by Ken Altabef
“I’ll decide what we do next,” said Theodora.
“It’s not a question of if,” the assassin said, “only when.”
Chapter 33
“You needn’t concern yourself with the details,” Redthorne said. “I understand.”
She ran her finger around the hilt of one of the several daggers on her belt. “Just leave it to me. I promise it will be quick.”
“You two vultures can bicker over the corpse all you like,” said Amalric. “I’ve had enough.” Although the alchemist had severed his link to Eric’s mind, he still seemed under the influence of the drug. He had a dazed, uncomfortable look. Thin streams of sweat trickled down from the cusp of his powdered wig.
Theodora had not completely withdrawn from their mental link and began to receive odd and distasteful impressions from the alchemist’s unfettered mind, as if eavesdropping on a private conversation between his private demons. Shadowed faces. The rapturous grin of a drooling Italian rapist. A look of desolation on the stuporous face of his mother. Disturbing urges clawing outward from his innermost soul. She pulled away.
“That’s fine,” she said. “Go back to your house and lay down.”
The alchemist was glad to do so. Redthorne stepped out of his way. “Why not you go as well, Clarimonde? You don’t need to watch the rest of this.”
“I’ll need a moment to say goodbye. He was my husband after all. The father of my children.”
Redthorne snickered at that. She had a low opinion of Theodora’s sentimentality, which she perceived only as weakness. “Say goodbye, then.”
She made no effort to move from the doorway.
“You can wait outside,” Theodora said. “Just give me the dagger. It should be me that ends him. No one else.”
Redthorne snickered again. “Very well, then. I’m not much in the habit of killing people while they’re half out of their mind and tied to a chair. Much too easy. But if you think you can handle it…”
She handed Theodora a slim blade. “I’ll want that back. It’s part of a matched set.” She threw off one more wicked leer and stepped out of the cell.
Eric was sitting so motionlessly Theodora thought he might already be dead. His chest hardly moved with each shallow breath. She placed her hands along either side of his head, pressing gently against the temples. She felt Eric stir. Perhaps she shouldn’t have woken him up; his mind was now once again awash in those terrible images, flashing over and over, the bells, the blood, Hake’s crumpled body lying in the dirt.
She reached out through the connection they shared. “Let go these memories of pain,” she whispered. “Let them spin away, like drops of falling rain.”
As she eased Eric’s suffering, Theodora felt an icepick streak through each of her temples. She gasped, but held firm for a moment until it was gone.
Eric’s mind was still foggy, but at least he had been saved from the throes of insanity. He was still under the influence of the drug, just enough for her to take one more journey, revisit one more memory.
On their wedding night, Eric had insisted on carrying her into the bedroom. When he’d lifted her into his arms Theodora had to be careful to adjust her glamour. As a faery she weighed much less than he would’ve expected. She almost forgot to make the adjustment.
“I wanted today to be perfect for you,” he’d said.
“It was. The feast was lovely. The ceremony, everything, was lovely.”
“Yes, but I’ve made one mistake at least. I should’ve opened the bedroom door before picking you up.” He laughed and kicked it open.
The bedroom was full, nearly floor to ceiling with summer flowers. Red and white peonies, guelder roses, lilacs, lupins, snapdragons and poppies. Intertwined strands of kerria spiraled upward on either side of the bridal bed, their tiny flower buds cut distinctly in sharp color: red for man, white for woman and the tallest in shimmering violet representing family. Roses in yellow and pink adorned the gauzy white silk canopy of the four-poster bed.
Each breath, full of the scent of honeysuckle and flowering kerria, seared her lungs awake and inflamed her soul. Of course Eric didn’t know the dramatic effect the array of flowers and their perfumed aromas would have on her faery senses. He just thought they were pretty. For a moment she very nearly lost herself in their midst.
Her glamour began to slip, her true self straining at the bit, desperate to come out and dance and play amid the woodsy display. She tamped down the urge. She didn’t want to be a faery tonight. Tonight she just wanted to be a normal woman, a lover, a wife.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “There should always be flowers in this room.”
“That’s a promise. Though, not so many…” They laughed together. “And look at this bed.”
He placed her down atop a mound of soft blankets on the bed. “I had this commissioned especially for us. Made in Paris by the Louviere brothers. I know that name doesn’t mean anything to you. It doesn’t matter. I just wanted something special, something you’d like. It’s seasoned oak.” He rapped his knuckles against the bedpost.
“I love oak.”
He stood before the bed, arms outstretched to encompass the entire scene—the bed, the delicate see-through draperies and the confederacy of flowers all in bloom above her, the bed’s canopy alive in pink and blue and violet, the flowers stark against the white of the linen.
“This bed’s never been used before. Not by my parents. Not by my grandparents. Not by anyone else. We start our life together fresh. We forget about the past.”
Theodora smiled, wishing only that she could forget, if only for one night. “It’s much too good for a Stump.”
“You’re not a Stump any more. You’re Lady Grayson now.”
“I don’t feel like Lady Grayson.”
“What? Why not?”
She sat up on the bed. “Because that’s not who I am.”
Eric paused for a moment, his mind swirling in confusion. This was no longer their wedding night as he remembered it. Theodora was re-writing the script, introducing dialogue the two lovers had never before said. Things she should have said.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“You know I do. I’ve pledged my love to you six times already today—or was it seven?—I’ve lost count. But I’ll be happy to do so again and again if you like.”
“I need to know.”
He took a step away from the magnificent bed and dropped down on one knee. “Well, all right then. Lady Grayson, let me—”
“No, my love, not Lady Grayson. Not this time.” She stood up.
“What do you mean? I don’t—”
“You should see me as I really am.”
She took a step away from the bed. She shrugged the bodices from her back and shoulders. They trailed down her arms, turning the lace sleeves inside-out as they went, and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Poor treatment for such fine clothing but Eric seemed to appreciate the dramatic effect. He sat on the edge of the bed, a sheepish grin on his face.
She deftly released the hook and eye fasteners that held her wide skirts in place, letting them fall. They were soon joined by the hoops, train and all the rest, bunching up at her feet. Her stiffly ribbed stomacher followed, hitting the floor with a slightly louder thump. Then Theodora stepped out of her petticoat, a step that brought her a few feet closer to the bed.
Eric could barely contain himself. Theodora watched him resist the urge to grab for her. He decided to be patient. The show wasn’t over yet.
She forced a smile. She should be enjoying this too, a once-in-a-lifetime performance for her new husband, but she was dreading it. Dreading what she was about to do.
Reaching behind her back she pulled the laces of her corset free, one by one. She hesitated for a moment, clad only in her fine silk chemise, while Eric gazed admiringly at her. Perhaps he imagined this was as bare as he might see his new bride, at least at this stage of their marriage. Nonetheless Theodora lifted the blouse over her head and, withou
t so much as a flourish, let it fall to the floor as well. She stood naked before him, her hair still tightly coiffed atop her head.
“You should see me as I really am,” she said. “Not Lady Grayson. Lady Changeling.”
And then she truly bared herself to him, dropping the glamour she’d been holding for months on end.
His eyes went wide. Theodora saw her true self reflected on their glossy surfaces. Eric stared, amazed, at her face—her large, almond-shaped eyes, the high arched cheekbones, the sensuous lips two shades darker green than her pale, glittering mint-green skin. She let her fine hair flow wildly about her shoulders at last. It had gone from chestnut brown to the color of fine spun gold. He took it all in without uttering a word, widening his gaze to encompass her entire body. Her slender figure, the thin waist and fragile hips, the delicate, membranous wings that arched around from her back.
“So I will ask again,” she said. “Do you love me?”
Eric rose from the bed. His playful smile was gone. He looked deadly serious, his lower lip trembling slightly as if he might even begin to cry at any moment. He stepped close, his gaze fixed on the shimmering depths of her bright green eyes. Then he gave his answer, pressing his lips against her own. He kissed her hard on the mouth and held her as tightly as ever.
It didn’t feel right to Theodora to linger and enjoy such a stolen kiss. She pulled back, leaving the false memory to fade away like mist on the wind.
Eric woke up. She stared back at him with eyes brown not green, still hidden in their protective disguise. She watched carefully, wanting to know what emotion she might see there in this fleeting moment between dream and reality. Would it be that same look of uncompromising devotion and unconditional love? Was anything left for them? Yes, she thought she saw a fleeting glimmer, quickly washed away by the inevitable tide of anger.
“That wasn’t fair,” he said.
“You wanted to see. Remember? You asked me to show you last time we spoke, but I wouldn’t do it. Now I have. Are you satisfied?”
Eric ignored her question. He tugged futilely at his bonds instead. It didn’t matter. She didn’t expect soft words from him now.
“What did you do to me?” he asked. “You and that ghoul of yours?”
“We’ve destroyed you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve told you. That thing is coming. A monster from the other side of the sky. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Believe you? How can I? You’ve told me nothing but lies since the day we met.”
She wanted to point out that some of it was true, especially her feelings toward him and the children, but professing half-truths at this late stage was not going to help anything. “I didn’t want to lie. I never wanted to.”
“I can almost believe it,” he quipped,
“You must believe it.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe it isn’t too late. We can still fix this. I can tell them… tell them it was all a mistake. You take the illusion of the Rot away, they’ll believe me. I know they will.”
“With Fitzroy March and two men lying dead? A mistake?”
“I will have justice for March, Theodora, one way or the other. No matter what else should happen. Give me the one who killed him. Give me that one and we can put things right.”
“If only we could.”
“We can!”
“There are so many reasons why we can’t, Eric. If you stay here a moment longer, you’ll be killed. I won’t be able to stop her.”
“Stop who?”
“Redthorne.”
“Is that the one killed Fitzroy? Murderer! Owww!” He winced at the headache and closed his eyes. “I’ll stop her,” he growled.
“You can’t. And neither can I. She killed those three men of yours without half trying. March was like a plaything to her. And look at you. You’re a mess. You have to go.”
She cut away Eric’s bonds with Redthorne’s dagger, a dagger meant to pierce his heart. She didn’t find the irony pleasing at all.
When his hands came free, they went immediately to rub at his throbbing temples. He tried to sit up straight and put on a show of strength for her but he couldn’t quite manage it. He let out a little grunt of pain.
“Please,” she said, “you have to go. I’ll clear the passageway. You can escape through the smuggler’s tunnel. It’s your only chance.”
“Run off? Just like that? From my own estates. My own estates?”
“I’m sorry, Eric. I truly am. But there’s nothing left for you here.”
He stood up, knocking the chair over behind him. He was so unsteady on his feet, he could barely move. He offered no response to her apology except for a derisive glare.
“You were going to ride off this very evening,” she pointed out. “That’s why you went to the stables…”
“I was going to Kensington to get help,” he muttered.
Kensington, she knew, was out of the question. “You’ll never make it on foot, wrecked like this. You know that. You’ll be lucky just to make the shore before Redthorne catches wise.”
“Redthorne.” Eric drew in a deep breath, rubbing again at his temples.
“The shore,” she said, “It’s a small chance, but a chance at least. I can do no more. Go!”
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“That would be very foolish,” she warned. Very foolish, she thought. But I very dearly hope you will.
Chapter 34
Eric could barely stand. What the hell had they done to him?
He forced a series of deep breaths, long and unsteady, leaning against the heavy steel door of the cell. His head ached horribly and lights kept flashing green and purple before his eyes. Every flash caused a wince of pain. And he smelled… persimmons?
He peered between the mesh grating of the door’s square window. The hallway outside seemed to be empty. It had been much more than the half minute Theodora had instructed him to wait. Could he trust her to clear the way? Did he really trust her at all or was this simply an act of desperation? No need to parse that one. They both amounted to the same thing.
Eric eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. There was no one around, faery or otherwise. He couldn’t expect any help from his house staff at this point anyway. Anyone he met, either friend or foe, was bound to try and stop him. Stripped bare to the waist, wearing muddy breeches and no boots, he must look a pathetic sight.
He moved down the hallway as quickly as his throbbing headache would allow. He passed three more cells with grated windows and checked inside each one, not knowing what he might find. If there were any more prisoners held in his house, he wanted to know about it. They were all empty.
An Oriental wicker screen marked the end of the corridor. It’s weaving old and frayed, its paint flaking away, the screen was meant to give the impression of a piece of junk casually placed against the wall. Eric pushed it aside. Behind the screen the wall was decorated with a frieze of small ceramic tiles. The mosaic portrayed a scene in shades of blue and white, a rocky cliff battered by foaming waves.
Eric depressed three specific tiles simultaneously, releasing a spring mechanism on the other side. A panel of the wall twitched as the latch clicked. He pushed and the panel swung slowly inward on hidden hinges.
The tunnel was dark and he had no light or lantern. But he knew the way. At least he used to know it. As young boys he and Hake would race each other down this forbidden tunnel in the dark, pretending they were long-forgotten ancestors caught in the act of smuggling contraband up from the bay. It was a long tunnel braced by wooden beams every few feet. He still remembered every twist and turn by heart.
Eric pulled the door shut behind him. He took half a dozen steps in a light jog. Then he stopped.
It just didn’t feel right running away. He couldn’t do it. He had to go back and face them. He had to make them pay for what they’d done to March.
Then he remembered a bit of advice Fitzroy March had given him as a boy. Eric
could almost hear his teacher’s gruff voice intoning the words. ‘Don’t fight a battle you can’t win,’ he would say. No, that wasn’t quite right. ‘Never fight a battle you can’t win.’ Never.
To go back would be foolish indeed. This was not the proper time for that fight. But what he had promised Theodora was still true. He would return.
He headed forward through the gloom of the tunnel. The flashes of green and purple light continued but did nothing to illuminate the way. This time he smelled a mixture of horse sweat and putrid eggs.
The rotten smell excellently summed up his current state of mind. He’d lost everything. Everything. His title and reputation. His money and estates. His children. Theodora. He’d lost Theodora.
Just a single day ago he wouldn’t have thought any of this possible. He couldn’t have imagined Theodora betraying him like this. He still could not believe it.
It was much easier to believe this was all a nightmare—all a nightmare. Just like the visions he’d experienced back in the holding cell. Running through empty streets, corpses strewn to either side. A desperate flight that ended only in death. What was he doing? Wasn’t it the same thing again? A young boy running through the smuggler’s tunnel, lost in the darkness.
What was he doing? Where was he? It was completely dark. His eyes must be closed. He must be dreaming. Or insane.
Is that it? I really do have the Creep! I’ve gone insane just like my brother Hake.
Eric sank to his knees, his heart pounding, his chest covered with sweat. He bent forward, nauseous, pressing his hands into the dirt. The tunnel had a certain smell, a scent of loamy soil mixed with a touch of spice. Young Eric and his brother used to pretend that the smell was from all the smuggler’s rum that had spilled and soaked into the ground. They’d pretend to get drunk just inhaling the aroma and then sing pirate songs. The real explanation, as provided by Fitzroy March, had to do with tide waters and seepage and salt water decay. It didn’t matter.
The main thing was that smell. The smell brought him back to his senses. He was not insane. He had been fleeing down the smuggler’s tunnel.
