by P. J. Fox
“Yes?”
“Are buried in the walls.” She felt a rush of embarrassment at having mentioned such a thing. Embarrassment…and fear. What if he was angry with her, for her having mentioned such a thing? For having mentioned all the things she’d mentioned?
But he merely gestured, a small movement of the hand that was half acceptance and half dismissal. As though nothing she’d said had captured his interest. “The custom was practiced throughout the North, for centuries.” He sounded bored, as though he were discussing a particularly dull harvest festival. “Before the principles of engineering were introduced from the East, it was believed that sacrificing a virgin and burying her corpse within the foundations ensured that the walls would be strong. Sometimes, due to poor placement of the structure, or other rational factors, the walls collapsed regardless.”
“And then?”
“And then the builders assumed that the girl, despite whatever examination she’d undergone, hadn’t been a virgin after all and sacrificed another one.” He popped a cube of cheese into his mouth, unmoved by his own recitation.
“That’s barbaric,” Isla protested.
“No. What’s barbaric is that sometimes, instead of slitting her throat, they buried her alive.”
Isla stared at him in silence. “Is this…still practiced?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her. Which, in and of itself, was answer enough. Another chill ran up her spine, spreading up to her scalp and out to the tips of her fingers as she studied the man she’d agreed to marry. To give herself to. The demon. She wondered how many women—and men, and even children—were buried beneath the walls of Caer Addanc and how many of those deaths had been Tristan’s doing. He’d asked her to tell him about the rumors, and had listened politely enough, but Isla wasn’t fool enough to ignore the fact that he hadn’t denied a single one. And here he was, sitting across from her in the darkness.
“I don’t want to be sacrificed,” she said in a small voice.
“Do you imagine you’ll remain a virgin?” he asked.
“I…we should go back.” She swallowed. “We’ll…miss the speeches.” She had no idea if dinner was even being served, if dinner was over, if they had in fact missed the speeches altogether.
Tristan smiled slightly, a twitch of the lips that was there and gone in an instant. “There are very few privileges to power,” he told her, “as such, I strive to take advantage of them whenever possible.” He finished his wine. “One of them is not having to listen to speeches.”
“Oh.” Isla’s heart raced. This conversation had gone too far, too fast. She didn’t know what to do.
“Come,” he said, standing. “The night is growing too cold to sit.” His expression seemed somehow…knowing, now, without really changing at all. “We’ll walk back over to the orchards, and civilization, and then I’ll see you to your bed.” And civilization. He knew what she was thinking. He always did.
She accepted his proffered hand, allowing him to help her upright. His claws grazed her lightly. His every movement was graceful; on him, the malformation seemed like anything but. They were a part of him, and one he obviously knew how to use. He lifted a single finger to her cheek, dimpling her skin but not puncturing it. She swallowed, nervous. He was very close. He leaned in, smelling her perfume, his lips almost grazing the thin skin of her neck. She trembled, waiting.
He stepped back. “Shall we?” he asked.
She nodded, feeling faint.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Dinner was nice,” she managed, not knowing what else to say.
She felt so…aware of him next to her. Horribly and uncomfortably aware. Every movement made her jump and every word struck a nerve until her nerves felt rubbed raw. He was an unknown quantity, the only man who’d ever paid attention to her as an individual and also the only man who’d ever scared her so badly. She didn’t know what he wanted—from her, from anything. When they’d first met, he’d seemed indifferent. And that night when she’d gone to him, and asked him to marry her instead of Rowena, he’d all but chased her out. He’d been hard and cold and she’d been stunned when her father informed her that he’d asked for—no, demanded—her hand in marriage.
And now….
“I’m pleased that you enjoyed yourself,” he replied.
“I wonder if they’re still enjoying themselves inside.” She sounded inane in her own ears, but she’d spoken just to have something to say. To change this dark mood of expectation.
Her heart still beat furiously in her chest, and the air of anticipation between them had grown palpable. She didn’t know when it had begun or what had caused it, only that it was there. She gestured at the manor, far off and to her right, a black hole in the night. “It’s difficult to tell,” she said, “with no windows.” Gods, she sounded so stupid.
He acted as though he hadn’t noticed, merely responding to her point as though it had been an intelligent one. “Enzie Hall is built on flat ground,” he explained, “which is an unfortunate handicap for any house to have and speaks poorly of the architect. There is little to be had in terms of creating a defensive position, should the need arise.”
“Enzie Hall was built during peacetime.”
“Yes, but peace today is no guarantee of peace tomorrow. Why tempt fate?”
Isla considered this point.
They’d passed the edge of the orchard some minutes ago and reached a place she rarely came to: a little sort of stone gazebo that had once been used as a retreat during the hottest summer weather. Isla could picture delicate ladies of a bygone era sitting and sipping their wine, or perhaps their cider, in the cooling comfort of the manmade grotto. Now, one wall was caved in and the ceiling had more holes than a sieve. The other three walls were solid enough. A brick claustra extended between the arches, giving the occupants privacy while allowing air to pass through.
Isla walked up the short step and inside, her slippered feet silent on the tiled floor, and peered out into the garden. She couldn’t see much, in the gloom. “Why does it matter so much?” she asked, her focus on trying to pick out the shapes of the rose bushes.
“Because any would-be adversary can easily fire in on the estate’s grounds. No wall is high enough to block off the line of sight from the surrounding hills, or even from a siege tower.”
“And meanwhile,” she mused, “everyone inside will be firing over the same wall and so at a disadvantage equal to the enemy’s advantage.”
“Precisely.” He sounded pleased.
“But,” she began, “if—”
And then they heard the voices. She froze, listening. The bushes rustled right on the other side of the claustra. Tristan moved silently behind her, resting his fingertips on her shoulder. She felt a moment of sheer panic at the intrusion followed by a moment of hilarity as she realized who it was. Visions of the tomb and curses and moonlight rapes and the Gods knew what else had filled her head all night and even something so innocent as another visitor to the garden took on a sinister aspect. Who—or what—was it? What did they want?
She relaxed slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing.
“Rowena, my love—”
It was Rudolph. Rudolph and her sister, escaped from the feast on their own little assignation.
Rudolph was, if Isla judged correctly, still encouraging his beloved to act a little more…loving. Rowena’s skin flashed white in the waning moon as she vanished into the tangle of roses and honeysuckle on the other side of the claustra. She didn’t know it, but Isla was close enough to reach out and touch her. Isla held still, not wanting to embarrass her sister—or, even worse, give Rowena the impression that she’d been out here spying on her. That she, herself was jealous!
Rowena, evidently, still hadn’t let Rudolph so much as kiss her—a situation made painfully apparent by his own rather excessive enthusiasm. Which, Isla observed, had a certain quality of desperation.
He darted in after her then, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward hi
m. Not too forcefully; he was still chivalrous. Isla groaned inwardly. Rowena made a face, wrinkling her perfect button nose up like a miniature prune. “If you loved me,” she said archly, “you’d write me poetry.”
“But I have written you poetry,” he whined.
“Not in at least a fortnight,” she replied primly.
“My darling,” he said, “your teeth are like stars, they come out at night.”
Isla bit down on her lip, to keep from laughing.
“Shining in the firmament, ever so white. While I dance with you here, enjoying your smile, I imagine you a sylph in the moonlight.”
They weren’t dancing, and Isla thought she might have thrown up in her mouth a little bit. Behind her she sensed, rather than saw Tristan’s smile. Rowena, for her part, seemed slightly mollified by this production. “Keep going,” she encouraged in her rather non-encouraging fashion. She waited. They all waited. Isla held her breath, mortified to hear what else might issue forth.
“Your breasts,” Rudolph said more boldly, gaining courage from this request, “are like pigeons roasting in coals. Their warmth to nourish—”
Isla turned, her pale eyes meeting Tristan’s dark ones in the low light. A single moonbeam cut through the intricate pattern of the claustra, but other than that their little grotto was in darkness. His eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.
“What does that even mean?” she mouthed.
“Their warmth to nourish—” Rudolph continued gallantly.
“That he wants to ravish her on a trencher,” Tristan mouthed back.
Isla bit down on her knuckles to keep from laughing and giving them away. She couldn’t believe that she and Tristan were doing this, standing here together like a couple of errant schoolchildren while a complete buffoon tried to seduce her sister. She hadn’t had this much fun since she used to escape from her tutor and spend the afternoon spying on her father’s mistresses.
“The love that you encourage,” Rudolph finished proudly, “in my heart; it leaps like a foal’s.”
Rowena made some comment about how the author of The Chivalrous Heart, an acknowledged expert in all things, would approve. Seconds later there was the sound of kissing—a rather loud sound—and then a slap. But not a very hard slap. “Oh, Rudolph, you shouldn’t!” Rowena giggled. Rudolph kissed her again. Isla bit down even harder on her knuckles, half afraid she’d break the skin. Eventually, still giggling, Rowena slipped from their hiding place and from Rudolph’s grasp, leading him out into the garden.
Isla waited until she could no longer hear them before speaking. “Your teeth are like stars?” she asked. “What does that even mean?”
“Presumably, that they burn with a fiery intensity and are very widely spaced.”
“Or that she only smiles at night?”
“Or that she wears wooden teeth, like the King of Chad.”
Isla laughed. She leaned against the claustra, breathing in the heady scent of the last honeysuckle. She felt better than she had in some time. She felt alive. “I truly hope that Rowena is happy,” she said, more to herself than to Tristan. And she did. She loved her sister, and a few difficult encounters didn’t change that. Moreover, tonight, given her own newfound sense of freedom she was feeling quite magnanimous. The anger she’d felt at Rowena, off and on for the past week or so, had vanished.
Tristan watched her in the gloom. “I suppose that’s what you want,” he said.
“What?” Isla turned, meeting his gaze.
“A gallant romantic hero who recites banal compliments and scripture with equal ease.”
Isla laughed again. “Gods, no! Rudolph is so ridiculous. And can you imagine how dull their life will be? Really, I’d expire of boredom.” Endless scenes of dancing and praying and reading The Chivalrous Heart unfolded before her, an entire lifetime of focusing not on what brought joy but on what was correct. The very thing she’d dreaded since childhood, and that had made marriage something to avoid. “I wish them well, I do, truly, but were I in her position I think I’d have to run away from home. Maybe take orders, or—”
He pulled her to him, the fingers of one hand digging into the small of her back as the fingers of the other pressed against her neck. She stifled a squeal, too surprised even to protest as his lips closed on hers. They were cool and firm. She felt her own lips part under his and then she was kissing him back, utterly lost in his drugging embrace. His hand slid up the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Isla had never been kissed before, although one or two boys had tried over the years. Boys, not men. And certainly not men like this. Their attempts had been fevered and fumbling and, however eager, at the same time reticent and nervous of putting a foot wrong. There had been a great deal of giggling; the art of love was new to them, too.
And they’d accepted her rejection quietly enough, one after the other, no doubt taking it as blow to their manhood. Sheer embarrassment had prevented any further attempts. But this…Tristan was confident and sure, his every movement conveying the simple truth that a woman’s body held no mystery for him.
She relaxed into him and his grip eased, his touch growing gentler as he held her to him. The faint pressure of his fingertips on the back of her neck made her whole head tingle, a delicious sensation that spread throughout her body. Even her fingertips tingled, and her toes.
He pulled her closer to him, the full length of her body pressed against his, as he explored her mouth with his tongue. He tasted of wine and tobacco and…something else, something she couldn’t define. When she stepped back, finally, breaking the kiss, she couldn’t tell if seconds or hours had passed. He ran his fingers down along the edge of her jaw. She swallowed. She felt lightheaded.
“You don’t pull back,” he asked, “and run?”
“No,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Even though I’m a demon?”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Maybe not.” She started to turn, and he caught her. She stared up into his black, depthless eyes. “But you….” But he was the only one who’d ever risked himself for her, the only one who’d made her feel the way she felt now. She didn’t know when precisely it had happened, when she’d started to develop feelings for him…perhaps the morning of her encounter with Father Justin. Or, at least, that was when she’d begun to realize what might already have been obvious if she’d acknowledged the truth to herself.
“Do you want me to run?” she asked. “Shriek and scream that I’m being attacked by hellspawn?” She bit her lip, amazed at the familiar tone she’d taken. Here she was, in the dark with a demon and she was making jokes with him. At his expense. What had come over her? And yet, for all her fear, she felt strangely comfortable with him. Had for some time now.
He held her face between his hands, looming over her in the darkness. When he spoke, it was in the same grating whisper that had frightened her so much at first but that she’d long since accepted as part of who he was. When had she started seeing him, not as something to be feared but as…a friend? A lover? More?
There was a time when she’d been repelled by the thought of his touch, had been terrified of him and had seen him not as a man but as a monster. Because of the rumors, yes, but more so because even then on some fundamental level she’d known him to be different. Not of this world. And his coldness, and his indifference, had terrified her.
But kissing him just now had felt like the most natural thing in the world. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to, either, until she’d done it. Until he’d done it. He wasn’t like Rudolph, who wandered around whining and pleading; he took what he wanted. She gazed up at him, studying him.
He was still a demon, and she was still afraid that he might rend her limb from limb and eat her. And she hadn’t forgotten what he’d said, about how things would go easier on her if she gave in. She didn’t know what he felt; if he felt. But
she knew what she felt and, more and more, knew that she’d thrown herself into a trap from which there was no escape. She felt herself sinking down further and further, lost in his eyes and lost in the rush of emotions she felt. Confused, conflicting, and overpowering.
He stroked the side of her face. “I want you to be mine,” he said. “All mine, and no one else’s.”
She swallowed. What frightened her the most was that she wanted him. Him, not the man he was or the shell he inhabited but him—and that whatever he was, truly, under that mask she’d fallen in love with him. “I am,” she whispered.
He kissed her again.
Later that night, after he’d returned her safely to her bed, her virtue intact if not her heart, she’d lain awake for a long time thinking about how it must feel to be buried alive.
THIRTY-SIX
Isla looked around the sun-dappled glade, enjoying the scenery and wishing that it weren’t being spoiled by the hundred or so other people wandering through. They were on a hunt, except the possibility of actually catching anything with such a large group of people stomping around and hollering was next to nil. The silliest animal in the entire forest wouldn’t venture to approach such a commotion and Isla was sure that they could be heard for at least a mile in all directions. Hunts were really just excuses to picnic and drink and if someone happened to catch an animal then so much the better.
They’d only just begun and she was already exhausted, if nothing else than from sheer boredom. She didn’t hunt and didn’t want to, and was painfully aware that her current position was only a mile or so away from Cariad’s cottage. Not that anyone in their bloated hunting party would be stumbling across it; Cariad didn’t receive visitors if she didn’t want to.
Isla sighed.
In the daylight, everything looked normal.
