

  He hesitated before answering. “She may not have cared. Their match would have been arranged by the crown for the purpose of breeding power into the line, and she would have been raised to be… pragmatic.”

  I considered his words, and they sounded hollow. Even if the troll queen had not cared a whit for her husband, she was still bonded to him. Anushka knew how to mute the connection, but it would have required her slipping the other woman a potion every time she was with Alexis. More likely, the Queen had known about the affair and had lived with those feelings in her head over and over again. It would have been maddening.

  “Did she survive his murder?”

  “Yes. But when it became clear there was no escape from Anushka’s curse, she went mad. Her son had to…” He broke off. “He had no choice. Power and madness are a poor mix.”

  I met his eye, and neither of us needed to say anything to know he referred to his own brother as much as the long-dead queen.

  A knock sounded at the door. “It’s me,” Sabine’s muffled voice called through. “Let me in.”

  Once inside, she pulled back her hood, snow falling to dust the floor. “I swear this is the coldest winter I’ve ever known,” she muttered, pulling off her cloak and draping it over a chair. “Build up the fire, would you?”

  The fireplace burst bright with pale troll-fire as Tristan followed Sabine into the sitting room, his expression intent. “Well?”

  “There’s nothing,” she said, sitting on the chair across from me. “No talk of a murder, much less one where the individual died in an … unusual fashion. Not even a whisper.” Pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the table, she took a mouthful and grimaced and held out the cup to Tristan. “It’s cold.”

  He shot her a black look, but a second later, the cup was steaming.

  “I went to the opera house to see if by some chance no one had found the body, but it was gone. There was still some blood under the snow, but it looked like someone had put in a bit of effort to make it appear as though nothing had happened, albeit a sloppy one.”

  Tristan sat down heavily next to me. “Your father’s doing?” I asked.

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “If it was his doing, it wouldn’t have been sloppy.”

  “Then who?”

  “I’ve no notion.”

  Sabine leaned back in her chair. “I stopped by your mother’s home. She hasn’t returned yet, but she sent word that she’ll be back in Trianon tomorrow morning. Apparently Julian’s gone to join her.”

  I grimaced. “It makes me nervous having her running around the countryside, given the danger we know she’s in.”

  The door abruptly flung open, and Chris flew in. “I found him!”

  “The necklace? Did he have it?” Tristan demanded.

  “No, but…”

  Tristan swore and stormed over to the window to rest his forehead against the cool glass.

  “But,” Chris continued. “You won’t believe who he sold it to. He said a woman came at dawn with a purse full of gold asking about it. Said it was of sentimental value and that the girl who sold it was a fool.”

  I winced, because that much was true. “Did he recognize her? Did he describe her?”

  “He said she was wearing a hood that obscured most of her face.”

  The temperature of the room burned hot, and Sabine sat up straight in her chair, eying Tristan with unease.

  “I should have gone myself,” he growled at the window. “I might have caught her and all this would be done.”

  “Tristan, I missed her by a good hour,” Chris said. “It would have made no difference if you’d gone. But listen to this: the
stockman said she arrived and left in a carriage marked in the Regent’s colors.”

  I sat up straight and Tristan swung around to face us.

  “There’s more,” Chris said. “The man at the front desk gave me this when I came back in.” Walking swiftly around the chairs, he went to Tristan and handed him an envelope. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

  Tristan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the card. “It’s an invitation to Lady Marie du Chastelier’s Longest Night ball.”

  I blinked. “That’s where my masque is to be performed. It’s the most exclusive event of the year,” I added, getting to my feet. “The invitations to this went out weeks ago, and only the upper crust of Trianon nobility will be there. Not bourgeoisie boys riding high on their fathers’ wealth.”

  “It’s not addressed to a bourgeoisie boy riding high on his father’s wealth,” Tristan said quietly, handing me the invitation.

  My heart accelerated as I took in the words, His Royal Highness, Prince Tristan de Montigny is cordially invited to… “It’s a trap.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Tristan replied. “And she’s confident enough that she’s not even trying to hide it.”

  “Why take so much risk?” Sabine asked. “There will be countless people there to witness what she does. People who will remember her face and who she was. There are better places to kill you.”

  “Agreed,” Tristan said. “But both Cécile and Genevieve will be there, and I cannot help but think that means something.”

  Longest Night… I exhaled a ragged breath. “It’s the solstice.”

  Chris, who had learned more about magic in the previous months than he probably ever wanted, nodded. “Witches can draw on more power during moments of transitions like the solstices and…” He broke off, turning toward the window and then back to me. “The full moon. Cécile, tomorrow night is a full moon.”

  “How often do they occur together?” Sabine asked.