Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  “Good.” With quick and practiced fingers, he unlaces my gown. When he slips it off my shoulders, he presses his lips to my collarbone, kissing a trail down to the swell of my breast. I wonder how he would best like me to act. He is moving so fast, there is not time to anticipate his needs or wants. As he tugs off my sleeves and bodice, exposing my breasts, I realize that I don’t need to react so much as simply be here. He is taking pleasure from doing things to me rather than with me.

  He unties the laces at my waist and I step out of my skirts as they pool to the floor. The king steps back to gaze upon my nakedness, as pleased as a child with a new toy. “You are beautiful.” His voice is husky and reverent.

  I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a word out, he backs me up to the bed and gently pushes me onto it, my entire body exposed to his gaze.

  He puts his hands on my knees and starts to coax them apart. I place a palm on his chest. “Will you not take off your clothes, as well, Your Majesty?”

  “See the effect you have on me?” he whispers. “I forget even the most basic of niceties.” As he struggles to remove his doublet, I arch my back, but in such a way that he will not be aware that I have done so, making my breasts more prominent. He casts his clothing aside with a grunt of frustration. Then he is upon me, his hands going immediately to my hips to position them. Then he thrusts.

  There is no art or finesse to it. He barely even looks at me.

  It is a pity, because there are so many things I could do to make this more enjoyable for both of us. Instead, he simply expects me to lie beneath him like a rug while he spends himself. For all that he claims it was me he wanted—​I could have been anyone.

  Fortunately, it does not take long. There is a final flurry of thrusts, a shout, followed by a grimace. Then he collapses on top of me, his body damp with sweat.

   Chapter 93

  Sybella

  am waiting for them when they come.

  For a brief moment, I consider enlisting Genevieve’s assistance, but I have not come face-to-face with her nor even had a chance to give her the crow feather yet.

  Besides, this is not the convent’s business, but mine.

  As I wait in the dark, I marvel that I have no qualms about killing these men. I do not know if Father Effram’s words soothed something inside me or if I simply no longer care as long as it keeps them from pursuing my sisters.

  Or it could be the nature of the men themselves. While they would call themselves soldiers, their crimes are not those of soldiers or mere acts of war. The Marquis, when d’Albret occupied Nantes, accepted the city nobles’ hospitality as one of their own. When they would not swear allegiance to d’Albret, he gutted them at their own table.

  Le Poisson will be the easiest to kill, for his list is the longest and the pleasure he takes in his deeds is unnatural. It is not born of passion, but of a cold, detached curiosity. He was responsible for a large number of the deaths when d’Albret took Nantes as well, but his were conducted more slyly, in darkened city streets or tavern corners, or as he crept among the duchess’s loyal retainers who refused to swear allegiance to her enemy.

  Maldon has always perplexed me. While he has committed many atrocious acts, he atones for them every time, lashing his own back so often that it is rumored to be naught but a huge welt of scars. And there are boundaries he will not cross. Like the time the wives of the Nantes burghers took sanctuary in the cathedral and he refused to enter the church and drag them to their deaths. Others did, but he would not. And for whatever reason, d’Albret never punished him for such disobedience. Odd that I’ve never wondered about that before.

  In that way, Father Effram was wrong. I do relish serving justice to those who would escape it otherwise, for that is exactly who these men are. They commit the sorts of crimes that would go unpunished. Whose victims are not remembered or allowed justice. I was too late to protect those innocents, but I will at least see that they receive justice. To not do so only serves the wicked and allows them to grow stronger.

  Although in truth their biggest crime will be showing up in this room tonight.

  The Mouse is the first one in, coming through the window. I have studied that wall for hours, trying to determine how he was able to climb it.

  I could not.

  There is a snick, followed by the faint creak of iron as his knife pries up the latch. It swings open, and, quiet as a shadow, the Mouse slips in, closing it behind him.

  Even though I have a knife aimed straight at his heart, I do not throw it. Not yet.

  He leaves the window, glancing briefly at the canopied bed as he crosses the room. I resist the urge to pull farther back against its curtains. They are drawn, but not completely shut, allowing me to see into the room. Moving only risks giving away my position.

  The Mouse opens the chamber door, leaving it ajar, then returns to the window. He props himself on the casement and waits, glancing every so often toward the bed.

  Does he not plan to take part in this himself, but is only here to grant the others access?

  I do not know if that earns him a stay of execution or not. To my knowledge, he has never killed anyone. If so, it was not something he boasted of or even, I think, took pleasure in. It was likely either in self-defense or to prove his loyalty to d’Albret. I also know this is not the life he chose, but instead had it thrust upon him, and having no choices is not unlike being a victim.

  I consider him carefully, trying to determine my best shot. His tunic is loose around the shoulders where he has pulled his hood down. As long as he doesn’t move . . . With a hard flick of my wrist, I throw my knife. It whips through the air, catching the bulge of fabric on his left shoulder before sinking into the wooden frame of the window behind him.

  He gapes in shock, but before he can call a warning to the others, I speak, keeping my voice pitched low. “If you remain quiet, you may yet live. I don’t know you for a killer or a snatcher of children. As of now, all you are is a thief in the night. A way to gain entrance to places that are locked. If that is truly all you are, you may leave this room with your life. But if you so much as squeak and give me away, you will die with a knife in your throat before the words have passed your lips. Nod if you understand me.”

  His head bobs up and down as he squints at the bed, trying to locate the source of the voice. “Excellent. Now be quiet and try to look as if everything is normal.”

  I am not sure why I take such a risk. If my sisters were here, I wouldn’t. But I still fear stepping too far off the path that Mortain once set for me, and to kill a mere thief, no matter whom he works for, feels like abandoning that path.

  The door creaks faintly, and the Marquis comes into the room. He glances briefly at the Mouse, who jerks his head toward the bed. The Marquis gives a brusque nod in return and pulls a length of cord from his belt. He taps it lightly against his thigh as he approaches.

  I return my second knife to its sheath and grab my own rope. A garrote is more infallible—​the thin wire cutting hard and deep, making it nearly impossible to fight back. But it is messier as well, and the less evidence I leave under the king’s nose, the better.

  The Marquis steps through the drawn curtains and stops at the side of the bed, staring down at the bolsters I have placed under the covers to mimic two sleeping girls. His expression is unreadable. Does he feel any remorse? Any reluctance?

  He grasps the cord with both hands, pulling it taut. I frown. Surely his orders were to tie them up, not strangle them?

  I step from the hidden corner of the bed canopy, a whisper of movement he barely registers until I have slipped my rope around his neck.

  His body erupts, dropping his weapon and reaching over his head to grab me. But I have the advantage of surprise and position, and use my body weight to pin him against the bed. He scrabbles at my hands. Thankfully, his leather gloves keep him from doing too much damage. But he is strong, and I have no time to waste.

  “Such a nobleman,” I whisper in hi
s ear. “Praying upon two young girls for a few gold coins and the favor of a man who has no soul.”

  Just as I’d hoped, he tries to turn around to see who is speaking, which gives me the leverage I have been looking for. I shift my grip, bring my arms up around his head, and give a sharp twist.

  His death is nearly instantaneous, and it feels as if his soul is ripped from his body. It surges upward with a howl of fury that he has been bested. Bested by a woman who has wrung his neck like a farmwife with a chicken. It is a weak, thin gruel of a soul, with anger and resentment the only pleasure it took in life. If I did not know all the vile deeds he had committed, I would almost feel pity for him. But this soul is beyond even that. Besides, another man is coming through the door. I shove the Marquis from my mind and turn to meet Yann le Poisson.

  His pale skin is stark in the moonlight. He glances at the Mouse, who shrugs in silence. A faint cold smile plays upon Yann’s lips. The knife he carries is long and sharp. But when he sees the Marquis kneeling against the bed, he frowns. I pull a thick stave from my belt and do not move again until he steps through the bed curtains.

  My stave is there to greet him—​catching him full in the throat. There is a crunching sound as his windpipe shatters.

  He drops his knife, hands flying to his neck, grasping and clawing, as if there is something he can do to make his breath whole again. Falling to his knees, he gasps like the fish he is named after, his face already turning blue.

  There is little time to enjoy that victory, for Maldon the Pious, no doubt wondering at the delay, pokes his head into the room. He does not see me, but sees the two men sprawled upon the bed. He swears in disgust.

  “These are our lord’s own sisters.” His hoarse whisper is thick with revulsion, and for that, I hate him a little less. As he draws near the bed, he reaches out a hand for each man, intending to pull them back. Ultimately, it is his decency that is his undoing. I have ample time to slip up behind him, loop my rope around his neck, and jam my knee into his back, eliminating his balance. He is not tall, but he is thick with muscle, and I must work to maintain my hold. After a few moments’ struggle, he grows still, drops to his knees, and raises his chin. Startled, I loosen my grip enough that he is able to speak.

  “Do not make it quick,” he gasps hoarsely. His tunic gapes slightly, revealing the faint traces of thick white scars at the base of his neck.

  “If you wish a more painful penance, I will not deny you.” With my hands still pulling on the rope, I stretch two fingers out to twist the black stone on my ring, uncovering its single sharp point. When I jab him with it, his eyes widen. “Poison?”

  “Not just any poison, but heretic’s lament. It will spread through your limbs like a holy fire.”

  His face relaxes into a smile that, while not unexpected, is unsettling nonetheless.

  “Down!” From the corner, Lazare’s voice cracks across the room like a whip.

  I let go of Maldon and drop to the floor, feeling the air above me stir as something passes over my left shoulder. I roll to the side, then rise to a crouching position just in time to hear a dull thunk. I wait for a beat, maybe two, but no more weapons appear, so I cautiously rise to my feet.

  Lazare stands near the window, staring down at the Mouse, crumpled at his feet.

  I step around Maldon, whose body is stretched out in agony, his lips twisted in a grimace of pain, and kneel next to the Mouse. “I had planned to let him live.”

  “I would not have interfered with that plan if he hadn’t tried to skewer you with your own knife. I don’t want to have to answer to Beast for that.”

  I look down into the Mouse’s face. I had wanted to spare him. To give him another chance at life—​a life away from the influences of my family.

  When his heart finally stops beating, his soul slowly rises from his body, timid and uncertain. That is when I realize he feared retribution if he took the chance I offered him. “You are safe now,” I whisper, catching his attention. “You have gone where they can no longer reach you.”

  His presence . . . expands is the only word I can call it, growing lighter, more buoyant, and he floats up to the far corner of the room.

  When he is gone, I turn to find Lazare’s shrewd eyes filled with something akin to wonderment. I scowl at him. “What?”

  He shakes his head slightly. “That’s some gift your god has given you.”

  I snort. “I am not sure it is a gift to be able to see so deeply into men’s hearts. Most of them are dark and grim beyond bearing.”

  “I’ll not argue with that,” the charbonnerie mutters.

  Just then, Maldon finally succumbs to the poison. His soul bursts from his body as if being released from bondage, and the room is filled with a sense of remorse and self-loathing so thick that I am sure I could grasp it in my hand.

  “What is that?” Lazare whispers.

  “You can feel it?”

  He nods, then almost shudders. “It’s uncanny.”

  “It’s Maldon,” I say quietly. “Even as he was compelled to horrible deeds, he repented of them, but it was not enough, and his soul knows it.”

  Instead of approaching, as most souls do, Maldon’s hovers just above his own corpse, as if milking every last drop of penance that he can. At that moment, death claims Yann as well, and his soul slips silently from his body, regarding me flatly, coldly. The sensations that pulse over me are not of remorse or regret, or even sadness at his own death, but more of a never-ending hunger that it will no longer be able to fill. It is as unsettling as anything I have ever encountered, and I am glad when it decides to ignore me and slowly drift away. I wonder if it will linger long and come to haunt the castle? I will have to take precautions that it does not.

  As I stand there, my heart beats quickly, not with effort but with . . . exhilaration. They are gone. They will no longer be able to harm those I love. Justice has been served. Given the choice between protecting the innocent without Mortain’s grace or risking eternal damnation, I will protect others every time. My own true nature has nothing gentle or restrained about it. I am darkness made flesh, but it is the darkness of mystery, the endless night sky, and the deep caverns of the earth. It is the darkness that can love a man like Beast. The darkness that will protect those I love with my last breath.

  “Are you going to stand there praying all night or are you going to help me with the bodies?” Lazare grunts.

  I turn to see that he has already hauled le Poisson to the window. “I wasn’t praying,” I mutter as I hurry over to help. “I was gloating.”

  “Ah, that’s all right, then. Please feel free to gloat while others do the work.”

  “Why are you here, again?”

  “Because Beast insisted I stay behind to cover your back, so cover your back I will. You can thank me for it later. Now grab his feet. Father Effram can’t spend the whole night waiting for us down in that cart.”

  Once we have removed the bodies, Lazare slips away to help Father Effram dispose of them while I put the room to rights. When everything has been straightened, I build a small fire and toss in a handful of fragrant herbs to cleanse the pall of death from the room. I also sprinkle a faint trail of salt along the base of the walls to cleanse the room of any lingering spirits.

  When every last bit of my work is done, I glance about the room one final time. Now that my own family mess has been dealt with, it is time to call Genevieve into service. With Beast and the others gone, I cannot be the queen’s only ally. Especially now that the regent has shown she is willing to dance with the devil in order to achieve her ends.

   Chapter 94

  Genevieve

  s we lie with our limbs still entwined, my body is utterly unsatisfied. Four times now, I have taken a lover. Each time has been different, but each has satisfied something within me. The first time, with Margot, was curiosity—​and that was easily—​if not skillfully—​satisfied. The second was lust, pure and simple, for a well-shaped, handsome knight who I th
ought would satisfy not only my curiosity, but my flesh as well.

  He did.

  The third time was simply because I wanted it, although with Maraud the want felt far more like a need. A need that still plagues me. I brutally shove that memory aside and turn to my current lover—​the king. While I did not desire him, nor lust after him, I did give him what he wanted so that he would, in turn, give me what I want.

  The king bestirs himself just then, his hand reaching out to stroke my back. He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, putting his mouth up against my ear. “What magic have you wrought, dearest Gen? I am not a handsome man, nor a graceful one. I cannot even claim to be worldly, for all that I have tried to make up for my sheltered upbringing. But lying with you, I felt all of those things.”

  “Your Majesty, I am honored that anything we did together brought you so much pleasure.” I turn around to face him. “That you should feel thus brings me great joy, Your Majesty.”

  He reaches out and captures my hand, pressing a kiss upon it. “I wish to give you a gift such as you have given me. I will make you my court favorite and shower you with whatever you desire. Your own chateau. A new wardrobe. Jewels. Silks. A retinue of attendants. Name it, Genevieve, and it is yours.”

  It is all I can do not to gape at him. I had hoped for some small reward, a gift perhaps, that I could refuse and instead ask for the convent. But he is offering me every gift I could ever imagine—​and all at once. “Your Majesty is far too generous.”

  If I had time, I could simply refuse any of the gifts and continue our arrangement until the moment felt right to ask my own favor. But by sticking her long nose into the matter, the regent has forced my hand. She will want reports, ask questions, summon me. And word of those meetings and summons will inevitably work their way back to the king. I can think of nothing that would enrage him more than believing his sister was behind our affair. “Your Majesty, I have no need of a chateau, or jewels. Nor can I imagine what I would do with a troop of ladies trying to see to my needs. I fear all your gifts are too grand for the likes of me.”