Waltzing into Damnation

by Rita Stradling

  I nod ever so slightly, just to myself. And as we’re still alone together, I decide to take a calculated risk. “I've been dreaming about my life as Elena.”

  He says nothing for a second, and I get the distinct impression that I have perhaps shocked him into speechlessness—but that’s ridiculous.

  Biting my lip, I release it slowly and decide to keep going. “You were a traveling musician. I snuck out to talk to you. I needed your help on something, and you offered to murder my husband.”

  “Not your husband. I never offered to murder him.” He says the words in a low voice, almost a whisper, as his hand clenches into a fist.

  “What? Then who?”

  He remains silent for a very long time before he says, “I wish you could never remember him. If it were in my power, I would make your memories go away.”

  “I bet you would—you hid it from me when we first met. What don’t you want me to know?” I’m needling him and not even sure why.

  Leaning against the ship, Andras stares down at the ground.

  Strangely uncomfortable with his silence, I say, “Well, I'm glad it's not in your power to take my memories because I want to know. I want to know everything about my life as Elena. And if you won't tell me, I'll just have to figure it out in my dreams.”

  “No, my eternal Raven. I'll tell you about your life as Elena,” he whispers down at his feet before he lifts his head and meets my gaze. “I'll tell you about all our days and nights together if you want me to.” The way he said it was both unsettlingly romantic and edging on angry like I’m the one who betrayed him.

  “You can keep those parts to yourself, thank you,” I tell Andras quickly. “I want to know the bigger questions, like why I was so afraid and needed to be free of some other man than my husband.”

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Andras says, but he doesn’t wait for my response, instead walking towards the ships door and throwing it open. He holds it open for me, but as soon as I walk in, he strides away and leaves me trailing after him up the stairs of the ship.

  The difference between when I walked through the stairways and halls in a housekeeping uniform and now could not be more marked. The lavishly attired demons and creatures dive to prostrate themselves at Andras’ feet. Sometimes they even go so far as to pile on top of each other if they don’t have floor space. Andras doesn’t spare them a glance as he continues his fast pace, making me jog to keep up with him.

  I’m not even sure why I'm so determined to follow, but I do. Conversely, why he's fleeing this conversation like it's on fire, I have no idea.

  Andras practically flies up what must be six flights of stairs and down a hallway with only a two doors. He slows as we approach the end. Not turning around, he tells me, “No one will enter this floor on pain of obliteration. I plan to be back by your room at seven to see if you would like to join me for dinner.” When he’s finished speaking, he strides away to the end of the hall, opens the door there, and disappears through it.

  When I push the door to the state room, it opens as if there’s no lock. The room that waits beyond is such a startling change from the wolf-hair crew room I slept in last night that I just stand there blinking around. A suite fit for royalty stretches out, and blood red and gleaming gold walls encircle the space, broken up by lush and bulky gold furnishings. A yellow and red emblem of two clasped hands dripping with blood decorates the bedspread and walls. Below the painted hands the drips of blood form the word ‘Sanctuary.’

  Lovely.

  Gilded mirrors also stare from every wall. Those are going to be the first thing to go.

  Ever since May spied on me through the mirrors in Thailand, I’ve avoided them like a one-way ticket to hell. After laboriously taking down the frames and sliding them across the crimson carpet and into the hall, I double lock the door and fall onto the bed.

  I slept in a bunk full of dog hair last night--sleep was too strong a word for what I did, yet part of me longs for last night. My eyes slip closed, and then I’m riding a horse. Heavy furs wrap me in their warmth from neck to feet, but I still feel cold inside.

  My horse trots through freshly fallen snow as the sky sends down a light dusting of snowflakes.

  “This is likely going to be the last snow this winter, Elena,” Tobias says from the horse beside mine.

  I turn to my husband.

  Gray hair had begun to dust the sides of his head and the whiskers of his beard, a standing testament to our age difference.

  “Do you have to go?” I ask as icy fingers of fear grip me even tighter.

  Clear blue eyes land on mine. “My dear, you know I have to go. If I could stay with you at Leijonskjöld castle and never leave again, that is what I would do.”

  For perhaps the millionth time, I think I should just tell my husband. Breaking his heart would be worth it. But then my reason returns with a vengeance, and I know it’s much more likely my husband will turn against me. A cold, dark future plays out in my mind with perfect clarity. ‘Witch,’ would echo off a thousand lips. The affection in my husband’s eyes would extinguish like a flame in a windstorm. I can feel the rope tightening around my neck.

  My arms shake as I squeeze my gloved hands around the leather reins. “Then I will go with you.”

  Reaching over, he pats my shoulder and says, “Never, my love.”

  We have been over it so many times before, I don't bother to ask why he won't let me go. It's too dangerous. Life on the road is too hard for a woman. No denial or argument will make a bit of difference, because my husband Tobias will never see me for who I am.

  I open my mouth again, the words I want to speak to him perched on my lips, waiting to be set free.

  Your son is trying to kill me, and everyone knows but you. He rambles threats through my door every night, trying to break in to slit my throat.

  He calls me a witch.

  Very soon, he’ll either kill me or deep in the night I’ll try to fly out of my window and end up doing the service for him.

  I don’t say any of it though.

  We stop by the gate to the castle, and Tobias dismounts. He goes to the side of my horse and says, “Let me hold you one more time. Let me give you a kiss goodbye.”

  Grabbing onto his shoulders, I reposition the sidesaddle and let him help me down. In his arms, the last remnants of this farce of safety he brings whenever he visits the castle is fading away. His visits are always so short that I'm lucky to even have these moments alone with him; his eldest son, Hampus, makes sure of it.

  Why am I such a coward? My husband is standing here, holding me to him. It's the opportunity I've been waiting months for, and I can't say the words. I cannot tell Tobias. At my core, I don’t trust him to save me from his son.

  As if my thoughts summoned him, Hampus rushes out from the front stoop of the main section of the castle’s living quarters. His blond hair falls lazily about his handsome face. At least others find it comely. Dark smudges circle his eyes, a testament to his malicious visits. But his face only holds the sweet expression of a devoted son.

  “Father, here you are,” he calls, completely ignoring my existence. “You weren't going to leave on your journey without saying goodbye, were you?”

  Tobias pulls back from me, leans in and gives a quick kiss on my forehead.

  Hampus interrupts our moment alone on purpose, of course he does. I know it just as I know I must take this chance to slip away from the young man's notice.

  “I'll let you say your goodbyes,” I tell them as I quickly mount my horse again. My skirts tangle about my legs, and I just manage not to rip them in my frustration at the ridiculous nature of riding sidesaddle. Before the Leijonskjöld family took notice of me, my siblings and I rode horses to deliver shipments to and from the inn with no thought to propriety. Everything about the life my parents so happily traded me into chafes.

  Attempting to conceal my haste, I lead my sable mare back the way we came. After a moment of stubborn resistance, she yields to my or
ders and begins to walk.

  We don’t make it two steps when Hampus grabs my horse’s reins. He glares up and says, “I'll escort you back up to the manner.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I tell him with as little defiance as I can possibly manage in my voice. I want to spit in his face, but I manage something resembling a smile instead. “I’m sure you would like some privacy.”

  “My father has matters he needs to prepare,” Hampus says through his teeth. “Wait for me. It’s an order.”

  Looking over to my husband, for perhaps the millionth time, I wonder if he considers how his son treats me strange. But I find Tobias looking away, turning his horse and leaving.

  Hampus runs up beside me as I lead my mare toward the road, his boots sloshing through the snow.

  “Leave me alone.” I pointedly stare forward and not at my tormentor.

  “I wish I could. I've thought of a way to be rid of you for good, witch. I'm just not sure I have the fortitude and honor to do what must be done.”

  “How many times must I tell you? I am not a witch. All I am is your victim, Hampus. If there are voices in your head telling you to kill me, they are your own demons haunting you.” A hot tear slips down my cheek and immediately cools. I wipe it off with my gloved hand.

  “They are the voices of the angels, sorceress. Everyone will know you for what you truly are,” he says.

  “An innocent woman tormented by a monster,” I snap. “Stop coming to my door at night—I will never let you in to kill me. And if you break in, I will defend myself.”

  “You are no innocent. You are the devil's whore, tormenting my father, an good man, a holy man,” he says as he glares my way. To my relief, after his final insult, he says no more. But he stays beside my horse.

  The scene falls away, and I'm so grateful for the reprieve from the nightmarish memory. In its place, a large, lavish ballroom lays out before me. The yellow and red Sanctuary emblem of two hands clasped with blood soaking between them is on every wall and the length of the floor.

  I wear a black gown, glistening with gems. Andras stands before me in a gleaming black suit. He twirls me out and then back in. The orchestra plays a familiar waltz, though I couldn’t tell you who the composer is to save my life.

  Andras pulls me against him, leading with his body more than his hands. He leans in and whispers, “I was surprised you wanted to dance with me.”

  “Don't make too much of it,” I tell him.

  But it’s obvious from his expression, concentrated and speculative, he is making too much of it. And with the way we’re dancing, our bodies aligned, I can’t stop thinking about how horribly perfect it feels to be in his arms.

  Somebody bumps into me lightly from behind.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” a man says in accented English.

  Startling, I turn to find Santiago, standing just behind me. Theo, dressed in a green silk gown, pointedly does not look my way as her dance partner stops to apologize. I look into Santiago's dark brown eyes and apologetic grimace.

  “Not a problem,” I tell him. I pause, wanting so much to say something to him, to signal him in some way . . . and then I startle awake.

  It was a searing and now all too familiar pain in my arm that woke me. I almost feel more exhausted as I look down to Räum’s mark.

  “Crap,” I mutter as I roll off the bed to my feet. It looks like I’m going to dinner with Andras after all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two Days Before

  Washed, primped, and nervous, I make my way down the hall toward Andras’ room. I find the black gown from my dream hanging in my stateroom closet among many similarly lavish dresses.

  Obviously, Andras found quite a few formal wear stores in port. It was either that or he demanded gowns from the demons on board. I’m hoping it’s the former and suspicious it’s at least in part the latter.

  With that thought, I’m really hoping I won't have any demons demanding the dress off my back if I manage to slip away from Andras tonight.

  My heels click on the plastic not-quite-wood flooring. Holding up my fist, I stand before Andras’ door, not quite able to make myself knock. The door hovers just the slightest bit open, and violin music slips through the crack. I know the melody immediately, and it does nothing to calm my nerves. The sweet, long tones belong to the tune Andras played for me the first time I met him.

  A bucket of reality douses over me as I remember it was the same night Andras had me kidnapped.

  Yet, the reality of the circumstances of why I know this song only adds anger to the ache thrumming my chest, worsening it. A phantom loss throbs deep within me. Just because I can't handle listening to another note, I push the door open and barge in.

  Andras sits on the edge of his bed, wearing the exact suit I saw in the premonition. His jacket lies beside him. In his arms, he cradles a violin against his chin. His eyes don’t open as I enter, and to my disappointment, he doesn't stop playing either.

  He continues the all-too-familiar melody as I cross the room. Reaching forward, I grab his arm and grip where his cuff rides up around his wrist. As inappropriate as my action would be with any other person in the world, I need the music to stop.

  “Don’t play that song,” I whisper on a harsh breath. “Ever.”

  His eyes snap open and find me. I don't believe for a second he doesn't already know I’m here, but finally he lifts his bow away from his instrument.

  “I didn't think you were going to join me,” he says as he set his violin beside him on the bed.

  “I'm hungry,” I say. And it’s true. Hunger had been building in me since I woke. Even though I had the best lunch in years today, it feels like my nourishment only increases how famished I am.

  Slowly, he stands. He more than stands; it’s as if every movement Andras makes is deliberate and predatory. He doesn't move at all like Stephen; there is an ease and general good-natured zest to everything Stephen does. Nothing Andras does is lighthearted, as if even the concept would be utterly unknown to him.

  Carefully, he replaces his violin in its case; from the look of the old wood, and even the case itself, it could have been a relic from our former life together. I don't ask.

  Andras shrugs on his gleaming black coat and adjusts it on his shoulders. He tucks his shirt tails into his pants, unselfconsciously, and then gestures out toward the door. The way he walks, without looking at me, it seems as if Andras remains in that same funk he was in when he showed me my room.

  Part of me wants to honor his feelings, as something is obviously affecting him—but most of me is screaming: Consider Andras feelings? He doesn’t deserve feelings. He doesn’t deserve consideration.

  He probably doesn’t even have normal feelings.

  “I know who you offered to kill for Elena,” I say, remembering the cause of his bad mood.

  “I offered to kill him for you,” he says as we descend the stairs. “Those were some of the first words we ever spoke to each other. I was very surprised you sought me out after I offered to help you.”

  “You must've thought your victory had just landed in your lap. You were sent there to destroy Tobias Leijonskjöld, weren't you?”

  “Yes,” he says simply.

  “Wow,” I say, “that's probably the first time you've ever been honest with me.”

  “I hear you are not lying, but I thought you knew I can only tell the truth.” He articulates the words with care.

  “I think we both know there is a very big difference between telling the truth and being honest.” After I say the words though, I wonder if a demon does know that precisely.

  As we walk down the lavish hallways and staircases of the Sanctuary, we again have the disconcerting experience of having everyone lie down at our feet.

  “You can't like that, can you?” I ask as I tread down an aisle of prostrated demons.

  Andras glances around and then over at me. “Like what?”

  “You don't see all the people lying on the g
round?” I gesture out around us.

  “Oh, they are only paying due respect to my power,” he says. No irony. No sarcasm.

  Wow. Just wow.

  Enough said. Clearly, he likes it.

  We walk into the balcony level of a grand dining room. Even though the level we’re on has enough space for hundreds of tables, only one waits.

  In the restaurant below, guests dine in large joint-tables together. Dressed in formal wear, I can almost see the crowd below as any dining room with well-dressed patrons—if I ignore the spikes shooting out of the pianist’s back. Rotating at the center of the dining room below, he plays a slow, jazzy tune.

  To my disappointment, it doesn't look like there's any sort of dancing area either upstairs or down. There's definitely no orchestra, only the single pianist.

  I’ve been hoping that if I wear this dress and head out with Andras tonight, the premonition would instantly manifest. Obviously, it’s not one of those kinds of visions.

  “Are you going to sit?” Andras asks, and the look he’s giving me turns contemplative again. It's as if he expects me to stab him like I threatened or flee. The second one is actually in the realm of possibility, as my feet itch to do just that. I don't flee, and I don't stab him. Holding up the excess silky material of my skirt, I take a seat at the table set for two.

  Andras sits across from me. His shoulders stiffen as his emerald green eyes inspect my face. “Do you want some wine?”

  “Nope.” And then I can't help adding, “I would never, ever take a drink you offered me. I learned that lesson long ago.”

  Two drugged drinks changed the course of my life. Andras’ lackey gave me the first one in Italy. May gave Stephen the second in Thailand. “Actually, thanks for the reminder on that. I’m not risking drinking anything anyone gives me on this ship. I’ll drink out of the faucets in the bathrooms only.”

  Even that seems like a risk.

  “I will take a glass of wine,” Andras says with a wave at a handsome young Asian man. Scratch that; I realize as he comes over with a bottle of wine, it’s a demon wearing a young handsome man’s body.