The Black Lily (Tales of the Black Lily)

by Juliette Cross

  He grabbed what he thought would be her shoulder, only to have his fingers sink in and curl into the silky fabric of her gown disembodied of its owner. It was bunched up, with its voluminous skirts draping to either side. His finger snagged on a ribbon—one of the lacings at the shoulder—that had been wrapped around the horn of the saddle, keeping the gown fixed in place.

  Nikolai was at his side. Marius untied the gown and tossed it to him.

  “She tricked us.”

  “Well, well. A smart wench.”

  Marius sighed. “That she is. Wait—follow me.”

  They remounted and headed back toward the palace the way they’d come. Marius stopped at the compost pile, wincing at the sharp odor that stung his heightened sense of smell. He walked around the large mound, about four carts across and three deep, stacked against the palace gates. The royal gardeners piled it on the border so the humans on the other side could use it for their own gardens, not having access to fertilizer this rich. Wanting to help the humans in some small way, he’d always turned a blind eye to villagers pilfering through the gate.

  “Look.” Marius pointed upward and followed the dangling rope from the top of the two-story high wrought iron fence to the other side where it was tied to a sturdy poplar tree.

  “Remarkable.” Nikolai whistled. “And you had to pick that one to dance with, didn’t you?”

  “There was no choice. She—” Had enchanted him, mesmerized him, brought him to his knees.

  “Whatever she did, she did it well.” Nikolai stepped up to the gate, gazing through the bars at the rope tied from the other side. “And she definitely planned this mission with precision.”

  “Or she had help.”

  “I’d say both.”

  Too much time had lapsed for them to follow her now. And there was no scent to follow, with the compost covering whatever was left of Grace’s sweet smell.

  Marius heaved out a sigh. “Back to the castle.”

  They returned in silence, Nikolai following Marius as he stormed back from the stable and into the palace through the back entrance. The ball still whirled on, but he strode directly to his study.

  Marius went to his desk drawer and yanked out a piece of parchment, dipped his quill in the ink, and then began scrawling with a careful, steady hand even as his blood raced with fury. When he was finished, he pushed the paper across the desk to Nikolai, who leaned over, waiting.

  “This is the tattoo of a black lily on her lower left shoulder, just above her breast. You are my lieutenant and my dearest friend, are you not?”

  With a stern nod, Nikolai said, “Aye. Of course.”

  “Then find her, Nikolai. Find this woman.”

  Nothing more needed to be said. The grave decorum in which the command was given was enough. Nikolai left the room with his orders in hand.

  Now Marius would have a talk with his cousin, Friedrich. He glanced at the mantel. Strolling over, he lifted the silken glove and inhaled the scent of the woman who’d tried to assassinate him. The woman he must find at all costs.

  Chapter Five

  Arabelle ran. The dirt and dung she’d smeared on her body had dried, itching her skin. But nothing slowed her sprinting pace through the woods. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Legionnaires found their prince’s body, then they’d be on the hunt. Hopefully, her diversion worked.

  She’d wanted to make it to the carriage—the easiest route to escape—but the clock had struck the last toll of midnight by the time she’d done the deed and shimmied down the cord onto the palace grounds. Fortunately, her backup plan was a success. Thus far.

  “Almost there,” she whispered to herself through panting breaths.

  Finally, she came upon the stream where she did her washing for the Pervis family and herself. Stripping off her petticoat, she waded in up to her thighs, still in her corset and boots. Not enough time to strip completely. Even in the middle of summer, the water was chilly, lapping against her bare skin. She leaned over and splashed her arms and face clean of the filth. Then she sank all the way in, submerging herself completely, washing away the memory of the vampire prince’s hands and mouth on her body.

  Or tried to.

  She came up and gulped air, staring up at the half moon. She recalled the look of shock on his face as she plunged the dagger into his heart. Unable to keep the well of emotion from brimming over, she sobbed into her hands. Murder. She’d done it. Her conscience had almost stopped her. She’d almost let the man’s allure change her mind. She’d imagined killing this man—no, vampire—for so long, it had never occurred to her that it might be difficult to actually do the deed. But when that moment of reckoning had come and his lips were on her skin, she wasn’t feeling revulsion and hatred, except perhaps for herself. It was desire that had flickered through her blood, not revenge for her mother, or freedom for her people, or righteousness for the cause.

  After giving herself a full minute to cry, then composing herself, she sucked in a deep breath and splashed more water on her face.

  “It was the right thing to do,” she murmured as she marched out of the stream. She wasn’t sure whom she was trying to convince as she slipped back into her petticoat and then ran the rest of the way until she was at the backside of the village. But the whole time, her heart sickened at the memory of his face and his cry of pain. She ran faster, either to escape what she’d done or to wipe away the guilt hammering into her heart, she wasn’t sure. She must put this event behind her. No matter how gruesome or foul, it was necessary. For her people.

  All was quiet and dark in the village. The peasants slept while the aristocracy carried on like heathens up at the Glass Tower. All except one peasant, that is.

  The blacksmith shop sat at the end of the road, a yellow square of light beaming in the dark. Arabelle huffed up to the window and peeked in. Staring into the flames, Deek sat by the fire with a cup of his homemade ale in hand. She smiled. He was worried about her.

  She crept to the back door and scratched instead of knocked. Four steps sounded to the door before it flung open. Deek pulled her into a bear hug. “Thank the stars, girl.”

  Arabelle laughed. “Ow. You’re crushing me.”

  He let her go quickly. “Sorry. Come to the fire.”

  Not needing encouragement, she scampered inside. He latched the door then closed the shutters over the window. Shivering with her hair still damp, she huddled on a stool near the fire. His hound stood from his dirty mat in the corner and loped over to lick her quivering fingers in greeting, as usual. He wagged his tail.

  “Hello there, Bruno. Good boy.”

  Deek disappeared into his bedroom then returned with a woolen blanket, which he draped roughly over her naked shoulders. She pulled the corners tight, relishing the warmth of the fire and her steady companions. Bruno settled with his head upon her wet boot. She hoped they’d dry out and not warp too badly.

  “I worried when the driver passed by here with the carriage and reported you hadn’t returned by midnight.”

  “I know. I was with the prince at the stroke of midnight. There was no way to make it out in time.”

  “And…so?”

  “Yes, Deek.” Arabelle leveled her gaze at him across the hearth, where he now sat again, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I killed Prince Marius.”

  He knocked back the rest of his ale. “Damn, woman. You’re something else.”

  “You doubted me.”

  “No. I knew you could…that you would if given the chance. I worried the chance wouldn’t present itself. Or that he would suspect your intentions too soon.”

  “I told you. All men are the same. It comes down to one thing.”

  The prince’s sultry voice came to mind again, how he’d whispered her fake name. She chastised herself for wanting to hear him say her true name in that moment. Bloody vampires. They used their power to seduce the most unwilling minds. That was what had pushed her over the edge to drive the dagger into his chest, once and for all. She
reminded herself that he was the enemy, that it was one just like him who’d taken her poor mother from her when she was just a girl.

  Deek leaned forward, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight, one elbow on his knee. “Aye. You did tell me so.”

  “So now we must gather the members of the Black Lily. Tell Nate to post the signal tomorrow. I want a meeting tomorrow night.”

  “As you wish, Arabelle.”

  She glanced at her only friend, this brutish man she’d come to love almost like a brother, and cherished the fact that he saw her as more than a peasant woman, weak and powerless. He saw her as the woman she longed to be—the one to lead the peasantry out of oppression and into a world free from the yoke of the vampire monarchy.

  She blinked away the emotion once more welling inside of her. Too much for one night. She mustn’t lose her composure now. Not in front of Deek.

  “Here.” Letting go of the blanket, she unclasped the pendant he had loaned her and passed it to him, the blood-red ruby dangling and sparkling in the firelight. “Thank you. It did the job. Are my clothes in there?” she asked, nodding to his bedroom.

  “Aye.”

  She marched in and shut the door, then stripped off the rest of her clothes, the corset particularly difficult with the wet lacings tight. Redressing in boy’s trousers, a white workman’s shirt, and her plain corset that gave her support but didn’t squeeze the life out of her, she scooped up her wet undergarments and returned to the next room. If Legionnaires were out looking at this hour, they were looking for a woman, not a boy.

  Deek was standing and waiting. His faithful hound, Bruno, sat at his heels.

  “You…you could stay here, Arabelle. If you think it still not safe to be out.”

  The soft look of his brow on a man who wasn’t soft gave her pause. There had never been and never would be sex between her and Deek. But even so, sometimes the lines blurred, and she was sure he wanted more. But she needed Deek to remain her stalwart friend and advisor for the cause. Sex would muddle their relationship. Besides, she wasn’t attracted to him that way. Though she must be the only woman in town who didn’t want a toss in the hay with the dark, muscular smithy.

  She passed him the wet underclothes and corset she’d stolen from Penelope Pervis. She’d never know since she had more clothes than she could possibly ever wear.

  “Burn these in your forge,” she said as she gripped his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Thank you, my friend. I’ll be fine. I just want to get home. Don’t forget to send Nate out to mark the signal.”

  “Aye. I won’t.”

  She had stepped out into the night when he called her back. “Arabelle?”

  She turned, standing in the pool of light spilling from the door.

  “You’re a tough opponent, woman. Even against a grown man…or vampire.”

  She smiled at that. “Aye. And don’t you forget it.” She gave him a wink. “See you tomorrow night.” She pretended to be brave. She was good at it. She’d done it her whole life. While her heart twisted at the crime she’d committed, of taking the life of one who’d not harmed her or anyone she knew, she sucked in a lungful of air and looked toward tomorrow. What’s done is done. No looking back. She slipped into the cover of darkness and made her way back to her shack behind the Pervis estate. Willow whickered as she approached.

  “It’s just me, girl,” she said, tromping through the long grass to Willow’s paddock.

  With a soft pat on her muzzle, Arabelle pressed her forehead to Willow’s, finding comfort there as she always did.

  “What’s done is done. Right, Willow?”

  Her horse whinnied softly. She pecked a kiss on her muzzle then trudged into the hut, bolted the door, and collapsed onto her bed. The grate had long gone cold, and she was too exhausted to stoke the fire back to life. She unlaced her boots and kicked them off, then peeled off her wet stockings before crawling under her coverlet.

  As soon as she put her face to the pillow, a picture of dark hair, a regal jaw, and mesmerizing blue eyes appeared before her. Though she tried to rid herself of the image in her mind, it was no use. And so was the feeling of his lips on her mouth, her skin. She feared she would be forever haunted by the man who’d seduced her senses with one touch…and whom she’d killed.

  Chapter Six

  A rooster crowed. Arabelle shot up in her bed. She had never slept this late. She’d always run on an internal clock, waking far before sunrise. The first light of dawn peeked through her homespun curtains.

  With no time to make porridge for breakfast, she hopped up and grabbed her only fresh pair of stockings. Once her boots were laced—still damp from the night before but wearable—she pulled her hair back into a kerchief and lifted the bucket of oats at the door for Willow. She didn’t even bother to change into her homespun gown, preferring the feel of breeches instead. Besides, no one would question her. Most of the Pervis household thought her mad anyhow. And that was fine by Arabelle.

  The sky was golden and clear of any clouds. She smiled, despite the drama of the night before and the bruise still on her heart. Sensing this was the first dawn toward a new day for her and her people, she walked with lightness in her step.

  “Good morning, Willow,” she said, hooking the bucket of oats on the paddock post, then went in and saddled her. “Looks to be a glorious day.”

  Willow stamped her back foot, munching on the oats with her head stuffed in the bucket.

  “And I have a secret, girl.” Arabelle tightened the girth strap, then leaned toward her mare’s ear. “Things are going to get better for us very soon.”

  Once the saddle and bridle were in place, she led Willow out of the paddock and mounted for her morning run to the Pervis mansion to retrieve the laundry for the day. She turned her face toward the sky, basking in its subtle warmth so early in the morning. No longer needing to work in the house, she reveled in the fact that she’d be in the sun all day.

  “Yes, Willow. Our luck is changing, old girl.”

  Willow whinnied, either agreeing or disagreeing, Arabelle wasn’t sure. She’d been biding her time, waiting for this day when she could finally leave behind her life as a lowly servant to the Pervis family. This would mark her last day as the dirt beneath their feet. She’d saved enough sovereigns and had stored enough food in the woodhouse to see her through two winters. She figured by then she’d either have accomplished her goal of stomping out vampire rule—by force or by compromise—or she would’ve died trying. Either way, she looked forward to the future, because it would be one of her own choosing.

  She dismounted at the back gate, then looped the reins over the post and strolled through the kitchen entrance. Cook was already sweating and banging pots about.

  “Good morning,” said Arabelle.

  “Mornin’.” Cook dragged a thick forearm across her brow then shook her head in disapproval. “Back to dressin’ like a boy, are ye?”

  Arabelle laughed and shrugged. “Breeches are more comfortable.”

  “Best not get caught in the house like that,” said Cook, and wagged a finger up the steps. “Mary’s collectin’ laundry now. Go help ’er and get out of me way.”

  Arabelle slipped toward the stone steps leading into the house, snatching a biscuit from the platter.

  “Don’ be grabbin’ the food yet. Ye wait yer turn after the madame and misses.”

  Arabelle scampered up three steps, took a buttery bite, and moaned. She tiptoed back down and peeked her head around the corner. “It’s delicious.”

  Scowling, Cook looked up from rolling out another batch, her frown melting at the sight of Arabelle. “Get on, ye crazy girl.”

  Arabelle smiled and proceeded up the steps again, then eased into the main house where all was still and quiet. She stuffed the last bite of the biscuit into her mouth, thinking she’d grab at least two more on her way back out. Before she’d made her way to the stairwell for the servants, a sudden ring of the bell at the front door sounded.

&n
bsp; Ruben, the butler, materialized out of nowhere, as he often did, and ambled to the front door. Arabelle crept behind a column under the winding staircase, wondering who would be coming to the house so early. Everyone knew the Pervis sisters slept till mid-morning and were forced to roll themselves out of bed every day by their witch of a mother. This caused an endless hour of whining and crying about how awful their lives were. Then the malicious daughters would yell at Mary, their housemaid, for another hour, sometimes even beating her with the brush if she tugged too hard on their coarse, tangled hair. Like it was Mary’s fault the odious sisters failed to wash their hair on a regular basis. Even Arabelle took a cool dip in the brook in Larkin Wood late afternoons.

  The sudden memory of her bath in the river last night jolted to the forefront of her thoughts, shooting a shiver up her spine. Pushing away any and all regret, she attempted to peek at who stood at the entrance but could see nothing of the formal-speaking figure before Ruben closed the door. He carried a letter of some kind, then placed it on a silver tray and made his way slowly up the staircase.

  Arabelle scurried to the servants’ passage and lit up to the second floor. In the hall, she found Mary gathering piles of petticoats, stockings, shifts, and gowns outside Drusilla and Penelope’s doors.

  “I’ll need your help with this lot,” said Mary. “For a ball that only lasted four hours, they managed to try on and dirty enough clothes for a whole nunnery.”

  “Surely they didn’t soil all of them. Must I really launder every stocking they tried on and disliked?”

  Mary made a pinched face and chuckled.

  “Come now, Arabelle. They want them all washed and cleaned, no matter if they wore them for ten seconds or ten hours. You should know that by now.”

  Last day, she thought. She’d collect her week’s wages from the housekeeper with some excuse that she needed them early this week, and then she’d be gone. Mary knew nothing of the Black Lily. And while Arabelle hated to leave her behind, she knew that one day soon Mary and all servants would finally be free of their lot.