Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  Handsome couples, clad in full dresses and tailored coats and breeches, waltzed at a party scene. Larissa moved along the wall. Here was a battle, with knights in armor fighting gallantly. And over here was—

  A giant flash of lightning illuminated the dim room. By its unforgiving brilliance, Larissa could see what she had not noticed before: all the people in the wallpaper scenes were corpses, painted in various stages of decay.

  She stifled a cry and backed away, the hand that held the candelabra trembling and causing its shadows to dance. Thunder roared in a mocking echo of her outburst. She replaced the candelabra on the mantlepiece, taking a second look at the etching as she did so.

  It was an illustration of a woman seated, writing, at a desk. The etching was carved onto an extremely thin square of bone, and a burning candle flickered behind it. It gave the etching the appearance of movement, and Larissa, her attention momentarily diverted from the horrors of the wallpaper, watched the young woman, who was busily writing.

  Then she noticed the words on the woman’s page.

  Help me.

  Larissa blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the unreliable light. The words had changed.

  Set me free.

  Cold horror crept through her and her eyes flickered from the words to the woman’s face. Larissa gasped aloud and stepped backward. The woman was no longer looking at her writing, but directly at Larissa, and a tear crept down her cheek.

  Larissa wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. Pity welled within her at the plight of the trapped soul in the etching, but fear drowned out the gentler emotion. Was there a blank sheet of bone waiting for her, someplace in this house of nightmares?

  Outside, through the howl of the wind, Larissa thought she heard the shrill neigh of a frightened horse. Her mind flew back to Willen’s comment about the superstitious Souragniens. “Death rides in the rain,” he had said. Now, she understood. She stepped back toward the fire, unconsciously wanting its warmth at her back as the master of the house approached.

  The whitemane heard the doorway to the hall being opened, and a second flash of lightning silhouetted the tall shape of a man. He strode into the parlor where Larissa waited, tossing his cloak carelessly in the direction of the following undead servant. He marched toward her, wiping moisture from his hair, and stepped into the ring of firelight.

  The Maiden had been right. Whatever Larissa had expected, it was not this tall, strikingly handsome man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and his hair, raven-wing black, curled damply from the ride in the rain. Strong but exquisitely chiseled features radiated a barely subdued excitement. From his thigh-high, black leather boots to the gold buttons glinting on the well-fitted, buff-colored vest, Misroi was every inch the aristocrat. That the boots were streaked with mud and the fine linen shirt had been torn merely emphasized that he was in absolute control. Full lips stretched into a smile as Anton Misroi looked at his guest.

  “Well, they didn’t tell me you’d be such a lovely creature,” he commented, falling gracefully into one of the plush chairs by the fire. His voice matched his face—handsome, masculine, and intense. “Then again, the dead don’t notice such subtleties. One of their drawbacks, I’ve found.”

  Misroi swung one long leg over the arm of the chair. The mud-spattered boot left brown streaks on the fine velvet, but the zombie master seemed not to notice.

  “Wine!” he called impatiently, his long fingers untying the blue silk cravat at his throat. He used it to towel his hair dry, then tossed it to the floor and undid the first two buttons on his shirt.

  Larissa continued to stand and stare at the master of Souragne. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Don’t look so frightened. What, did you think I’d slay you and roast you for dinner upon your immediate arrival?”

  The dancer found her tongue. “No, of course not, only you’re not … you’re so …” she floundered.

  The grin widened. “Alive? Oh, yes.” His eyes, a deep blue, flickered over her. “Very much so.”

  The zombie servant approached, bearing a mug of wine on a silver tray. Misroi took it, went to the fire, and seized the poker that had been lying at the heart of the flames.

  Larissa tensed, ready to fight should he turn on her with the heavy iron rod. He noticed the gesture and laughed out loud.

  “Dear, dear, Miss Snowmane, I would hope that I’d use something less crude than a poker if I wished to attack you! You haven’t sat down yet. Do so.”

  It was not a request, and Larissa obeyed. Misroi removed the poker and gazed approvingly at its glowing orange tip. He inserted the poker into the mug, and the wine hissed as it heated. Misroi replaced the poker and took a sip of the hot wine. He nodded in approval, then strode over to where Larissa sat.

  “Here. Hot spiced wine. A great favorite of mine. Nothing like it after a hard ride in the rain.”

  Larissa looked up into those piercing eyes and hesitated. Misroi frowned. “Drink it,” he ordered. She closed her hand about the mug and took a cautious sip. It was hot and fragrant with the scents of citrus and spices. Surprised by the pleasant taste, she took a second sip, letting its warmth steal through her chilled body before handing the mug back to the zombie lord.

  Misroi seemed satisfied. “Now, you’ve been properly welcomed to Maison de la Détresse.” He raised the glass in a silent toast to her, then sat back down and continued to drink while he talked.

  “Now, let me see. If my informants are correct, your name is Larissa Snowmane and you are a dancer aboard that lovely boat that’s currently steaming down my swamp. Your tender heart is touched by the plight of Dumont’s slaves. You’ve been tutored by that annoying moss creature, the self-styled Maiden of the Swamp, and you’d like to go rescue the creatures. The Maiden, very wisely indeed, refuses to aid you without my cooperation. In a stroke of cowardice, she sent you to ask for it. Tell me, Miss Snowmane,” he said, gazing intently into the ruby depths of the wine, “do you really expect to leave here alive?”

  The casualness of the question was more chilling than the words themselves. The wine-induced warmth fled Larissa, and her mouth went dry with fear.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a voice that quavered only slightly. “If I can’t get your permission to attack La Demoiselle, I’d rather die.”

  “Death is not necessarily an option,” the zombie lord reminded her.

  Larissa ignored his taunt. “I need your permission to fight Dumont,” she repeated. “He’s a thief, stealing things that don’t belong to him. He’s getting fat off the labor of innocent beings. I’m not asking for your aid, only your permission.”

  Misroi remained impassive. He reminded the trapped dancer of a waiting vulture.

  “Don’t you understand?” she exploded. “He’s trapping creatures from Souragne. From your land, without your permission—without even consulting you!”

  Misroi appeared not to have noticed the anger in her voice. He took another long pull at the cooling wine, and rose to reheat it with the poker.

  “Lord Misroi—”

  He gave her a mock-offended look. “Anton, please, my dear.”

  “Anton … Will you permit us to attack La Demoiselle?”

  Misroi picked up the poker and warmed up his wine. “I haven’t quite made up my mind about that yet.”

  With the speed of a striking snake, he dashed the mug to the floor and swung the poker at her head. Larissa managed to leap out of the way, turning a handspring and landing on her feet. Using all the Maiden had taught her, she gestured with her left hand and made a movement with her right foot. The poker twisted in Misroi’s grasp like a live thing, then went still. The zombie lord stared at the length of vine now in his hand.

  Larissa crouched, ready to leap to either side or execute a dance movement. Her blue eyes were alert, waiting for Misroi’s next move.

  The lord of Souragne looked from the vine to Larissa, surprise on his face. “Very good!” he murmured. “You’re
better than I thought you would be. This will be enjoyable. Sit down, dear Larissa, if I may call you that. You need have no more fear of me. I have tested your mettle—and you have damaged mine!” He tossed the vine into the fire. “You must have many questions for me. Ask them.”

  Larissa licked her lips, cautiously sitting back down. “The Maiden says you are the lord of Souragne.”

  “Quite right. It, and everything in it, belongs to me.” He looked at her with piercing eyes. “That does include you, too, my dear, in case you were wondering.”

  Larissa was starting to overcome her initial fear. Misroi’s arrogance began to annoy her, and she clung to that emotion. “Since you know that Dumont is stealing your creatures, why haven’t you stopped him?”

  Misroi shrugged. “If he is clever enough to trick creatures and trap them, more power to him. Cleverness and covetousness are not sins in my eyes, Larissa.”

  “But, he has no right—”

  “If he can manage it, that gives him the right. Only the strong and the clever survive. If the animals—or other beings—are stupid enough to let themselves get caught, they deserve whatever happens to them. Harnessing their magic is far from the worst that could befall trapped creatures.” He smiled, a cruel, cold smile. “Trapped creatures in my home pray to fare so well.”

  Larissa’s fear had evaporated, leaving her coolly reckless. “Am I a trapped creature?”

  Misroi’s smile widened. “Everyone is trapped—in one way or another. Some have prettier cages, that’s all. No, Dumont’s ambition doesn’t bother me.” He paused thoughtfully. “Alondrin’s, however, does.”

  “Because he makes zombies, like you do?” Larissa wondered the instant the words left her mouth if this had somehow been a breach of etiquette, but Misroi didn’t take offense.

  “That’s hardly the problem. I can control any zombie in this land at a thought. No, Alondrin wants to leave my realm, and I don’t wish him to.”

  He turned his penetrating gaze on the dancer, the smile melting away from his face as if it had never been. “That’s the problem, Larissa. He’s planning to use your showboat to break away from the island.”

  “But—the Maiden said no one can leave without your permission.”

  Misroi’s handsome face grew cold, and a quiet rage began to simmer in his blue eyes, causing Larissa to draw back.

  “That has always been the case. But Alondrin has taken great care to stack the cards in his favor.”

  Misroi leaned forward, his eyes snapping like the fire. He began to count on his fingers. “One—he’s traveling on water, which strengthens his skill. Two—the boat is warded with Captain Dumont’s considerable magic. And three—there are dozens of feu follets on the boat, and their presence also enhances magical spells. Alondrin might succeed, which would set a dreadful example. Don’t you agree?”

  Larissa nodded. “So why haven’t you stopped him?”

  “Because I’m going to get you and your friends to do it for me,” Misroi answered. “Why should I bestir myself when you are all afire to charge to the rescue? But, pretty dancer, I’m going to teach you a few tricks to counter the bocoru’s magic.” He rose, strode over to her, and pulled her to her feet. Larissa forced herself not to struggle and met his eyes evenly.

  One hand reached to smooth back her wet mane of white. Slim, strong fingers slid down her cheek, trailed across her jaw, her throat. Larissa’s body tensed, and her eyes narrowed in anger.

  “Have no fear for the safety of your person, Larissa,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. Wine-scented breath fanned her face. “Who knows better than a zombie lord what pitiful stuff mere flesh is? No, it’s your spirit that intrigues me. There’s something there that I find … fascinating.”

  He stepped back, taking her hands. A crafty smile spread across his face. “I will give you what you seek, but in my own time and for my own reasons. You are a dancer. Very well, then. I shall teach you a new bransle, my dear. I shall teach you the Dance of the Dead.”

  NINETEEN

  “Marcel,” Anton Misroi called lazily, “show Miss Snowmane to the guest quarters. Draw her a hot bath and—are you hungry, my dear?”

  Larissa opened her mouth to say yes then closed it, her face suspicious. Misroi shook his head and clucked his tongue in mock dismay.

  “Pretty little dancer, you’ve already seen that I’m alive. How do you think I stay that way? I assure you, the food is wholesome. You shall join me for an early supper.”

  She had no choice. Larissa nodded. The zombie master took her cold hand, pressed firm lips to it, then left.

  Marcel took the candelabra from the mantlepiece and led Larissa up the wide staircase. She followed, thoughts churning in her head. The dancer had come seeking Misroi’s permission, not his aid or his tutelage. How long would he keep her here?

  And what would he ask of her in return?

  She followed her undead guide as he led her down a large hall. Illumination was provided by brass sconces, fastened to the walls, shaped like arms that clutched flickering candles. Marcel reached the end of the hall, produced a large key ring and unlocked the door. It swung inward with a groan. Larissa wondered how long it had been since this room had had a living occupant.

  Marcel motioned her inside. She stepped in tentatively. As with the furniture elsewhere, that within the bedroom was large, old, and dust-covered. The canopied bed was a sprawling, sagging echo of lost grandeur. The wardrobe of intricately carved wood was in sad need of oiling, and the mirror at the little vanity was as tarnished as the one in the hallway. A woman, freshly dead and clad in fairly new clothes, was mechanically pouring buckets of steaming water into a porcelain tub that seemed comparatively clean.

  Larissa almost laughed aloud at the macabre absurdity of the scene. She felt hysterical laughter bubble inside her and swiftly quelled it.

  The dancer shed her soaked, filthy clothes and stepped into the tub. She felt better at once. The hot, flower-scented water felt wonderful to Larissa’s chilled body. As she bathed, the zombie maid opened the wardrobe and began laying out beautiful dresses. Larissa glanced over at her. She wanted no more favors from the zombie lord.

  “No,” she protested, “I’ll wear what I came in.”

  The maid straightened and fixed Larissa with a fish-eyed stare. She shook her head slowly. “Master said, dress,” she told Larissa in a monotone.

  Larissa swore and splashed the water impotently. He wasn’t even letting her wear her dancing clothing. “A damned fly in a bloody web,” she muttered to herself as she reached for a towel.

  “Well, don’t you tidy up enchantingly,” Misroi commented as the dancer descended the stairs an hour later. Larissa glared at him, the expression on her face a contrast with the beautiful gown she had finally decided on. It was dark green with a cloth-of-gold underdress. The upper part of the sleeves were also cloth of gold and puffed out, but her lower arms were encased with more dark green fabric that tied neatly at the wrists. It was shockingly low-cut by Larissa’s standards. She had not bound her hair, and it floated about her shoulders like a white cloud.

  The lord of the dead met her halfway up the stairs. He, too, had dressed for the occasion. His black hair had been somewhat tamed and was drawn back into a ponytail. Misroi’s clothes had obviously been freshly pressed and the colors—dark blue coat, light blue vest, and black breeches—suited him well. Blindingly white silk stockings and shoes with polished gold buckles replaced the mud-spattered riding boots. He offered Larissa his arm, and she cautiously took it.

  The dining room was across the hall from the parlor. The table was large and already laid out in preparation for their first course. Misroi pulled out a chair for Larissa, then seated himself at the other end of the table. The rain had stopped, and the sunlight streamed in through the windows at precisely the wrong angle. Misroi squinted.

  “Drapes, close,” he ordered.

  As in the parlor, the drapes were held open by brass hands. At Misroi’s command, th
e clutching metal fingers loosed their hold, and the maroon velvet drapes swung shut.

  Two servants emerged from the kitchen area. One moved about diligently lighting several candles. Another entered carrying a large silver soup tureen. Staring emptily, he placed it on the table and began to ladle soup into a bowl for each of the living beings.

  “Turtle soup,” Misroi said, “delicious, according to my chef. I just acquired him recently. He’s a wonder in the kitchen.”

  Cautiously Larissa spooned up a mouthful of the soup. It was delicious, as thick as stew. The turtle meat had a unique flavor, and there was an undercurrent of something tangy and citrusy.

  “Lemon?” she hazarded.

  Misroi beamed. “What a discerning palate you have, Mademoiselle Snowmane. Yes, it’s lemon.”

  Misroi proved to be a charming host. Despite herself and the horrors that abounded in the place, Larissa found that she relaxed and occasionally even smiled at some of Misroi’s jokes. She had seconds on the soup, devoured a salad made with bitter greens grown near the swamp, and dived cheerfully into a rice dish with seasoned crayfish. Her eyes flew open and she gulped thirstily at the water.

  Misroi laughed again. “A bit spicy, I know, but that’s typical cuisine for our humble island. Perhaps the next dish will be more to your liking.”

  Larissa sniffed hungrily as the main course was set before her.

  “Rabbit sautéd in wine,” Misroi informed her, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “It’s the chef’s specialty.” He attacked his food with gusto. Larissa’s appetite, however, had fled.

  “Jean,” she said softly, in quiet horror.

  Misroi raised a raven brow inquiringly as he lifted his fork to his mouth.

  “I beg your pardon?” He took a large bite. Juice ran down his chin, and he wiped absently at it with the back of his hand.