Dark One's Mistress (Dark One Trilogy Book 1)

by Alien, Aldrea

  An unusually square glow came from behind the screens cutting off the far corner. Was there a door along the wall? Frowning, she crept up to the black screen. The door stood open. Steamy warmth wafted in from the room beyond, bringing with it the scent of soap. A smile tugged at her lips.

  Peering at the furniture, she struggled to decipher the dark shapes in the gloom. One shadowy bulk seemed to be mirroring the candle sitting upon the black surface. Closer inspection revealed what she'd first thought had been a simple desk was actually a dressing table, complete with brushes, hair clips and perfume bottles. And like the furniture, they were either gilded or crafted from a similar dark wood as the furniture.

  Clara picked up the least gaudy hair clip of the bunch and squinted at the mirror. Although the single candle showed up in the silvered surface readily enough, the light it threw wasn't strong. She could make out the unflattering, pale oval of her face, but little beyond. Grumbling, she padded over to the bed and took up the candelabra sitting on the little table.

  Something to her left hissed, the sound soft and drawn out like meat being slowly lowered into boiling water.

  Clara swung with the trio of candles thrust before her, their flames sputtering in the breeze. She jerked her arm back as the velvet darkness of the bed curtains rose to greet her. The hissing, just loud enough to be noticeable above her own harsh breathing, emanated from behind it. She eyed the curtain. The heavy fabric encircled the bed. A lot of things could hide behind it.

  She reached out to pull the curtain aside, her hand stopping short of touching it. Get a hold of yourself. It was an unfamiliar room. Such noise could be quite common in here. Likely nothing more than the breeze through a crack in the wall. Nothing to be jumpy over.

  The hairs on the back of her neck weren't so convinced.

  She backed away from the bed, watching the curtains. Nothing emerged from beyond the black drapes. Clara cocked her head. When had the hissing subsided? She strained to find a sound in the silence. Nothing stronger than the sigh of the wind shut outside. A breeze through the cracks.

  The hair clip returned to its brethren as she abandoned the mirror and any thoughts of tending to her hair. A bath would soon soothe her nerves.

  Light and soapy warmth greeted her presence in the adjoining room. Here, as if shunning the dreariness of its sister chamber, everything was white and silver. From the tiles under her slippers and adorning the walls to the silvery clawed feet on the bath. As for the bath itself... Why, she'd never seen a tub of such size that wasn't used for laundry or tanning.

  A few tugs on the laces and her gown came free, the shift following fast behind.

  She slipped into the bath. Water lapped at her neck, the rest of her body was calmly cocooned in liquid warmth. Bubbles sloshed about on the surface, dozens of little iridescent orbs practically inviting her to burst them. Unable to resist the call, she slipped a nail into one of the bigger bubbles. It popped in a spray of tiny drops.

  A tray lay across the foot of the bath, silvery and burdened with soaps and bottles of varying sizes. She tapped it with a toe. The bottles shifted, glass clinking against each other. A sweet aroma emanated from them, each fragrance battling for control over her nose. She hadn't seen such a collection in the smaller bath she'd last used. Was this how most noblewomen lived? Perfumes and glitter. Clara plucked a sponge from amongst the bottles. They can keep it. Tipping her head back, she idly began to scrub.

  Her gaze wandered across the ceiling. At some point, someone had decided painting it would be a good idea. The light bluish-green tiles were speckled in bubbles and every other tile had been bedecked with either seashells or fish. Her head rolled to one side to eye were the wall met the ceiling. Here, they'd painted bright, rocky-looking branches. They rimmed the room, their knobbly fingers spilling down the walls.

  Clean, she stood, tepid water slopping against the bath's white sides. The air had abandoned its muzzy warmth, turning instead to a chill that had her desiring to sink back into the bath.

  She hurried to the stack of beige towels on the small table beside the door. They had to be the first commonly-coloured cloth she'd seen in weeks. Just like she was used to back home. Shivering, she picked one up and started rubbing at her chill skin. They even felt the same.

  Beside the towels sat another pile of cloth, this in the black and red more prevalent around the rest of the Citadel. Clara took up the top bundle. As expected, it unravelled into a nightdress. No doubt the other item was to be her dressing gown.

  Dressed and warm once more, she took up the candelabra and, after extinguishing the candles within the glowing bathroom, stepped into the black tomb of her bedchamber to snuff out the other candles.

  Soon only the soft glow of the lit candles in her hand held back the darkness. Soft and hypnotic, the trio of flames swayed on their wicks. Yawning, Clara strolled over to the bed.

  The hissing picked up again as she touched the curtain. She frowned at the blackness draped before her. It didn't sound much like wind through a crack anymore. In fact, it sounded angry.

  Steeling herself, she jerked the curtain open a ways. Something rustled within the darkness. The candlelight barely disturbed the shadows beyond. She fancied seeing the same thing shifting about on the blankets. The light glinted on what she prayed, and feared, was an eye.

  Clara stiffened as if she'd been doused with cold water. She ran for the door to scrabble at the key. Turn, come on, turn!

  The hissing had stopped. Clara didn't dare to look behind her and see why. She jiggled the key some more. The lock clicked open. The door hit the wall with a bang.

  "Tommy!" Her scream echoed down the stairs. As it faded, she caught a sigh coming from whatever it was upon her bed. Should she go down to him?

  The rapid tap of feet on stone answered her. Torchlight invaded the darkness of the stairwell, preceding Tommy as he burst through the doorway. "Clara!" He clasped her arm, the fingers stronger than she remembered. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

  She pulled free of his grip. "No, I—" She tipped the candles towards the other side of the room. "My bed..." Clara met his dark eyes and bit her lip, suddenly unsure. He's good with animals. What if the beast was dangerous? Would he be able to cope?

  He peered over her shoulder and frowned. Hooking the torch into the sconce outside her room, Tommy took the candelabra from her unresisting hands. He strode across the room, footsteps sure and his stance more like the man he was than the child he often seemed to appear.

  Clara grasped the doorframe. She should've sent him off to look for someone else. Whichever person would've been more suited to dealing with this. One of the guards. Even the men down in the stables would've been a better choice.

  Tommy jerked the curtains fully open.

  A sleek, white form burst forth from the darkness. Hissing, it flapped and scrabbled its way around the room. The animal slammed against the curtained windows. Wings beating madly against the fabric, it kicked free of them with a honk.

  Heading to the other side of the room, it barrelled into the screens. The crash as they fell set it off into a fresh bout of startled honks and shrieks. The bird then skittered along the ground, aiming for the open doorway at Clara's back.

  She recoiled from the oncoming beak. Spinning to flee down the stairs, Clara bumped into someone standing just at the top of the steps. She clung to them, not daring to lift her head. Bare skin lay under her hands, hairy and warm.

  Arms wrapped around her, the muscles tense. Behind her came the animal's frantic honking.

  "Gotcha!" Tommy cried.

  She dared a peek over her shoulder. With the creature still, she could see exactly what type of beast had invaded her new room. A swan? No mistaking the large white body or long neck. How had something so large found its way in here?

  "Don't worry, Clara," Tommy said, gently stroking the animal's neck. The swan wriggled in his arms. Yet it didn't look to be as earnest in its escape as it had before. It could only be Tommy's influen
ce on animals. "It's just a bird."

  The sleek head swung about. One red-rimmed eye slowly measured her as it regally suffered Tommy's handling.

  Clara shuddered, burying herself deeper into the strong arms holding her. The man mumbled soft words she couldn't quite make out. A hand, obviously unused to soothing anything more than a favoured pet, brushed her hair in short, jerking strokes.

  "Shall I take her outside?" Tommy asked.

  Movement came from the man's head, his chin brushing her shoulder. Tommy obeyed the order in the quiet, simple way she'd always seen him handle animals.

  She watched him carry the swan off into the darkened garden, a fresh chill forming in her stomach. If Tommy stood over there, then who was holding her? He wouldn't dare. Clara pushed away from the bare chest, glaring up at Lucias. "What are you doing here?" She tugged at her dressing gown, drawing the front close. "You said I'd be free of your presence this evening."

  Those dark eyes stared back, humour crackling in their depths. "I did not intend to intrude on your solitude, but I'd also instructed Tommy to have word sent to me if you were in need of assistance." One side of his mouth twitched upwards. "Granted I was expecting it to be something a little more sinister than a rogue swan." He chuckled, his gaze lifting from her to the night-darken windows. "She must've flown down from the rooftop garden."

  There was another garden up there? Why didn't they ever tell her these things? "You've a swan living on the roof?"

  Lucias lips parted to reveal a flash of teeth. "Actually, we've a mated pair living up there. They arrived some years ago from Port Dank as a gift to my father."

  "Well it's gone now." Clara spun, deliberately turning her back to him. "Don't you think you should also be leaving?"

  He sighed. "Look, you won't want to sleep in the same bed a swan has been using for a nest. Allow me to offer my own chambers for the night."

  Clara glared at the dark hulk of her bed. She could've been asleep by now if it hadn't been for the accursed bird. Her skin crawled at the thought of what could be hiding in the blankets, of the tiny creatures that could be quietly infesting the dark sheets. She fought to suppress a shudder, her stomach quivering in retaliation. "It'll take more than a mere bird to get me to share your bed." She could find another spot. There were still chairs and, if it came to it, there was always the floor.

  "I'm capable of sleeping elsewhere. My bed has already been warmed and I can guarantee you'll have nothing else in the sheets with you." A boot scuffed along the stone, loud in the stillness of the room. "Including me."

  She peered at him over her shoulder. He'd moved closer, the torchlight throwing shadows over his face. There didn't appear to be anything other than sincerity in his voice. What if it was a ruse to get what he wanted from her? He could've easily had the swan put there whilst she was dining. Could she dare trust him? Should she?

  Clara pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, the neck of it biting into her skin. "Lead the way," she snapped, pushing past him to descend the stairs.

  He'd caught up to her by the time she'd reached the bottom. Side by side, they walked through the halls in silence. Every so often, torchlight would glitter off his sword as he toyed with the hilt. She'd never seen him without the weapon, although he must remove it from his side for the belt sat askew on his hips as if hastily donned.

  Had he been abed when she'd called for her page? Obviously the command had been made since Tommy's arrival. Or had it? He always seemed to know what went on between her and the guards. Had he just adapted the situation with her page to suit him? All I need to do is cry out and he'll appear?

  Her stomach churned at the thought, bubbling in her indecision as she struggled with the idea. She knew few people who would drop everything to come to her aid. Especially with a mere bird.

  "You seem more distant than usual," Lucias murmured. "Are you well?"

  She jerked her gaze from the sword hilt, her cheeks burning. "I'm fine." Clara stared at the hallway stretching before them. This was not the passage she recalled from her first night here. The corridor seemed wider than most and the carpet under her feet felt thicker. They left this path for an even broader hallway. Here, tapestries and paintings adorned the walls.

  Where was he taking her?

  Candles lit the way to a large pair of doors. Black wood shone. Light reflected off the door handles that, despite the polish, had an eerie unused look about them. "My chambers." He shoved the doors wide open. The faintest of whines issued from above. More doors greeted them, equally as dark as the first set and just as large. "The bedroom is straight ahead." He bowed as she entered the room. "I will see to it you are never again disturbed by any animals in your room."

  Clara bit her tongue, thankful he could not see her face. She'd rather he was the one not disturbing her. "Good." The dark shape of a third pair of doors lingered on the edge of her vision. She ignored them, swiftly crossing the tiny room towards the bedroom.

  Her skin tingled in the unmistakable way that could only mean she was being watched. Clara spun, flattening herself against the door and no longer sure what to expect after finding a swan in her bed.

  Lucias still stood in the entranceway, quietly staring at her. "You should wear your hair down more often." His lips curved into a minute smile. "It looks nice."

  Clara frowned. Did he not think she was well aware of how her hair appeared to others? Like a waterfall of blood streaming from my scalp. Not exactly something she wanted to embellish. Perhaps Gettie was right. Maybe the Great Lords did have more than a drop of bloodthirstiness in them. "Goodnight, my lord." Opening the door, she slipped through the gap and firmly shut the heavy panel behind her.

  The warmth of a blazing fire hit her, burrowing into flesh she had not realised had been so cold. Her gaze traversed the room, taking in the dark furniture of black and red. Naught seemed out of place. Compared to the room she'd been given, this chamber had a positively cheery air about it.

  Yet the sensation something wasn't quite right pulled at her.

  She hadn't expected to ever find herself in this room. Now here she stood. In the heart of the Citadel. The last place she wanted to be. I should've asked for the key. Would he have given it to her? She sighed. Even if he had, the servants surely possessed others. No one kept a single key to a simple bedchamber.

  Tentatively relinquishing her hold on the door handle, Clara scurried towards the fireplace. A poker, thick and heavy-looking, leant against the hearth. She grasped it, the uneasiness in her gut dulling with the solid weight of iron in her hand.

  An armchair sat by the fireplace, the dark shape of a book nestling in its old cushions. Beside it stood a table with a platter lying atop its dark surface. Clara stepped closer, peering at the silver tray in search of a less bulky weapon. It bore naught but a few crumbs and a half-full tankard of beer. He had eaten alone?

  She searched the room again. The nagging feeling still lingered. If only she could put a finger on it. What was she missing? Her gaze slid across the walls. Something was wrong with them, she knew it.

  Odd. Not much could be hidden. There weren't even any curtains for someone to hide behind. No windows. Clara spun, checking each of the bricked surfaces in turn. Nowhere could she see a single pane of glass.

  She glanced at the doors, suddenly feeling cold despite the fire at her back. There was one way into this tomb-like place, no place to hide and the corridor beyond being her only means of escape. She was more trapped here than back in the chambers he'd gifted her.

  Creeping up to the doors, she pressed an ear against the wood. Silence. Clara lifted the poker high and flung the door open. Darkness greeted her, relieved by the faint twinkle of polished handles from the opposite door.

  Frowning, she shut the door again. Twice he had done as he'd said. Perhaps she could trust his word. To a point. Or was it just some ruse to get her into his bed? Well, I am already in his chambers. Granted, without him, but he must see this as a step forward.

  Sh
e'd have to be extra careful with her words and actions over the next week. And search for a way to get both Tommy and her out, regardless of what vow she'd made. She hadn't asked to be kidnapped and dragged before him.

  The bed lay at the far end of the room, its shadowy bulk rimmed in black and roofed in red drapes. Someone had already pulled aside the curtains facing the fireplace, exposing the dark bedding.

  Clara prodded each lump in the covers. Nothing moved. Leaning the poker against the mattress, she clambered under the sheets.

  Fluffy blankets readily embraced her, fast luring her into a half sleep. Stretching, she slipped her hand beneath the pillow. Something hard and cold greeted her fingertips. Wrapping her fingers around the handle, she withdrew the item from its cover.

  The blade glinted softly in the dim glow of the fire. He sleeps with a dagger in his bed? The sword she could understand. Almost. But this? He actually expected to be attacked in his own bed. By who? Me?

  Biting her lip, she returned the weapon to its resting place. Surely not. He'd lifted her off the ground without breaking a sweat. Had easily brushed off the best of her attacks. Lucias couldn't consider anything she did to be more than a mild annoyance.

  Burrowing deeper into the blankets, Clara closed her eyes and let the soft crackle of the fire lull her to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  The door gave a faint squeak that was nevertheless loud in the silence emanating from the room beyond. Clara halted in the doorway. Shelves of books clung to the walls, making a maze of the room and stretching high enough for the top rows to require ladders.

  He's in here? Hard to imagine anyone would bother venturing into this place. The study had a look about it that spoke of many years of disuse. Tables and cabinets dotted the space between bookshelves, the glass doors of the latter dull in the morning light. Some things, like the top rows of books, had gone grey with the dust.

  But Gettie was adamant he could be found here.

  The ruddy glow of a fire peeked around the end of a cabinet, toying with the glass and dancing along the display of figurines cluttering the shelves within. The soft rustle of a turning page punctuated the crackle of burning wood.