by Trisha Telep
He thrust the torch into the darkness of the stairwell, light gleaming on the gray walls. His boots rang out against each stone step. At the bottom, he fixed the torch into a wall bracket. There was one other bracket on the far side of the cellar, but as far as he knew, it was the last. There had been no need for brackets in the tunnels beyond, as nobody but prisoners and their guides had ventured there.
Chauncey had four large spools of thread in a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and he pulled out the first. He tied one end to the banister, tugging on it several times to confirm it was secure. The hairs on his neck prickled at the thought of losing his way in the tunnels. His stepfather had joked that there was only one direction to the tunnels—in. Reminded of this, Chauncey gave one last jerk on the thread. Satisfied it would hold, he picked up the torch and set off into the devil’s mouth, unraveling the spool as he went, mapping his way with a web of thread.
***
Even in the smoky near-black cell, lying awkwardly on the dirt floor, Jolie Abrams was pretty. She was unconventionally tall for a woman, but Chauncey was hardly one to be critical of height. Her peasant clothes were gone, replaced by peacock green silk, and her wavy brown hair was pinned up, giving him an unobstructed view of her cheekbones and oval face. She had obscenely long eyelashes and a splattering of freckles that he somehow intuitively knew caused her to throw her hands up every time she faced the looking glass. A gold locket adorned her neck.
Chauncey growled at the locket, using his thumb to push it open. To his surprise, it wasn’t the angel’s face painted inside, but another woman. She resembled Jolie too much to be anything other than a sister. He closed the locket, feeling suddenly foolish at prying into her most intimate belongings.
He inspected the cell. A cot in the corner and a silver tray of food on a table, out of reach of the rodents. He suddenly wished he’d brought something to make her more comfortable. Extra blankets at the very least. She was a lady, and proper treatment of the opposite sex had been ingrained in him by tutors as far back as he could remember. Which probably explained why he chose farm maidens or dancers, like Elyce, who sought a wealthy patron, not a husband—when he wanted a woman at all.
He eyed the manacles hanging from the walls, but saw no need for them. The cell door was as thick as the tree it had been cut from; Jolie would have to scratch at it with her fingernails for a thousand years to carve a way out. A pair of mice scurried along the wall as he waved the torch into the deeper shadows. He chased them under the door and scraped their droppings off the heels of his boots.
Jolie stirred at his feet, letting go of a sleepy troubled sigh. She was on her side, lying on dirt made colder by late October. Frosty puffs of air smoked from her lips.
“Who are you?” she said between her teeth, her voice a hiss of anger. Her upturned shoulder rose and fell with every breath. “What do you want from me?”
He felt the need to tell her this was the angel’s fault, but the truth was, he could have let her go. He could let her walk out right now. He could order one of his coachmen to drive her home. She would return to her safe comfortable life, while he spent the next fortnight in agony.
“You’re going to be staying here for a while,” he said. “I’ll see that you’re comfortable, with enough food and water—”
“Comfortable? Comfortable? ” She sat up and flung a fist of dirt at him.
Chauncey was slow to brush the dirt off his shirt. He was a brute, was he? A mindless savage? What did she think of the angel? That he was better?
If Chauncey was a tyrant, the angel was ten times more the devil. He held Chauncey’s body hostage every year! And it wasn’t like Chauncey could run away during those dozen days and nights, or block out what he saw. No. For a whole fortnight he was trapped in a body that didn’t feel like his own, forced to watch every despicable act the angel put him through. The angel gambled his money. Drank his wine. Commanded his servants. Romanced his women.
Two years ago, he’d suffered in raging silence as the angel seduced Elyce, treating her to what she pronounced were “the most magical fourteen days” of her life. Chauncey had ordered her out of his presence the moment Cheshvan ended. He still remembered the confusion and fury in her eyes. He didn’t tell her he wasn’t responsible for her fortnight of blissful magic.
“You don’t have the decency to tell me what this is about?” Jolie’s cheeks were fully flushed, every word that came from her mouth stabbing Chauncey like a needle. Her eyes raked his tailored clothing, and Chauncey read her thoughts.
A gentleman in dress, but not in action.
What gentleman would kidnap a lady and hold her prisoner? He swelled with humiliation, but he also had the angel to think about. Chauncey wasn’t going to let the angel possess him again. The thought goaded him past reason.
Jolie cocked her head to one side, the light of recognition filling her eyes. “You ... you were at the fight. In Angers. The other night. I saw you.” He could practically hear her thoughts trying to pull sense from her words.
“I have business with the angel.” He smiled faintly, in spite of himself.
“Who?”
Chauncey’s smile deepened. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” she said testily.
“Your lover isn’t a man. More like an animal, I’d say.”
The first glimpse of wariness shadowed her face.
“He’s one of the banished angels. That’s right, love. An angel. Don’t believe me? Get a good look at his back. Wing scars.” Oh, he was enjoying this.
“He—told me he was flogged.”
Chauncey tipped his head back and laughed.
She was on her knees, her hands balled into fists. “He told me it happened while he was in the army!”
“Did he now?” he said, then let himself out of the dungeon room. He’d planted the seed. The angel wouldn’t find his sweetheart quite so ignorant at their next meeting. If she agreed to meet him at all.
He pulled the door shut hard, locking it with the drop of an iron bar. He heard her on the other side, beating the door and shouting profanities. He heard the tray of food clash against the door, and growled. Now he’d have to leave the thread intact so Elyce could deliver a second tray.
He groped blindly for the thread, feeling his way out. Each step felt heavier, and each breath took more work. Cheshvan. Midnight was all too close. He felt its approach echo in every sinew. Chauncey redoubled his efforts, walking more quickly, fearing what would happen if he didn’t reach the cemetery in time.
***
Rain pattered down on the darkening countryside surrounding Château de Langeais, but Chauncey crossed the courtyard to the stables unaware of the mud slinging on his boots. He wore no hat; his hair clung to his face, wet and disheveled. He knew without proof his eyes reflected the blackened sky above.
He ducked under the roof of the stables, breathing irregularly. He could feel Cheshvan upon him, crushing him. He could feel control of his body peeling away. He had to meet the angel by midnight, or the pain would spike to become unbearable. Part of his oath was to turn his body over freely. The first year, Chauncey had gone to meet the angel, having no idea what was in store. The second year, wiser and hardened, he’d forced the angel to come to him. Chauncey had passed out from the pain before the angel had even arrived. There were still lines down the walls of the château where he’d raked his fingernails in agony.
The one-eyed groom limped out of the shadows, frowning.
Bracing his hand on a beam, Chauncey gave a terse nod in the direction of the stalls. He hoped the groom was smart enough to interpret his gesture. He was breathing with difficulty and had no desire for speech.
The groom blinked his good eye. “But it’s nearly midnight, Your Grace.”
“Horse.” His voice sounded rough, strained.
“It will take a minute, m’lord. I—I wasn’t expecting you. That is to say, it’s rather late—”
“I haven’t got a mi
nute,” Chauncey snapped.
A bolt of lightning crackled through the sky. The groom lifted his eye and quickly crossed himself. Chauncey glowered at him. The insolent man was still standing in place, fearing God more than him.
Chauncey sank suddenly to one knee, panting. The ground was spinning. He felt bile surging up his throat. The pain was so bright it clawed from the inside out.
The groom cautioned a step forward. “M’lord?”
“Horse!” he choked, thinking he would have wrung the groom’s neck if it were in reach.
Minutes later, Chauncey rode from the stables, whipping a gelding to breakneck speed. He headed straight for the forest, feeling the groom’s good eye follow him to the edge of the trees. Feeling the groom’s fear lie thick on his back.
***
The angel was on time. He sat on an ornate headstone in the rustic cemetery sheltered deep in the forest. His hands were clasped between his knees, his dark eyes watchful but not nervous. His hair was damp with rain, and despite the chill in the air, his shirt was open at the neck. His mouth curved up on one side, a pirate’s smile, easy and ruthless at once.
“Where is she?” the angel asked.
Chauncey flinched. Did he mean Jolie? This wasn’t how he’d planned their conversation. He’d anticipated being the one to tell the angel that Jolie Abrams was locked away somewhere between here and Paris, with limited food, and unless the angel cooperated, she would inevitably die. He’d left Jolie with more than enough food, but didn’t allow himself to think on it, fearing the angel had some way of deciphering his mind. “Good luck finding her in time,” he replied, almost calm.
“I’m going to ask once more,” the angel said quietly. “Where is she?”
Chauncey sneered. “I hope ... she’s not afraid of rats?”
A muscle in the angel’s jaw jumped. “Her, for my word not to possess you?”
Adrenaline itched under Chauncey’s skin. Was he asking? Agreeing to bargain? Could it be that simple? Chauncey had anticipated some kind of struggle.
Chauncey shook his head. “I don’t trust your word. Release me from my oath. You’ll never take possession of my body during Cheshvan again. Anything less, and the girl dies. I’ve heard starvation can be quite painful.” Chauncey raised his eyebrows, as if asking the angel’s opinion on the subject.
The angel’s eyes were so black, the night seemed to pale in comparison. Chauncey held that gaze with wariness stirring in his stomach. Had he spoken too soon? Had he asked too much? But it was his body, his life!
“Your final offer?”
“Yes, it’s my final offer,” Chauncey growled impatiently. Was the angel backing out? Was he so depraved he’d let the girl die? Chauncey felt midnight squeezing down on him, the pain twisting every ounce of patience and sanity from him. He clenched his teeth, swearing he would kill the angel if he laughed at him for this humiliating twitching and jerking. Hurry up and make a decision!
The possession happened all too fast. Chauncey was slammed up against a tree with no way to escape. He ordered his legs to run, but it was as if a great wall of ice separated his mind from his body. He tried to move his head, to see where the angel was, but his stomach sickened with the truth.
It was happening all over again. The angel was not there. The angel was inside him.
Here comes the struggle, Chauncey thought.
The angel slammed Chauncey’s body against the tree a second time, stunning him. Another time, and another, and another, until Chauncey felt blood trickling down his face. His shoulder throbbed. He felt bruises sprouting all along the battered side of his body. He wanted to scream for the angel to stop, but his voice wasn’t his to command.
Next, the angel shoved Chauncey’s fist into the tree. There was a ghastly crunch, and Chauncey saw bone protruding from his skin. He howled, but it was a silent sound, trapped inside him. He knew what was coming next and tried to brace himself for the hot torment. The angel forced Chauncey to kick the tree, over and over, until the bones in his foot snapped and Chauncey felt himself wilting in shock. He screamed and blubbered, but it was ripped from him. He was nothing but reason and feeling. He couldn’t act; he was only to be acted upon.
Just as quickly as he’d lost control, he was breathing on his own again. He lay crumpled on the ground and instantly cradled his broken hand against his chest. The angel stood over him. He gave a significant look at the tree, now painted with Chauncey’s blood.
“I’ll never tell you where she is!” Chauncey spat.
Chauncey felt the dizzying torment of the wound on his thigh being ripped open. The angel was in control again, using Chancey’s hands to whip his leg with a branch. The wound opened, and blood blossomed across his velvet breeches. Chauncey’s temples throbbed with panic, the smell of terror leaking from his skin.
Do not talk! Do not talk! he shouted at himself through the whir of terror shaking him. Do not let him win!
Chauncey collapsed, swimming in and out of consciousness; one half of him yearned for the darkness of slumber, the other half feared the loss of control. What if he revealed Jolie’s location in his sleep? He couldn’t. He couldn’t...
With his cheek cushioned by icy dirt, Chauncey’s eyes fluttered. He thought he saw the angel jogging away. Chauncey tried to smile. Going to search the countryside for Jolie, was he? His mouth formed the words good luck, but they stayed on his lips. Through his haze, Chauncey knew this was a pivotal moment. The angel had to possess him now, or never. The time frame was one hour. The angel had never missed his window in the past, but now...
But this time...
Even if the angel correctly guessed Jolie’s whereabouts, by the time he went to the château and back, it would be too late.
He’d miss this Cheshvan...
Chauncy’s eyes rolled back in his head. He had been through this kind of pain many times before. He wouldn’t die, but he’d lose a great deal of blood, and would sleep—even as long as a week or two, depending on the severity of his wounds—while his body slowly stitched itself back together and became whole once again.
***
Chauncey woke in the cemetery. He was slumped against a headstone, the cold slate seeping through the back of his shirt. Between the slits of his eyes, the world was black and silver. A few snowflakes drifted down, melting as they hit his breeches, his shirt, his bare hands. He turned his hands over, back and forth, staring at them, nearly weeping that they were in his power. He dragged himself upright and knew it was over. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but the icy morning and transformed scenery made him guess several days. He’d escaped Cheshvan. He’d defied the angel. A certain stone that had hung inside him all these years cracked, turning to dust. If he could do it once, he could do it again.
He grinned at the trees, not caring that his clothes were torn and soiled with blood, or that he reeked of his own unwashed body. He dragged his hands down his face, blinking at the morning. Everything was fresh. He breathed in the intoxicating scent of the forest, held it, let it go. For the first time in his life he stood mesmerized by the harsh beauty of the world slowly freezing. He spun circles until his mind reeled, whooping and shouting with joy, and when dizziness overtook him, he fell back in the half-frozen mud, laughing.
He lay that way for quite some time, basking in the forest—which no longer felt like his enemy—feeling immeasurably happy, until his eyes flew open.
Jolie. The château. The dungeons.
His feet were already carrying him in a run.
