Nightshade

by Shea Godfrey

  “Yes. No, it’s all right.”

  “Are you well?” Jessa asked as the music floated like a dream around them. “You didn’t eat much.”

  Darry was staring at Jessa’s hair and without thinking she had begun to count her braids. They were less in number than the day before. Perhaps a bit thinner as well.

  “Darry?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re not upset about yesterday, are you? I didn’t mean to force—”

  “Jessa,” Darry said, and Jessa fell silent. “They’re playing a Lyonese dance. Is it the Fortran or the Amendeese?”

  “The Amendeese. The man twirls beneath the lady’s arm, and the extra movement near the end, the quick-step turning?”

  “They’re hard to tell apart.” Darry tried to see Jessa’s lips beneath her veil. “I’m not so good with northern dances.”

  As if reading her mind Jessa released one of the clips in her hair, letting her veil flutter to the side. Darry’s pulse intensified. You shouldn’t have done that, Jess.

  Jessa held out her hand. “Let me show you?”

  Darry stared at the hand, taking a slow step away.

  Jessa followed her, seeming determined to have her way. “You’re not scared are you? Perhaps you’re not as good a dancer as you think.”

  Darry smiled at the teasing. It was completely against etiquette to dance with her outside of a formal function, to be backwards and hold her as a man would.

  “It’s not proper,” Darry whispered. I don’t want to touch you, Jess, don’t make me do that.

  “Yes, and what of it?” Jessa said. “I think too much of etiquette. And my offer will not last long.” She seemed unsure of herself yet bore an expression of triumph. “If you don’t wish to learn properly, then you should say so.”

  Darry took Jessa’s hand, ignoring her instincts. Just one dance. Just this one thing.

  Jessa turned her head to the side as Darry stepped close. Her breath was quick as her left hand was raised in Darry’s right, the heat of the touch at her waist burning through the silk of her sari. “Wait for the lute,” she whispered.

  As they stepped in the opening turn, Jessa looked up. Their thighs met for an instant and the muscles of Darry’s left arm pressed against the side of her breast. Darry followed the steps as best she could, incapable of stopping her desire as everything shifted. The words she had spoken in the darkness of the night before were an insufficient defense as they filled her head.

  Jessa smiled at the mistaken steps and they came to a stop. “The other way, Darry.”

  “I’m nervous.” Darry adjusted her position. “I’ve never danced with a princess before.”

  They moved smoothly, turning across the solar to the bodhran’s subtle pulse as the Lowland pipes rose in an ache of sound. “Neither have I,” Jessa said softly.

  Darry concentrated. Just dance, Darry.

  Jessa let herself be led and wondered why she had never felt this before, the primal heart of the music. The pipes and the song were alive as she and Darry braided their movements within the beat, so effortless and easy with their bodies together. She was not thinking of the steps but, instead, of the softness of Darry’s hair against the back of her fingers. When Darry stepped away she lifted her arm high and opened her hand. Darry’s touch caressed gently in her palm as she turned beneath Jessa’s outstretched arm. She stepped close after the second spin and they both smiled.

  Jessa caught her breath as their bodies became flush with Darry’s right leg between her own as they moved through the last movement of rapid steps and turns. “The quick-step turning?” Darry said.

  “Yes.” Jessa’s face flooded with warmth. Darry’s strength sang in Jessa’s blood as it had done the day before.

  The steps were swift and they eased to a stop as the music did. Darry was breathing fast. She smelled Jessa’s hair with its earthy, clean smell. It was intoxicating and all of Darry’s desire welled up, more powerful than the day before, perhaps even stronger than ever. She was going to kiss her and had no way of stopping herself. She knew it even as she struggled and knew that it would ruin everything. I’m sorry, Jess.

  “Jessa?”

  Darry recognized Emmalyn’s voice, but it seemed very far away and Jessa’s mouth was so close, her lips parted ever so slightly.

  Jessa pulled back and Darry let her go, a lance of anger slicing through her chest at being denied. The urge to follow and take what she wanted was violent, and she battled to remain where she was.

  “You’re a very good dancer, Darry,” Jessa said in an awkward breath of words. “You’re very…graceful.”

  Emmalyn walked beneath the arch. “There you are,” she said. “Alisha would like to…” Her gaze moved from Jessa’s unveiled face to Darry, who turned away from them. “…have your opinion on the Lyonese dances. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” Jessa refastened her veil, her hands shaking.

  “Darry?” Emmalyn called as Darry made for the garden doors.

  “I have duties.”

  Jessa turned around at the words but found only Darry’s back.

  “She must be late,” Emmalyn said as Darry disappeared.

  “Yes,” Jessa said. She needed to sit down. A sensual pulse beat low and heavy between her legs. She closed her eyes as she let out a long, slow breath.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Jessa answered. Vhaelin essa.

  When Jessa made no effort, Emmalyn moved forward. “Come along then, my friend.” She took Jessa’s hand. “Let us have your expertise on the music from your homeland.”

  Jessa held on tightly, using the contact as her guide in a shining new world she was only now beginning to see.

  *

  Darry prowled through her loft in the uppermost floor of the guard barracks, talking to herself as she paced the room for at least the hundredth time, her thoughts like a new sword that had yet to learn mercy.

  It was dark and she had missed dinner again. The thought of food made her ill, and the notion of sitting proper and quiet at the table sent a dark flood of frustration through her. She had retched once already and washed her mouth out with a strong red wine. The bottle was half empty beside the hearth where she had sat and tried to slow her blood, hoping that the redolent taste of the grapes would hold her calm and ease the pain within her.

  She should have said no to Jessa, no matter how badly she wanted their dance. She should have used more discipline. That she had been so careless yet again ignited an unstoppable rage in her.

  When she neared her desk beside the window she let out a growl and clutched the edge of it. She lifted the heavy oak into the air, feeling the strain in the muscles in her back and shoulders. Only the presence of the divan stopped it from crashing to the floor.

  “Fool!” she said. “You’re a fucking fool.”

  She could smell the yards beyond, the scent of the earth strong and clean, though not enough to banish the dominant odor. The smell of flesh. The smell of a hundred men in the building below her—sleeping, breathing, their blood pumping, their scent pungent and crushing.

  Darry stumbled to the side and fell to her knees. “I read here,” she whispered desperately. “I read books and scrolls. Things a human being does. Only man does these things.”

  The dull taste of iron coated her tongue and she sat back on her heels. Her nose flooded with blood and she coughed, staining her hand red as her head exploded with pain.

  Lips burned supple against her own and she gasped at the memory, her want clawing with renewed life. She stared at the carpet, seeing its pattern within the darkness. She should not have been able to see it without the lamps but she saw everything, every turn and crafted stitch. She tried to follow them, tried to get lost within the pathways and heavy thread.

  She was wet with need and her stomach filled with fire. Darry closed her eyes in despair. It would only get worse now. Once the fire came she could never stop it.

  She could feel Jessa within
her arms and the scent of jasmine haunted her. She dragged a sleeve across her face and swiped at the blood, the memory of Jessa’s breasts pressed against her too much to bear.

  Blood was in her mouth again. It was the final blow.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking as she scrambled to her feet. Clothes. She was on her knees before the open doors of her bureau closet, staring up into the fabrics and colors. The textures were pronounced and rough within the dark and the colors askew, not quite what they should be. She flinched in pain and turned her face away. Tunics pulled from their hooks and spilled down as she clutched at them for balance.

  Darry leaned against the bureau, trying to catch her breath, a cold sweat sliding down her back and soaking her tunic. Her legs trembled, everything trembled.

  “Discipline,” she whispered. Don’t move, just breathe. “Just breathe.”

  The blade twisted in her stomach as Jessa’s warm breath touched her throat.

  Darry laughed, the sound barely contained, as she opened her eyes and followed the stairs that led to the high platform that held her bed. The bed where she had sat the night before, thinking herself clever and strong for having pushed back her blood. Thinking she had found her peace in the comfort of words.

  “Poems to stop the blood.” She laughed bitterly, wiping the blood from her lips. “And the dance you just had to have, that was so very clever.”

  She had to find Bentley. Bentley would help her. Bentley was always there when her majik came, and he could always figure out something.

  *

  “Radha?” Jessa rose from her bed.

  “I sense it, child,” she answered. “Someone is working majik, yes?”

  Jessa walked past the divan and stepped onto the small corner balcony. A secluded, oddly shaped courtyard below held the smell of summer and allowed her to look at the stars from the privacy of her own little space.

  The distant power she could smell was very potent, holding the tang of something hidden. It should have been familiar. It was familiar.

  “It’s very old,” Radha whispered, and Jessa turned from the railing as Radha stepped under the arch. “Old, child, like the bones of the earth.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Radha held out her hand. “Come inside.”

  “It cannot harm me, can it?”

  “Come inside now,” Radha hissed.

  “Radha, please, I’m fine.

  “Take a breath, you foolish girl,” Radha said harshly “Havah seella do.”

  Jessa did as she was told and gasped, touching the arch to steady herself.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Afraid,” she said. Whatever majik it was, it was deadly, and she knew it as surely as she had ever known anything.

  “Aye,” Radha said. “And you should be. The night is no longer safe.”

  “Radha?”

  Radha turned back into the room. “Something goes hunting.”

  “Is it Serabee?”

  “The stench of the Fakir is not so pleasant, girl, you know that. It is pleasing to you as well?”

  Jessa’s pulse was racing. Everything was too warm and something enticing hummed in her blood. She felt as she had when standing in Darry’s arms, hidden behind the ivy of the Queen’s Garden. A warm shiver moved down the back of her neck and her nipples hardened as she thought of Darry’s hand spinning against her own when she had turned so gracefully during their dance. Her own majik stirred and the Vhaelin shuddered with life as she left Radha at the arch. “Yes.”

  “You have a secret,” Radha said.

  “Leave me be, old woman.”

  “You’ll not tell me?”

  Jessa sat on the edge of her bed. “What goes hunting then?”

  “I don’t know. That is why we return to bed.”

  After sitting for a time Jessa turned over and pulled up the sheet.

  “What is your secret, child?” Radha said. “Tell me.”

  Jessa closed her eyes. “I have no secret.”

  “Your blood stirs.”

  “So does yours,” Jessa said.

  Radha’s laugh scraped across the silence.

  Jessa turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Tell you what? That I’ve seen my visions clearly for the first time in my life? Would you laugh at that as well? And that the face I see…the eyes.

  Jessa had tried very hard just to be herself since the fête. To be with Darry and not pretend, to have no fear at what her visions had shown her. She had wanted to watch Darry and to study her as much as possible, to see if perhaps she was wrong.

  But she was not wrong and the waters had not lied.

  The way you looked at me, Darry…No one sees me like that, looking so deep, searching out something that is a mystery to me. Jessa closed her eyes, wanting to groan aloud at the strangeness of it, the unfamiliar sensation of physical yearning.

  She reached beneath her pillow and closed her fingers around the delicate fabric of the handkerchief Darry had sewn. She moved it slowly between her fingers and caressed the softness of the thread, remembering Darry’s smile as she had looked back from the door. She saw the shadowed hollow of Darry’s dimple and her chest ached.

  Everything ached and she turned onto her side again and brought her knees up. The damp flesh between her legs clenched slowly and sent a warm flood of pleasure through her loins and thighs. Vhaelin essa…she eased a hand between her thighs and cupped herself, biting her lower lip as her flesh reacted, begging for more as her left leg shifted smoothly against her right. Bloody hell.

  What should I tell you, Radha? That the face I saw was a woman’s? That the eyes that cause me to feel like I have never felt before are Darry’s eyes?

  “I can hear you thinking.” Radha spoke softly.

  “Then stop listening,” Jessa said in a rough voice as she turned her face to the pillow.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emmalyn turned at the sound of her name and draped the gold dress over her arm. She was not used to having Royce home, so close, so wonderfully solid beneath her hands that her world tipped. Her step was quick as she moved from the dressing room into her bedchamber. “Royce, if my mother walks—”

  Emmalyn jerked to a halt beneath the desperate eyes of Bentley Greeves, then she stared at Darry. Darry’s head lolled back and her right arm dangled limply as she lay in his arms.

  Darry’s tunic was stained with blood and Emmalyn’s thoughts twisted as the memory of Wyatt and Malcolm carrying Evan’s body into the great hall filled her head. His blond hair had been covered with blood and his neck bent oddly. She had known the instant she saw him that he was gone. Only his beautiful body was left, broken and cold beneath her hands.

  “Please,” Bentley said in a pained voice. “I can’t hold her anymore.”

  Emmalyn’s dress slid to the floor as she took a step backward.

  “Emmalyn.” Bentley’s hold weakened and Emmalyn instinctively rushed close and put her arm beneath Darry’s shoulders.

  “The bed,” she said, her thoughts gaining a bitter clarity as they moved. Darry rolled onto the top quilt and Emmalyn climbed on the bed beside her. “Darry?” She pulled Darry onto her back.

  Bentley stumbled to the side and caught a hand on the carved post at the foot of the bed. “She’s heavy. I carried her from the barracks by way of the far paddocks, hoping no one would see us. When I awoke before dawn she was passed out at the end of my bed, burning with fever and her tunic covered in blood.”

  “Bentley, she’s on fire.” Emmalyn pushed the limp curls from Darry’s face, then pulled at the blood-stained tunic. Baby, don’t do this to me, don’t you dare. Her fingers refused to function properly and she let out a strange sound of panic as she yanked the shirt open and searched Darry’s stomach for a wound.

  “There’s nothing there,” Bentley said. “It’s…it’s not a wound.”

  Emmalyn set a hand on Darry’s chest, the rhythm of the shallow breaths much too quick. She felt the pul
se at Darry’s throat. It was skittish and faint. “Healer,” she said, and shoved from the bed.

  Bentley grabbed her arm. “No!”

  Emmalyn stared at him, trying to pull away.

  “You must not.”

  “Let go of me, Bentley.”

  “You mustn’t, Emmalyn, please.”

  Emmalyn struck him. Bentley staggered to the side but didn’t let go.

  “Don’t do it,” he pleaded.

  “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  She struck him again and wrenched her arm free. “Are you mad?”

  “Emmalyn,” he said, “the healer will bring your mother. Darry will have to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “What…what this is,” he said. “It’s not what…you can’t, because that cannot happen, Emmalyn.”

  Emmalyn stepped close. “Explain what?” she said again, though she spoke less harshly. “Where have you been? Why is there blood on her clothes?”

  He shook his head and looked down. Emmalyn was taken aback by his surprising refusal. He cringed at her approach but she merely put her hand on his chest, taking hold of his sweat-dampened tunic. “Bentley.”

  “She’s not…” he began, then faltered. “There are times when—”

  “Was she struck? Was there a fight?”

  “No, there was no fight.”

  “Bentley, she has a fever.” Emmalyn pulled at his shirt. “Either tell me what this is or I’m calling for help.”

  “It’s but a fever,” he said. “She’s had others of this sort, but this one seems much worse, and I wasn’t…I’m not sure that I can take care of her this time.”

  “Others?”

  “You must ask her yourself, please. Don’t force me to break her confidence, I beg you.”

  Emmalyn considered his words for a heartbeat, then stepped back to the bed, climbing onto the covers and pressing her lips to Darry’s forehead.

  “Lady Emmalyn, please. I’m sorry I grabbed you. I meant no offense.”

  Emmalyn touched Darry’s face. “Get her boots off,” she whispered, and wiped at her own tears, regaining her composure. “And close the bloody door,” she added, her strength beginning to return.