“Father said he looked like a dragon.” Maribel bit her lip. “He said that he was half man, half serpent.”
For a brief second, Maribel could have sworn a message passed between Mother Briar and Corrine, a conversation without words. Mother Briar shuffled back and opened the door wider. “Come inside.”
Though she’d been inside once or twice in the past, stepping inside the witch’s house was like stepping into a whole new world. Plants and herbs hung from strings all over the walls, filling the space with the dust of yellowed leaves and the cloying scent of dying blooms. The skeletons of small creatures were scattered about flat surfaces, some of them with bits of flesh still clinging feebly to the blood-stained bone. Sharp blades glinted from the shadows, polished but somehow still managing to hint at their gory tasks, as though the blood hung on the steel like a shadow. A thick black cauldron hung in the fireplace, a liquid bubbling inside that didn’t smell like any soup Maribel had ever come in contact with.
After they were all seated at the small table in the witch’s kitchen, Mother Briar focused her full attention on Maribel. “Now, tell me exactly what happened.”
Maribel resigned herself to the situation and leaned heavily on the table. “Father received a message saying one of his ships had come in, and he asked Corrine and me what we wanted. I tried to tell him I didn’t want anything, but he insisted. Finally, I remembered a rose I’d seen in one of your books. A Rose of the Mist. I told him I wanted the rose and showed him the picture. I thought he could get it at a florist or an apothecary, or maybe even from the woods—the book said the rose had been found in these forests near here before.” She closed her eyes, her stomach rolling as she forced herself to think of all that her father had been through—because of her.
“This lord has a Rose of the Mist?” Mother Briar breathed.
A gleam came into her eyes, a shine that emphasized the darkness of her irises rather than lightened them. Maribel had to fight not to rub her arms to rid herself of the sudden crawling sensation over her flesh.
“A Rose of the Mist is very valuable,” Mother Briar mused, half to herself. A flash of disapproval lit her eyes. “And if you’d read the book in its entirety, you would know that it does not occur naturally. The Rose of the Mist is created from an ordinary rose that has been subjected to intense magical forces—wild, uncontrolled magic. They cannot be created on purpose, only by accident. That is what makes them so rare.”
Again the old crone’s gaze slid to Corrine as if trying to convey something important. Corrine’s brown eyes remained ice cold, her face set in sharp lines. Maribel opened her mouth, ready to ask what was going on, what the two women weren’t telling her.
“I’ve heard stories of this lord,” Corrine said tightly. “Mother Briar, I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm them. I’ve heard that this lord was cursed into a bestial form because he turned away a weary old woman who begged shelter during a wicked storm. She wanted to teach him a lesson, but the lord was too cruel and selfish to learn. I heard that he killed everyone in his manor—down to the last servant.”
Mother Briar held Corrine’s look for a moment longer then faced Maribel. “I’ve heard those rumors as well. And indeed, we must not dismiss them too easily.” She paused. “However…”
Corrine choked, but Mother Briar ignored her.
“If your father says that this lord fed and sheltered him, then perhaps he has learned from his past mistakes. In fact, I had heard that in order to break the curse upon him, he must learn to love and trust another, and earn their love and trust in return. Perhaps that is why he has sent for you, suggested this trade. It is possible that he wants an opportunity to break his curse, and he simply feels that his appearance is too frightening for him to get the chance any other way.”
Maribel’s lips parted. “You mean… You think he wants me to stay with him so that he can…woo me?”
Corrine’s fingers gripped the wooden table so hard her nails drew furrows in the surface. Mother Briar continued to ignore her, her unwavering gaze locked firmly on Maribel.
“I think he wants a chance to prove that he’s changed, that he is not the beast inside that he is on the outside,” the witch confirmed. “Do you think you could see beyond his appearance and give him that chance?”
Maribel blinked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat at the witch’s lack of subtlety. She folded her hands, urging herself to get a grip. The witch was probably toying with her, filling her head with ridiculous fantasies so she’d embarrass herself in front of this lord. Mother Briar had never liked Maribel. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” she told Mother Briar, her will to remain polite strained to the point of discomfort. “Thank you for the advice.”
“No!”
Corrine’s shout drew the attention of Maribel and Mother Briar simultaneously. Veins pulsed in her sister’s temples, straining against her skin. The hair on Maribel’s arms rose as some sort of ghostly wind flowed from her sister. The brown tendrils of Corrine’s hair danced as though stirred by a breeze, and there was a disconcerting vibration rolling off her body. Maribel held her breath as she realized that for the first time, she was getting a taste of Corrine’s magic.
“Mother Briar,” Corrine ground out, “surely there is some information you can give us that would let Maribel escape the lord’s grasp? We need her on the farm.”
Mother Briar gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m afraid I can think of nothing. In my mind, the best thing for your sister to do is to go to this lord, save her father, and perhaps see if she can’t get to know the man within the monster.”
Corrine looked like she’d swallowed a live toad and Maribel shifted uneasily in her seat. The vibration from her sister grew stronger, and the sensation on Maribel’s skin was…unpleasant. Not for the first time, she wondered exactly what happened in this cottage while she was outside among the plants. “Corrine,” she said gently. “Please. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.”
Corrine shot out of her seat and practically flew through the door. Maribel raised her hands to cover her face, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be alone with her thoughts.
“She will be all right,” Mother Briar assured her. “There comes a time in everyone’s life where they must travel their path alone.”
“I suppose so,” Maribel mumbled.
“Your sister relies on you, Maribel, but she is stronger than even she thinks. Go to this lord, save your father—save the beast. Do not worry about Corrine.” The witch’s voice shifted, taking on a tone somewhere between a promise and a threat. “I will take care of your sister.”
Suddenly Maribel had to get out of the witch’s cottage. She offered Mother Briar a half-hearted wave goodbye and, without making eye contact, followed the path Corrine had taken. For the first time in Maribel’s life, she ran to catch up with her sister.
Chapter Four
The vase exploded against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces and littering the rug with glistening dust and jagged fragments of broken ceramic. The nerve-scratching sound of the crash did nothing to appease Daman or the tempest raging inside him. His blood still boiled in his veins, a red haze hanging in front of his eyes and clouding his vision. His chest rose and fell rapidly with his heavy breathing as he faced the window again, watching the new arrivals emerge from the carriage and start up the path.
“That iss not the witch,” he seethed. “The old man hass played me for a fool.”
“You didn’t know the witch had a sssissster?”
“Of coursse I knew!” Daman ground his teeth, the increasing sibilance in his voice grating on his nerves, taunting him with his loss of control. “It made ssensse that the witch would be the one to want the Rosse of the Misst.” He tried to keep his voice level, his tone even. “I vissited her home a year ago—I ssaw no ssign that her ssisster practicced the craft.”
“How long did you obssserve her?”
Daman drummed his fingers along the windowsill, sharp white cl
aws clicking against the stone in a sharp staccato pattern. “No longer than I obsserved the home of anyone who came to me sseeking ssanctuary. It didn’t take long to esstablish that the witch wass not being abussed, wass not misstreated by her family. Sshe didn’t sseek my help becausse her life wass in danger, sshe merely wanted an eassier life and sshe thought I would give that to her.”
The rest of that particular memory tried to creep into Daman’s consciousness, but he shoved it away. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper completely. Not now that there were people here, people who could bleed, could be injured.
He stewed silently. The old man was a wreck. Even though he wore clean clothes now and had obviously eaten and slept much better than the last time Daman had seen him, his hair was sticking out in tufts where he’d probably shoved his hands through it. His face was lined with worry and his eyes were red from tears. He held his daughter to him as he trudged up the path, lips moving the whole time. No doubt whispering words of comfort.
Or perhaps trying to convince her to leave.
The woman for the most part appeared determined. Her jaw was set in a stubborn line, though her eyes flicked nervously, taking in her surroundings with the caution of a cat approaching a rustling bush. Daman’s eyes lingered on her, taking note of her fair skin, her beautiful chocolate brown hair. Her body was thin, but the curve of her hips suggested that her slender state had more to do with a peasant’s diet than any decree of the gods. She would probably have luscious curves if fed properly, the kind of curves a man could cup in his palms…
The scrape of claws against hard stone grated on his ears, drawing Daman out of his burgeoning fantasy and back into stark reality. He stared down at his hand, his skin spotted with bluish green scales, fingers tipped with sharp white claws. Not the hands one held a woman close with. Pain washed over him, followed quickly by a welcome rush of hot anger. Yet one more thing the witch had stolen from him then.
“I have to ssend her away.” He flowed for the door like a churning tide, his scales scratching over the stone floor. Even with his back to the window, he could still see the woman’s brown hair with deep red highlights glistening in the sun. An image from a year ago, the same woman kneeling in the dirt, face smudged with soil, humming happily as she tried to coax a tomato plant to lean properly against the stick she was trying to tie it to, brushed across his mind. He’d thought her beautiful then too. He’d had his human form then, he could have spoken up, introduced himself…
Frustration pulled his skin tight and threatened to urge his temper to stone-shattering depths. Daman sucked in air through his nose, letting it out of his mouth silently as he dashed through the hallways down to the lower level. All of that was done, in the past. He couldn’t change it now, and a fleeting attraction to the woman didn’t change anything. She couldn’t stay here.
Why couldn’t it have been the witch? It should have been her.
His head throbbed, a loud buzzing in both his ears making him clench his teeth. He needed to meditate, needed to get a handle on the rage building inside him. He’d thought of the witch too often these past few days, had allowed memories of her to feed his fury for too long. He had to get rid of his unwanted guests so he could retreat to his sanctuary, his loneliness. It was the way it had to be.
His hand closed over the doorknob, claws scratching at the polished metal, and he ripped it open, muscles already propelling him to meet his guests. Shock broke over him as he realized they’d progressed farther than he’d anticipated and were directly in front of him, standing on the doorstep.
His serpentine reflexes were the only thing that kept him from colliding with the man and his daughter, his lower body constricting and pushing upward so that his momentum was redistributed into rising up higher as his tail uncoiled more than usual and lifted him instead of shoving him into his new arrivals.
The end result was that he filled the doorway, looming over his visitors from nearly eight feet in height. The old man cried out and curled himself around his daughter, putting his back between her and Daman. The girl sucked in a startled breath and squeezed her eyes closed, cowering into her father’s arms.
Fear me, of course you fear me. Their reaction broke something inside Daman, the last of his tenuous control. He roared, a loud, bellowing sound that rattled the windows on either side of the door. The girl whimpered, eyes still tightly closed, and her father gritted his teeth, clutching her tighter.
“What gamess are you playing, old man?” Daman demanded, heart pounding wildly in the flood of adrenaline pouring through him. His tongue flicked out with every sibilant syllable—a fact that only fed his rage.
“Y-you said—”
“You were to bring me the daughter that assked for the rosse!”
The girl peered over her father’s shoulder while still huddling in his protective embrace. Her blue eyes revealed far too much white.
“I,” she started, her voice hoarse and broken. She cleared her throat. “I am the one who asked for the rose.”
Daman gripped the doorway, digging his claws into the wood until it groaned, threatened to splinter. The girl flinched, but kept her eyes on his.
“You?” His tongue stabbed the air, tasting it. He growled. “You are no witch. You—”
Daman went perfectly still, the taste of the girl’s scent on the air fully registering. Instinct seized control of his muscles, sliding him closer to the woman, his tongue slipping out again to confirm what his senses were telling him. He ignored the old man’s shudder, focusing on the woman.
She is a changeling. How did I miss that before?
He studied her for a moment, his gaze flicking from her to her father. The old man cared for her, that much was obvious. It was impossible to tell if he knew the woman in his arms was not of his own blood or if he, like so many others, continued to believe the lie of the new babe in the cradle.
Rage still bubbled inside of him like a pot left too long over the fire. It wasn’t until his brain registered the trembling of the changeling on his doorstep that Daman realized exactly how close to the edge of the cliff he was standing. She was a changeling, a member of the people he had given his oath to protect—a child left by fey parents in exchange for their human babe. That she saw him as a threat was the greatest blow to his honor he had ever born.
Exerting his will over his temper was never easy, but those blue eyes gave him the strength he needed to reach deep inside himself, to search for the elusive thread of humanity wavering in the wind of his temper. He snatched it up and held it close to him, sucking in long, deep, slow breaths. He pictured his rage like a fire burning inside of him, and he kept breathing in a controlled, even fashion as he pictured the flames dying down until the image became his meditation candle. One small flame.
Something of his new calm must have shown on his face, because the old man gathered his bravery enough to face him with unblinking eyes. “Please reconsider. Let me take my daughter home.”
Daman opened his mouth, fully intending to grant the old man’s request. “A deal is a deal. The woman will stay, and you may go.” The words came from a part of him not controlled by his brain, catching him off guard. He blinked then moved quickly out of the doorway, back into the house so he could gesture for his guests to enter while simultaneously hiding the bewildered expression he knew must be on his face. “Go up the stairs and into the first room on your right. There is a trunk inside. You may load the trunk with as much treasure from the room as you like.”
“Keep your treasure and let me keep my daughter,” the old man begged.
“Father, please. It’s all right.”
Daman glanced back. The man hadn’t moved from the doorstep and was still standing there clutching his daughter. The woman’s voice was soft, but confident, not a trace of the uncertainty screaming from her posture huddled in her father’s arms. She didn’t look at Daman, but edged away from her father, easing out of his protective embrace. She stepped over the threshold and marched for the
stairs.
“Don’t ignore his generosity, Father. Please, take the treasure and use it to hire help. Corrine will need someone to take care of her.”
Corrine. The name sent a shiver down Daman’s spine, caressing his temper and urging it to rekindle. He averted his eyes, not wanting to frighten the woman with the scowl he could feel tightening the lines of his face. Gods knew he’d already scared her enough, especially if he expected her to stay with him. If he didn’t want her to run away screaming, he had to get a tighter grip on his emotions—no matter what topic arose.
“Load the trunks,” he said, his voice only slightly hoarse and mercifully free of sibilance. “I will bring it down to the carriage after you’re done.”
Without another word, Daman left the room, moving as fast as his scales would carry him. He kept going until he was safe in the sanctity of his own chambers. Light poured in through his large, arched windows, casting a golden glow on his bed, revealing the nest of torn blankets and shredded sheets—a telltale sign that this was another room the brownies did not dare to enter. Their absence was felt keenly in the shattered statues, shredded paintings, and broken glass that desecrated every surface, every wall. A shrine to the madness threatening the lord of the manor.
Thoughts and memories swirled faster and faster inside Daman’s head and he slammed the heavy door behind him. The sound of the solid wood crashing against the doorframe thundered through the room, a satisfying, but empty sound.
Corrine.
The name echoed in his head like ripples in a pond, growing larger and more powerful as they spread. Corrine. Corrine. Corrine. More ceramic shattered against the wall as Daman heaved a statue of a dragon across the room. The heavy sculpture shattered into large chunks, filling the air with fine white dust. It coated Daman’s nostrils as he sucked in ragged breaths, flailing around for something else to throw. His hand closed around a brass bookend carved to resemble twined serpents and he cast it outward. It hit the window, shattering the glass and then sailing out into empty air.
All for a Rose Page 7
