by P. J. Fox
“Trust me.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she did and his lips were on hers, forcing them wider, exploring her mouth with his tongue. His hand slid up her back, along her neck, and tangled in her hair. He pulled her head back, making her gasp as she sank into him. His other hand, on the small of her back, supported her weight. She felt herself melting into him, the world falling away until there was nothing left but his drugging caress.
She felt the warmth rising in her as her answering kiss became more urgent. Her hands explored him. Being apart from him was like physical pain; like part of her had been cut off. She only felt truly whole when she was like this, subsumed totally in this, her other half. She couldn’t control herself, couldn’t control the things she wanted him to do to her. She wanted him to bite her; wanted to feel his lips, not just on her but inside her. Feel her blood flowing into him, scalding hot and delicious. The only thing he truly craved.
He tasted of malt liquor and tobacco and smelled of fire and the woods. And of another scent, too, lingering beneath those things: decaying leaves on marble and moss and the mineral drip, drip of water and all the things that made up the cold of the grave. He was as dead as the winter white world around them only, with him, there would be no springtime return to life. He should have died before her grandparents were born.
That time hadn’t denied her a soul mate was the purest form of magic.
She wanted to be dead beside him.
“Darling,” came his soft murmur, his lips barely leaving hers. “Darling.”
As all around them, the snow began to fall.
THIRTY-TWO
Tristan regarded the skull on his desk.
Osito, he’d called the intelligence inside. The pet name his lover had used for the repulsive, sweating man. Little bear. Tristan doubted it was any more of a compliment in his lover’s native Ispagna than it was in Morven; but that now-missing child undoubtedly thought equally as little of the man as Tristan.
If there was one creature who deserved the human vision of hell—any version of it—that creature was Father Justin. The late and unlamented Father Justin, who’d died at his host’s table. By Tristan’s hand. Strychnine, made from the nux vomica, was the most painful of poisons.
“Osito.”
“What.” The presence inside the skull had to answer, of course.
“Always so sour.”
“Fuck you.”
“Language.” Tristan tapped the desk. “Language.”
“What can you do to me now?”
His expression flickered. “Oh. You’d be surprised.”
The light behind the skull’s eyes flickered and dimmed.
“Don’t think that because you’re free from a physical form, you’re free from pain. The lion’s share of pain is in the mind, after all.”
To which Father Justin had no response.
Tristan went back to contemplating his situation in silence.
Today was an important day. First and foremost, in short order, he would formally adopt his son. Asher was young yet, on the cusp of those years that would lead him into adulthood, but already showed so much promise. He would make a fine successor. To Tristan’s title and to the throne, if Piers didn’t produce an heir. Tristan hoped he did; he wouldn’t wish rulership of this kingdom on his worst enemy, let alone the child of his heart.
Somewhere, deep inside of him, a long dead part stirred. He felt…the closest he could come to describing the sensation in his own mind was the echo of a memory. His host had wanted children and, sensing that the moment was upon them, was pleased.
Tristan felt, sometimes, that he was a consciousness held together by force of will. Not a whole man but a fractured collection of men, each with his own purpose and needs and agenda. The only thing that bound them all together was the will to survive.
And Isla.
He’d taken her there, in the snow, wrapping her in his cloak to keep her warm. She, frail as she still was, had come alive in his arms. Her need was palpable and it drove him. Sometimes it was all he could do not to taste her blood as he tasted her other, secret places. To plumb that last secret; to absorb fully into himself her spirit, her soul.
He had, the night of their union. And had almost killed her. Part of him had been exalted and part of him had been—the word his host would have used was terrified. Although Tristan didn’t know that such a concept applied to him. But he wanted, needed her to live.
Needed her. Simply needed her. She was his humanity.
He was…touched that she still wished to have children. He’d…worried, for lack of a better term, that he’d take that from her. That she wouldn’t want to raise the children of a monster.
Isla was upstairs in their rooms, chatting with Greta as Greta braided her hair into a hundred different plaits and piled them high atop her head, holding them in place with jeweled pins. She would dress in a manor that befitted his station and hers for this most formal and serious of occasions. Tristan privately found the conventions of women’s dress rather stupid, but he did enjoy the results of their labors. How they, beautiful to begin with, were transformed into ethereal creations. Not to be touched, only admired, like the jeweled and lace-draped statues of goddesses that were worshipped in the East. Which made disarming them all the more appealing, as a sport.
And he always told Isla that she looked beautiful.
Sensing her feelings was…useful. She helped him to understand certain situations, from a human perspective. That she felt distress over her father, though, was inexplicable to him. The man was a pointless waste of life, pure and simple. Tristan would eat him, but for the fact that to do so would insult the natural order. He avoided Peregrine Cavendish as wolves in the wild avoided beaver and hares with the water fearing sickness.
And Cavendish, even in his extremis—or perhaps especially then—was equally as dangerous.
He found himself considering Asher. And considering the information that, some time ago now, Cariad had revealed to him. After some rather brutal…persuasion. Cariad had been part of the plan to remove an inconvenient child from an ambitious political picture, that afternoon in the woods. On the hunt, where he’d left Asher with Isla.
As his page, Asher was meant to accompany him. To serve his master as well as to learn the art of the hunt. He’d had a guardsman ride Asher’s horse and that horse had thrown him, injuring him badly enough but not fatally. Many men were none the worse for a broken collar bone. But for a child…? Later, something had been found under the saddle. And with it, too: a strap had been near cut through. Just intact enough to look normal, but not near strong enough to withstand the buck of a full grown gelding.
Who had been responsible?
Any one of a dozen people had had access to that horse, after it was saddled.
Part of the reason Tristan hated these pointless so-called hunts. Parties they were, parties and nothing more. Even the best hunter couldn’t hope to catch an animal with half the kingdom tramping through the woods behind him.
He’d pressed Cariad but Cariad hadn’t known. Apparently there was some sort of system in place to protect Maeve’s supporters from each other, in the case of just such a breach. They communicated through code name and signal. Cariad had received word that she was, in turn, to leave word. For someone. Which meant, Tristan well enough understood, that the order to murder his son had come from her own hand.
A woman who had shared his bed. And had hoped, for a time, to share his heart. The knowledge revolted him. He’d let her live, in the end, because a known quantity was best. And he knew that Cariad herself was far too power hungry to reveal that she’d been compromised. Doing so might lose her access to sensitive information. And an inflated belief in her own importance was all that motivated Cariad to continue.
He planned to use her, and to keep using her, until either he was wiped from the earth or the kingdom was secure.
He was secure, too, in the knowledge that this was the right choice. A traitor w
as just one head on the mythical hydra; were he to cut it off, another would grow in his place. Another, that he did not know where to find. So yes. A known quantity. What he was less certain of, though, was his decision not to share this information with Isla.
Isla still thought of Cariad as a friend. Not as a conniving cunt who’d befriended her in the hopes of access to power. Isla might be only a woman, to Cariad’s mind, but some day she’d marry. And if anyone had heard the rumors, Cariad had.
George the Weak might have been useless, as useless or more as his descendant. But the onetime earl of Enzie had had a brother. An older brother. An older brother cast out from his home for witchcraft, after the not so mysterious disappearance of a third sibling.
A sister.
There were rumors that magic ran in Isla’s blood. Rumors, which Tristan knew to be true. Because he’d seen the events that spurred them unfold with his own eyes. His still-human eyes. George the Weak was earl before his transformation; his son, also named George, had been his friend’s page. A miserable suckling pig of a child who’d sniffed wetly every few seconds and cried if one so much as looked at him.
But Tristan’s true connection to the House of Enzie had been through its long lost scion. The man who should have inherited. Simon, son of Anwin.
Isla had it in her to become a powerful sorceress in her own right. Far more powerful than Cariad. Unless, of course, Cariad could manipulate her into plotting at the same schemes. The same petty, useless schemes: to revenge herself on Tristan. To gain back the power and prestige she believed she was due.
Isla didn’t know.
Any of it.
She’d discover her powers, for herself, in her own time. Or, perhaps, not at all. Tristan would give her that choice. The choice that had been denied him. He would not force her hand to aid him, as so many masters over the years had forced his. He hadn’t been a demon familiar in a long time, and none of his former masters would recognize him as such now. But still, the scars remained.
Forced, time and time again, to appear as a woman. To service men he hated, by methods he loathed. A murderer, a bedthing, a broken toy discarded in the corner.
Even now, he felt the old rage begin to awaken.
He stilled himself to calm. Isla had been through so much. And she was…not weak, indeed one of the strongest people he knew. If not the strongest. But she was human, and felt pain. Pain, and more pain, with each new betrayal. He wanted to…spare her. She’d never see Cariad again; what was the harm in allowing her to think of Cariad as just what she’d seemed? A well-meaning hedge witch who’d urged Isla on to her new life?
Let her imagine Cariad puttering about the undergrowth, digging up herbs. And let her imagine Cariad brewing potions, and crafting spells, all for the good of a populace cut off from all forms of legitimate healing by a backward and uncaring church. Let her have that much: one friend who hadn’t abandoned her.
“Osito,” he began musingly, “tell me more about our imminent visitor.” The priest’s consciousness had been transformed into special kind of spirit: a vessel for knowledge. The contents of Tristan’s library were now at its nonexistent fingertips for Tristan to peruse at his will. A luxury he enjoyed greatly, asking the spirit questions even when he already knew the answer. Just to see what it would say.
“Tell me about his family tree.”
THIRTY-THREE
Isla returned from the garderobes to find that her room had been invaded.
She was still in her underthings and she stood there stupidly, wondering what to do. Greta, sitting on the edge of the bed stitching a hem, looked to be avoiding the problem entirely. By pretending it didn’t exist. Which, Isla couldn’t exactly blame her. But she needed to get dressed. Alone.
Mica, her cat, looked to be taking the same approach as her handmaid. Until, sitting upright, she glared directly at Rowena and then began licking her undercarriage. Isla only wished she had the courage for such a comment. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Rowena sat at Isla’s dresser, an array of small pots spread before her on the polished wood.
“Your mirror is better than mine.”
There was nothing wrong with the mirror in Rowena’s room.
Rowena dabbed her finger into a pot, and began applying rouge. This time to her lips. There was already more than enough on her cheeks, which were caked with foundation. She’d all but painted her face white. Fine ground wheat flour, ground lily root, and lead.
“You should understand,” she said, without turning. “Your face is as white as as a sheet.” Her laugh was brief and unkind. “Or perhaps that’s simply from being married to your husband.”
“I…don’t get out much.”
“Well you look awful.”
Greta’s head shot up.
Rowena was wearing her favored pink. Where she’d gotten the gown, Isla had no idea. The square neckline was very low cut, revealing so much that there was almost nothing left to suggest. The sleeves were loose-fitting, accented with padded rolls at the shoulder and elbow. The bodice was so tight, it appeared to have been painted on.
“Rowena, you need to leave.”
“When I’m done.” The other woman seemed utterly unconcerned.
Capping the rouge pot, she opened another. Dipping her finger into a mustard-colored liquid, she began dabbing it directly on her pupils.
Isla couldn’t help herself: she stared in rapt fascination as her sister poisoned herself. Oh, she wouldn’t die, at least not this night. Although she might eventually go blind. Belladonna was a paralytic and, when applied to the eyes, would keep them from contracting.
“This is the dreamy, flushed look, that’s so sexy to men.”
“And an hallucinogenic,” Greta said darkly, “that witches use to give themselves the feeling of flying.”
Rowena sniffed.
There was nothing sexy about how she looked, at least to Isla. And she couldn’t imagine that the average man, when confronted with the wheat-caked and half blind harridan before them, would swoon overmuch either. Moreover, there was a second and perhaps more pressing point. “Rowena, you’re betrothed.”
Her sister seemed not to hear. “You might have let yourself go, but I have no intention of ever doing so.”
“This isn’t a ball,” Greta interjected. “It’s an adoption.”
“It’s a social occasion.”
“To you, maybe.”
Greta was right. It was an adoption, and an adoption that had nothing whatsoever to do with Rowena. A solemn and religious occasion was not the time to flaunt her charms. What man, or group of men, was she hoping to seduce? Had her months in the village made her completely forget about Rudolph? Had she realized, at last, that there might be richer and more important pickings?
Rowena turned. Her eyes, in a bizarre mockery of Tristan’s, were two black pits. “You have to help me find my slippers,” she said, “because now I can’t see.”
“Oh, Rowena, get out.”
A few minutes later, astonishingly, she did.
Isla was left alone with Greta. Greta, the tremendous amount of sewing that she seemed to have taken on, and Mica the cat.
“I want to wear the gray wool, I think.” A dark gray the color of charcoal, which had been picked out in black. Tristan would be wearing his house colors, as would Asher. Isla didn’t want to compete. Although she would play a minor part in the ceremony, as she was becoming Asher’s legal mother, this was about the bond between father and son.
“You should at least wear something green. In your hair, maybe.”
“The small circlet, then.” A single row of perfectly matched emeralds, each the size of her smallest fingernail. It had been in Tristan’s family for generations. His mother had worn it. And it had been his gift to her, during that first snowstorm. The one that seemed to still be blowing outside the windows, rattling the glass in its panes, all this time later.
“Spring comes soon, doesn’t it?” She stared out the window into the
whiteness.
“Spring is upon us in the South.” Greta came up behind her. She, too, stared out the window. “Spring comes quickly in the North. Just wait. One morning, you’ll wake up and all the snow will be gone. The hills will be covered in tassel flowers and snowdrops. Tassel flowers are red. And orange, and pink. Daisies, too, in all colors.” Greta grimaced. “The South just has mud.”
“And bearberry,” Isla corrected absently.
“What’s that?”
“A rather ugly shrub.” She didn’t turn. “Its berries are used as an antiseptic.”
“The seasons change quickly here.” Greta paused. “Everything does.”
“Has Hart returned home?”
“Yes.” Greta went about fetching the requested dress, and the circlet. Let her pick out Isla’s other jewels, and her slippers. Isla didn’t care. There was nothing in her wardrobe that she loathed, and nothing that would fail in the intended objective of covering her nudity.
“This morning.” She turned, one hand on the door to the wardrobe and the gray wool in the other. “Your brother….” She trailed off.
“Yes?”
“He’s handsome. And frightening.”
He’d more than earned his title, the Viper. Isla’s brother was a torturer and a murderer who drank the blood of his enemies. But in this, he was no different than her own husband. “He’s a good man,” she said. “He is…perhaps misunderstood. I don’t know. But what I do know is that he cares well for those who’ve earned a place in his life.”
Greta smiled. “He seems to love you very much.”
“He does. We’re…he’s my only family. We’re each other’s only family.”
But she hadn’t seen much of him lately. He’d been…mysterious. Then again, she had to reconcile herself to the fact that while she’d changed so had he. There had always been a part of his life that was closed to her: the part with women, and bandits in the woods. She didn’t imagine that all this time he’d been serving them biscuits and ale but she hadn’t asked, either. Still, that she hadn’t known about Apple…hurt.
