Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  Time to be honest. He did know what to do about Cecily. The answer was easy, and there was just enough human decency left in him to divine it. He’d known it the moment he’d pressed his cracked, weathered lips to her pale, delicate fingers eight days past.

  He had to let her go.

  LUKE FOLLOWED HER INTO THE FOREST.

  Cecily tried to leave him behind, but she couldn’t. The memories stalked her down the root-scored pathways; her thoughts cast long, flickering shadows. Two kisses they’d shared now: one innocent and fresh, one desperate and demanding. Both intoxicating. Stirring, in ways she scarcely had words to describe. She’d wanted him, even as a girl, though she’d hardly known what it meant. Now a woman, she understood longing and claimed more than a passing acquaintance with desire. And she burned for him, body and soul. She must find some way to extinguish that fire, before it consumed her completely.

  “Tell us more about the werestag,” Portia called to Denny.

  It took Cecily a moment to understand what her friend meant, and to recall that they were not hunting Luke in the undergrowth.

  “Is the legend centuries old?” Portia asked, stepping over a fallen branch.

  “Not at all,” Denny answered. “Mere decades. If you believe the locals, these woods have been cursed for generations, but the man-beast is only one of the more recent victims.”

  “Oh, come now.” Brooke swatted an insect against his neck, then squinted at his hand before wiping it against his trousers. “What evidence is there for this supposed curse? Unless by ‘cursed’ you mean plagued by midges, in which case I readily capitulate.”

  “People have died here,” Cecily said.

  “People die everywhere.”

  “Yes, but this forest claims more than its share,” Denny said, pausing and raising his torch high. “And it has a taste for the young and foolhardy.”

  “Of course it does,” Brooke argued. “Most people who die of accidental causes are young and foolhardy.”

  Denny shrugged. “Believe what you will. But there is no way to disclaim the fact that nearly every family in the area has been touched by some tragedy that occurred here. Even aristocracy cannot escape the curse. Why, the old Earl of Kendall’s—”

  “This local history is all so very fascinating,” Portia interrupted, taking Denny’s other arm, “but could we return to the story of the werestag? If we’re going to find him, we ought to know what we’re about.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Denny began to tell the story, and Cecily purposefully fell a few paces behind. She’d heard this tale before, many times. How an impoverished man, desperate to feed his ailing wife and children, had gone into the forest at night to trap game. Such poaching was illegal and incurred stiff penalties, but Denny’s grandfather had generally turned a blind eye to the practice. The man in the story, however, had made the grave mistake of wandering across the Corbinsdale border, and the old Earl of Kendall did not share Mr. Denton’s leniency. Men had been sentenced to hard labor, even transportation, for the offense of poaching on Kendall land.

  “So there he was,” she heard Denny recounting in a dramatic tone, “crouched over his brace of pheasants, when he heard the hounds. The Corbinsdale gamekeeper had spotted him. The poor fellow ran, even dodged a bullet or two, weaving through the woods. But he couldn’t outrun the dogs forever. He tried throwing them the pheasants, but the hounds were well trained and barely stopped to sniff at the birds.”

  Denny paused, drew up, considered. At length, he pointed right. “There’s a deer trail, just here. We’ll follow it.”

  Although the winding ribbon of trail was only wide enough for one, Portia clung to Denny’s arm. “What did he do? The hunter, being chased by the dogs?”

  “Ah, yes. Just as the dogs were about to reach him, the man fell to his knees and pleaded with the spirits of the forest to spare his life.”

  “And…?”

  “And a strange force struck him to the ground, and when his consciousness returned—he’d been transformed into a stag. A white one, so the story goes.”

  “Absurd,” Brooke grumbled.

  “After that, he easily outran the dogs—made it all the way back to Denton land. He was even able to change back into human form, once the danger had passed. But the spirits had played a cruel trick on him, you see—for he could never leave the woods again. Every time he tried to set a foot—or hoof—beyond the woodland border, some mystical force would throw him back. The forest spirits saved his life, but now they will not relinquish it.”

  “What of his family?” Portia asked.

  “His wife died,” Denny answered. “The orphaned children were sent to a workhouse. And the man-beast”—he cleared his throat—“beg pardon, werestag, has been doomed to roam the forest ever since.”

  “Rubbish. Poppycock. Lies, all of it lies.” Brooke strode to the lead, then halted and turned to face the group. Everyone tripped to a standstill. “Legends,” he continued, “always have a logical explanation. This is clearly a cautionary tale, concocted by old, toothless grandmothers. Everyone knows the old earl was rabid about hunting, and he had these woods stocked with exotic game—peacock, boar, and yes, even stag. Everyone knows his lands were a magnet for poachers, and that he dealt with trespassers harshly. Of course the locals created this man-deer nonsense. They wanted to scare young people, discourage them from wandering off into the woods.”

  “Well, if that was their intent”—Cecily looked around the group—“it doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  “That’s right.” Portia released Denny’s arm and continued on the path. “Here we are, plunging ever deeper into these cursed woods, unarmed and intrigued. Fearless.”

  Brooke grabbed her elbow. “A thin line separates boldness from stupidity.”

  “Yes.” Smiling sweetly, Portia looked at his hand on her arm. “You’re treading it.”

  His lips thinned as he released her.

  With an affable grin, Denny pulled out his flask. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m having a capital time.”

  The group forged ahead in silence. Once again, Cecily let herself fall behind, the better to indulge her maudlin humor. She trailed them by ten paces or so, lingering in that auditory border between her companions’ crunching footsteps and the forest’s profound hush. The sounds were smaller here. The chirp of insects. The subtle cracks as tree limbs splintered overhead. Little currents of rustling that betrayed nocturnal creatures burrowing in the undergrowth. Somewhere far in the distance a confused rooster crowed, a good five hours premature. That happened, sometimes, when the moon was nearly full and so bright.

  Cecily strained her ears. Could one hear moonlight? She almost imagined she could—one clear, silvery note ringing through the woods, like the hum of a celestial tuning fork. The sort of sound one felt in her bones, rather than detected with her ears.

  Beautiful.

  A bright flash caught her eye, like a distant bolt of mercury. She swiveled, tracking it left. It disappeared, and she froze, peering hard into the woods in the direction she’d seen it last. To the left, then up a slight rise…

  There. There it was again. An arrow of white bounding through the shadows. And…could that sharp glint be a prong?

  She turned and stepped toward it instinctively, then looked down in surprise when her boot failed to create the expected crunch. She’d assumed, in stepping off the path, she’d crush a goodly number of leaves and twigs beneath her heel.

  But she hadn’t, because the smooth-packed furrow of the trail split here, directly under her boots. The right fork led toward Denny and the rest, now several paces ahead. The left path shot off in the direction of the mysterious silver-white flash.

  A thin line separates boldness from stupidity.

  Yes, and she’d crossed it four years ago.

  The little laugh she gave surprised her, as did the ease with which she made a choice. The decision smacked of petulance and self-destructive tendencies. Cecily knew
it.

  She turned left anyhow.

  Chapter Three

  HE WAITED FOR HER.

  There was no other possible explanation. The stag must have waited for her, patiently gleaming in the moonlight, while she followed the serpentine path through the woods. For after following the trail for just a few minutes, Cecily rounded a tight thicket of brambles to nearly collide with the beast.

  He did not bolt, but stood his ground. Awed, she did the same. She fought to keep her breathing steady, to make no sudden movements. How curious, that after all the cautionary tales of a cursed man-beast—“Werestag,” she heard Portia correcting in her mind—Cecily was concerned about frightening him.

  With a soft snort, the animal gave her his handsome profile and regarded her with one large, dark, intelligent eye. His creamy hide bunched shaggy and soft on the underside of his throat, then stretched taut over his backbone and haunches. One of his rear hooves stamped the ground, as though the power coiled in those haunches wanted to spring free.

  Feeling a little bit silly—and why should she, she talked to horses and dogs all the time—she addressed him. “Can you understand me? My speech, I mean?” When he gave no response, she added, “If you can understand me, nod your head twice. Or tap your hoof, perhaps.”

  His neck lengthened a fraction, so that his regal crown of antlers struck an even more impressive silhouette. I am not one of your horses or dogs, his proud bearing told her. I do not nod or tap on command.

  Oh, yes. He understood her. Or rather, they understood one another.

  A sense of affinity passed between them, a moment of mutual admiration and respect. Cecily’s fingers itched to stroke the felty thatch beneath his ear, to judge if it was really as soft as it looked. But she sensed it would offend him, to be petted in such a manner.

  Then off he darted again, and she stared after him, entranced by the power and grace in his easy, bounding gait. The creature halted on a distant rise, his sleek form just an iridescent glimmer in the distance.

  Twice more they played this dash-and-follow game, until she was certain they must be well into Corbinsdale land. The distance didn’t concern Cecily. The path was always there, to lead her back.

  But then the path grew fainter. Until she wasn’t even sure she was following a trail anymore, but perhaps only tracing a dried-up rill. She could hear the stream gurgling in the distance. That same stream emerged from the woods into Denny’s south meadows, where they sometimes picnicked on pleasant afternoons.

  A rancid odor filled the small depression where she’d halted—as though something were rotting nearby. A little shiver of nerves swept her, but she bade herself to stay calm and survey her surroundings.

  She pivoted slowly. A copse of alder crowded her view, and the stag’s shining form had disappeared. But she was not lost. If she had no other alternative, she could follow the stream to those familiar meadows, then return to Swinford Manor from there. It would make for a long walk home, and a muddy one, but she had several hours of good moonlight left, and a warm cloak. There was no cause for alarm. She was in no danger of wandering aimlessly in the woods until she died of thirst or starvation.

  A harsh grunt made her jump.

  No, she was in danger of perishing in this very spot.

  Cecily turned toward the ominous snuffling noise. There, in the underbrush, lurked a boar. She’d never seen a boar, but she knew this must be one—else it was the largest, hairiest, most foul-smelling and predatory pig she’d ever encountered.

  “Denny?” she called. Then, louder: “Portia? Mr. Brooke?”

  The malodorous thing shuffled closer. It was drooling. Slobbering and snorting. The beast’s rubbery lips quivered and curled, revealing a pair of sharp, menacing tusks to complement the smaller, hooked set bracketing his snout.

  “Go away,” she told it. “Shoo.”

  No response.

  A cloud moved across the moon, painting the forest a darker shade of greenish-gray.

  “Denny! Help!”

  As the beast lowered its head and began to charge, thoughts rioted in Cecily’s brain. Regrets, mostly. Of all the disgusting, miserable, lonely ways to die, she would end like this? And though she knew she had no one to blame but herself for this predicament, she felt an unreasoned surge of anger toward Luke. If he cared for her the slightest bit, she wouldn’t be here at all.

  That irrational stab of fury broke her silence. She had already stood up to one brute this evening. She would not go quietly now.

  “Arrogant, insufferable cad!” she screamed at the boar, grabbing up a fallen branch and raising it high above her head. Widening her stance, she braced for the impact, forcing herself to be patient…wait… She would only have one chance, one swing.

  A benevolent gust of wind whipped the hair out of her face. She focused her gaze on one flattened, bristled ear and tightened her grip.

  Almost…almost…

  Now.

  Just as she swung, some unseen force tackled Cecily from the side. She felt herself lifted effortlessly, then hurled to the ground. The stick clattered from her grasp. Loamy soil clotted against her cheek, and her fingernails scrabbled in moss and decaying leaves.

  She struggled to rise, but a heavy weight held her pinned against the ground. Was it the boar? It couldn’t be. She felt no bristles against her flesh, and it didn’t smell nearly bad enough. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.

  A hand. Yes. Fingers, palm, thumb. Human.

  “Be still,” a deep voice growled.

  And then the boar was upon them both.

  Cecily’s face slammed against the turf again as the beast’s second charge hit home. Despite the jolt, she was aware of the stranger’s frame surrounding her body, absorbing the worst of the blow. When the boar eased off, presumably to charge again, the stranger released Cecily’s mouth, grabbed the tree branch she had dropped, and rolled over swinging. Even with her face still pressed into the dirt, she heard a dull crack and a porcine squeal of pain that told her the club had hit its mark.

  The man’s weight was gone from her now, and she rolled onto her back, propping herself up on one elbow. A few paces away, the stranger—her protector—staggered to his feet and squared off against the angry boar. With the crosshatch of branches overhead and the clouds obscuring the moon, Cecily could barely make out the forms of man and beast as they circled one another, much less make out the stranger’s face.

  “Denny?” she asked tentatively. His build appeared different from Denny’s, but then it was dark and difficult to see. “Denny, is that you?”

  The man gave no response. Really, how could he, with the boar charging him again?

  Survival first, she chided herself. Introductions later.

  The stranger dodged right and swung, clouting the beast on the ear with his club. Amidst the boar’s angry squeals, Cecily registered the sound of ripping fabric and a masculine grunt of pain.

  “Oh! Are you hurt?” She stepped forward, keeping her eyes focused on the writhing heap of hoary animal between them.

  “Get back.” The command was delivered in a savage, almost inhuman voice.

  The great boar struggled to regain its feet, and the man rushed forward to kick it in the head. The beast rooted and snapped with its snout and jaws, trying to bite the man’s foot. One tusk fishhooked on boot leather, pulling the man off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. The two were locked together now, boar’s jaw to man’s boot, and the stranger used the position to his advantage. Bracing himself on hands and elbows, he stomped and kicked with his free leg, landing vicious blows to the boar’s throat, crown, jaw. The boar backed away, dragging the man with him, but the animal couldn’t free its tusk. Again and again, the man kicked, until the boar’s squeals became choked gurgles. The scent of fresh blood, metallic and sharp, mingled with the beast’s own stench.

  Cecily backed away, nauseated by the sounds and smells of violence. She tripped over a tree root and stumbled back, coming to
rest on her elbows. She stayed like that, staring up at a slice of cloudy sky visible through the branches, until the pummeling blows stopped and the boar wheezed its last rattling breath. Then she slumped back further, laying supine in the leaves. Her heart throbbed against her breastbone.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to her unknown rescuer. If he hadn’t intervened, she would have certainly perished. He must be one of Denny’s footmen, she reasoned. Or perhaps a gamekeeper from Swinford or Corbinsdale.

  But then, he had no hounds, no gun. Strange.

  Feeling sufficiently recovered to risk a look at him, she rolled onto her side.

  She saw no one.

  A hand clamped around her ankle, and Cecily shrieked. She attempted to rise, but could do no more than scrabble sideways with her leg pinned thus. Her rescuer, now turned attacker, crouched at her feet and began shoving her skirts to her waist. Horrified, she kicked at him the way he’d kicked at the boar, but before her boot could connect with his face, he’d captured it in his other hand. His head disappeared from view, and she felt him burrowing under her petticoats.

  Oh, God. What cruel work of Fate was this? This man had preserved her life, only to ravage her body? Temporarily pinning her left leg with his knee, he unlaced and removed her boot. Vise-like fingers gripped the bared arch of her foot.

  She shoved at his shoulders through the folds of her skirts, beat on his back with her fists. “No,” she sobbed. “No, please.”

  “Shhh.” A rush of hot breath warmed her inner thigh. “Be still,” came the rough voice muffled by fabric. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Cecily felt a swift tug at her ribbon garter—and since his hands were occupied restraining her ankles, she knew he had to be using his mouth. She shuddered as the ribbon fell slack and a neat row of teeth closed around the edge of her sensible woolen stocking. Slowly, tenderly, with a lover’s finesse, he drew the stocking down her leg. A desperate sensation built within her as the wool scraped over her thigh, her knee, the sensitive slope of her calf. Her senses buzzed with an exquisite blend of heightened awareness and fear. She trembled.