And then suddenly she realized that maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought. Tom. She’d only just met him, but she trusted him. She would be safe with him; she was certain. Pulling herself up to stand, she ran through the snow, a wild gallop through the trees, and a few moments later, she was standing beneath what she hoped was his window. She threw a pebble, then another, and then a third and final one. And she waited there below, tugging her cloak tight against the cold.
When Tom heard the noise at his window, he thought it must be hail, but then he saw the gentle snowflakes falling, and knew it could be no such thing. No, someone was throwing pebbles. He stilled himself and then moved to the pane. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw there beneath him. Her cheeks and lips were flushed especially red—crimson, even—and her dark eyes sparkling below seemed to call to his very soul. He opened the window.
“Hello,” she said, smiling up at him like she’d always known him.
“Hello,” he managed to say.
“Come down,” she said, and then she moved quick as an animal, darting into the trees, and she was gone.
Breathlessly, he pulled on his trousers and slipped into his boots. Grabbing his coat, he was off and out the door as if his very life depended on it.
The snow was falling in steady swirls. The weather, which had appeared docile from his bedroom casement, now obscured his vision and made him unable to see her footprints. He headed into the trees after her, and had run only a few steps when an arm shot out and grabbed him. For a second that arm seemed otherworldly, almost as if it were there but also weren’t, caught between two realms, misshapen by his perception. And for a moment, the only thought that ran through his mind was of those men on the mountain, their bodies strewn about in the snow, and he screamed in terror. He could not help himself.
“It’s just me,” she said softly, and then he saw her again, the light of her, and moved to touch her, to press his lips firmly to hers, to crush her against him, but then he noticed that the skin around her eyes was red and swollen, and he stopped himself.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to her.
“I’m fine,” she said, but in her eyes there shone a terrible sadness.
“You’re not,” he whispered. “Please, tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”
“Tom,” she whispered, and then raising her hands to his face, she brought his lips close to hers, and kissed him deeply, truly, and in that moment, Tom felt certain he was coming home.
His head was still spinning a moment later when their lips parted, and stepping away, she looked up at him, the snow of her complexion now mottled with crimson and plum. And then he heard it—the sound of animals fleeing, hooves pounding against hard snow, wings beating furiously on winter birds who by their very nature were not prone to leaving. And then a noise. Deep in the woods, a rumble as something very large moved among the trees.
“We should go back,” he said, gripping her hand. “These woods aren’t safe.”
She shook her head, sorrow returning to her eyes. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t ever go back.”
But just as he was about to ask her what she meant, he was distracted by a great commotion—men coming out of the tavern, Goi Flint and his fellows.
Fiona froze, and staring in the direction of her guardian’s voice, she began slowly inching away from the village, away from Tom.
“Fiona, please,” he said, reaching for her. “We need to get back.”
She looked at him with those lost eyes of hers, and she shook her head, and then suddenly she was gone, running, through the trees and into the darkness of the forest beyond.
It took a moment for him to realize what she’d done, but shaking off his confusion, he sprinted after. He yelled her name as he ran, but his voice seemed to disappear, swallowed whole by the forest.
And then that noise again—a movement through the trees too large to be any animal, punctuated by a scream, a bright and staccato scream that pierced the night. And then a snap. And silence.
He stood there frozen, stunned.
“Fiona?” he yelled into the darkness, but there was no reply.
Pushing off as hard as he could, he raced deeper into the woods, darting through the moonlight-speckled trees. His legs burning, the snow slipped out from under him, and he slammed his arm against a tree, but he didn’t cry out in pain. He lifted himself up and pressed on. Ahead of him he saw a clearing, and he knew he needed to get there. He needed to see.
She lay in the snow, the moonlight illuminating the luscious pallor of her skin so that she almost looked like she wasn’t there at all. Her dress and cloak were spread around her in an arc, and her hair was fanned out like a pitch-black corona.
He approached slowly.
“Fiona,” he whispered, but still she didn’t move.
He saw her chest, and his stomach lurched. It had been opened up, hollowed out. Flesh and blood mingled in stringy derangement. He looked and he saw, but he didn’t really let himself see. He couldn’t. Instead, he stared at her face, more perfect in death even than it had been in life. Her dark eyes were wide and fixed on the stars above—stars that seemed to have come out simply to witness her death, clearing the clouds aside that the moonlight might make her lovely one last time.
He knelt beside her and stroked her hair.
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
He pressed his lips to her cheek. It was still warm.
“Everything will be just fine,” he said.
He kissed her one last time, and then with fingers light as feathers, he closed her eyelids, and lay back in the snow waiting for it not to be true. Waiting to wake up from the dream.
7. THE CHARIOT
WHEN ROWAN AWOKE the next morning, she could tell that something had changed. Somehow the world was different, and the thought of it caused a gnawing pain to grow in her stomach. She nearly doubled over with it as she climbed out of bed.
As she dressed, she noticed that her clothes felt unusually heavy, and when she stepped out of her room, she sensed she wasn’t alone. Turning, she saw a small figure sitting on the wooden bench at the end of the hall, down by Rowan’s mother’s old room—the room where her mother had died.
“Hello,” Rowan said, and the figure sat up straighter but made no move to stand. Rowan walked down the hall, trying to make out the child’s face. When she came into view, Rowan was surprised by how hard the little thing seemed. Plain, with straight brown hair that curved to her chin like an obedient dog, the girl held her lips pursed tightly, and she stared at Rowan with a decidedly frigid air.
“I’m Rowan,” she said, but the girl didn’t smile. She just stared at Rowan, and after a moment, she raised an eyebrow. Just when Rowan was about to speak again, a man stepped out of her mother’s room and smiled at her.
Emily had been right to describe the duke as beautiful, but she had neglected to mention how extremely young he was. Twenty-five at most, he was a tall, imposing man with dark green eyes and lips like bloodstains. He had a brightness to him that was immediately attractive. His chiseled face was smooth save for an odd scar he wore just below his left eye—three straight lines, almost like claw marks, that led down to one of his two disarming dimples.
Bowing her head and bending at the knee, Rowan curtsied, trying to hide how distracted she was by his beauty.
“My lord,” she said.
“None of that, now,” he said. On his left hand he wore an array of beautiful rings, and as he reached out to her, they glinted in the morning light. “I detest formality. While I am in your house, I am your guest and your friend but not your lord. Understand?”
He looked at her closely, his smile lighting up his dazzling eyes, and for a moment, she thought she might lose her footing. This man, she thought, was even more handsome than Jude, and much better behaved.
“Yes,” Rowan said, straining to find her voice. “I understand.”
“And this,” the duke said,
indicating the girl beside him, “is my ward, Merrilee.”
A strange smile played on the girl’s lips as she stood and offered Rowan her hand. She wore a navy-blue dress that did not suit her, and black boots that appeared to cut in at the ankle.
“Nice to meet you,” she whistled, air passing through the large gap between her top two teeth. “I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends.”
“I’m sure we will,” Rowan said, decidedly disturbed by the girl.
“Rowan,” the duke said, placing his hand on her shoulder and looking at her with kind eyes. “I’m afraid something’s happened. Your father wants to speak with you. You’d best go find him.”
Anxiety flooded Rowan’s veins. She’d known something was wrong. She’d felt it upon waking. She only hoped her father was okay. “Thank you,” she said, excusing herself. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“We’ll have time to talk later, I’m sure.” He smiled.
The house was quiet when Rowan walked downstairs. The lights were off, and her father’s study door was slightly ajar, but she could smell the lingering ghost of his pipe smoke.
“Father?” she called.
“Come in,” he answered.
Slowly she pushed the door open the rest of the way. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of what she might see within. She had a brief vision of horrors, fires and blood, black smoke and silver-white teeth, but when she entered, there was nothing extraordinary about the scene. Her father sat at his desk, his hands fastened together beneath his chin, his brow tight with some indiscernible emotion.
He raised his eyebrows as if she’d awakened him from a particularly unpleasant dream. “I’ve just returned from Dr. Temper’s. It appears there has been another incident.”
Rowan felt her bones begin to chill, and a faint shiver ran along the nape of her neck. “What do you mean by ‘incident’? You don’t mean like what happened to the men on Beggar’s Drift, do you?”
“I’m afraid I do. There’s been another attack. Another death. Rowan, I’m going to tell you this because I don’t want you to hear it elsewhere. This attack was particularly gruesome. This time the victim’s heart … it was ripped from her chest. She appears to have died instantly.”
“She?” Rowan asked, her voice breaking.
“Yes. I’m afraid it was your cousin, Fiona Eira.”
Rowan felt the earth drop out from under her. Her forehead tingled with a shock that crawled over her skull and down her back. Suddenly she thought she might be sick. Gripping the chair, she stared at her father, trying to read his emotions, trying to understand where hers were coming from, and without speaking, she left the room. He didn’t call out to her, didn’t stop her, and she pushed herself to make it to the stairs, leaning against the railing as she mounted them.
By the time she reached her room, the nausea had passed, but still she felt awful. Only once she reached the foot of the bed and was able to lean into it did she understand what was happening. Grief—terrible, throbbing grief. She grasped at her chest as if to stop the pain, trying to understand why the girl’s death paralyzed her so. She’d only met Fiona Eira once, but the loss tore into her, opened her up. Confused, weak, she climbed atop her covers, and curling up, she wept.
The funeral should have been the next day. It ought to have been. The village ought to have gathered in Fiona Eira’s home, and the elders ought to have performed the rites. She should have been covered in the funerary shroud, hiding the sight of human flesh so as not to offend the Goddess. Her body laid up on Cairn Hill at the Mouth of the Goddess, stones carefully arranged atop her resting spot. These were the things that ought to have been done. But sometimes things don’t go as planned.
Tom hadn’t spoken much since the night before. Nor had he eaten, and Jude, worried, brought a bowl of oatmeal up to him in bed.
“I sprinkled sugar on top,” Jude said as he set it before his brother, who didn’t meet his eyes, who barely moved. Jude laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“The rites,” Tom managed, his voice cracking with pain. “What time are the rites?”
Jude sat opposite him. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re not being said tonight.”
Tom sat up, his eyes suddenly clear. “What? What do you mean they’re not saying them tonight? If twenty-three hours pass, she can’t be laid to rest.”
Jude shrugged. “Goi Flint is refusing to let them in.”
“But the rites must be said.”
“He’s pickled in ale and extremely violent. He says he’ll do what he pleases with her body, and that no one will stop him. No one’s been able to reason with him. He gave Goi Tate a nasty black eye, and when Mama Lune tried to speak with him, he took a swing at her too.”
“This is sacrilege we’re talking about.” Tom rose, his eyes dull as day-old bread. His brother put a hand to his chest to stay him.
“Listen to me, Tom. Goi Flint is a dangerous man. And he’s gone completely mad with drink. He’ll kill you. Someone should stop him. I agree, but it shouldn’t be my only brother.”
“Surely he can be reasoned with.”
“They say you don’t understand unless you’ve seen him. There’s a rabid animal behind his eyes. He’s practically murdered his wife.”
“What?” Tom asked, surprised. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. She’s inside with him now, apparently refusing to come out as well.”
“This is lunacy. Surely the village elders can talk sense into him.”
“They’re shocked. They say there’s nothing we can do—that we just have to hope he sobers up and listens to reason before twenty-three hours have come and gone.”
“He must be stopped. He can’t do such a thing. He can’t.” Tom moved to leave, but Jude held his brother at arm’s length, his black eyes dangerous in their insistence.
“Sit,” Jude said. “Eat your food. Rest some more, and this evening we will go and speak with him together. I cannot let you go alone.”
Tom stared at his brother, uncertain what to say or do. He was frustrated by his own impotence and overwhelmed by his brother’s loyalty. So he sat down and did as Jude asked.
“I’ll be back for you in two hours,” Jude said.
Rowan sat on the edge of her bed, her cold feet dangling as she stared out her casement window at the ceaseless snow. She had spent the afternoon in bed—had not even risen to eat, she who was usually so hungry, she who could never seem to get enough nourishment to sustain her small body. Her father had left her alone up there, and his guests had gone out. Only Emily had knocked, checking on her, a nervous quaver to her voice, but Rowan had been able to persuade her that she was ill and needed to be left alone.
She ran a finger over the battalion of goose bumps that had risen along her arms. She ought to dress, ought to warm herself, but the cold felt good. She had no explanation for her reaction to her cousin’s death. She hadn’t known her aside from the conversation on the forest path. But now that she was gone, it felt as if someone very important had disappeared, and she had to keep her hands at her side lest they search blindly out in front of her for the warmth of a mother she knew she couldn’t remember.
Bringing her palms to her spent eyes, she leaned into them, willing the grief to stop, willing herself to act in a recognizable manner. With great effort, she would put on her dress and her stockings and her heavy black boots, and she would wade through the snow to the center of the village to Fiona’s cottage. She needed to pay her respects. She needed to see if she could be of service.
At the tavern, the men were fuming, caught up in the preparations, the thrill of the hunt infecting them all. Jude slunk in, trying to remain unnoticed. The last thing he wanted was to be given a weapon and dragged out into the wilds to fight a bloodthirsty beast, but he needed to know what was being planned.
“We’ll do what has to be done,” said Goi Tate, clearly relishing the chance to release some of his well-honed aggression. �
��We’ll band together and hunt the thing down. Then we’ll drag it through the center of the village and hang it up for all to see.”
The rest of the men grunted in assent.
“Safety must be a consideration, of course,” Wilhelm spoke up, his voice soft in comparison to the younger man’s. “We’ll need to go in pairs. We’ll need to stay on our guard.”
“We move tonight,” Goi Tate said, pulling the focus back to himself.
Jude cleared his throat and got the other men’s attention. “I don’t think it wise that we should hunt this creature at night,” he said.
“Don’t be silly, boy,” rasped Goi Tate. “It struck at night.”
“That’s my point exactly,” Jude answered. “It hunts and kills at night, and if we send ourselves out into the darkness when it is at its most potent, we put too much at risk. It would be wiser to move at dawn, to catch the creature unaware, perhaps even while it sleeps.”
“What does the boy know?” Goi Tate scowled. “He speaks from fear.”
Paer Jorgen nodded. “He is right to be afraid. The creature we hunt, whether it be a common wolf or something … more, no man here is a match for it. Our best chance to kill it is to use our wits. We go at dawn.”
Goi Tate raised his thumb. “Respectfully, I disagree. We need to slay the wolf before it can kill again.”
“It was no wolf,” a raspy voice said from the stairs, and Jude looked up to find his brother looking even worse than when he’d left him. The room fell silent, and the men waited for Tom to continue. “I was not twenty yards from it, and though I didn’t see it with my eyes, I am certain it was no wolf. It was larger, I am sure of it—larger than any man, larger than any animal known to these woods.”
The Glass Casket Page 9
