An image of the mausoleum came to his mind, and his blood thinned so quickly he nearly rubbed his arms in an attempt to scrub away the gooseflesh pebbling his skin. The bodies. He was afraid to destroy them, afraid that without a physical anchor, the souls of his wretched wives might find new hosts, might find a way to come back. Maybe he could ask Dominique how… Dominique.
His gaze wandered to the bed as if she were still there. She was his wife, she had married him, and she’d been lying there in his bed—in his arms. How in the name of the seven seas had that gone wrong? What sort of man fails to close such a deal, fails to claim his prize in his own marriage bed?
“Inconceivable.”
Of course, Dominique wasn’t just any woman. No, any other woman would have succumbed to his charms, would have had the good sense to surrender to his kisses, to spend the day naked in bed, enjoying all the pleasures he had to offer. Any other woman would have wanted to talk about something—anything—other than the pain and humiliation of the previous night. Any other woman would have had the decency to pretend such an embarrassment had never happened.
“But not Dominique. Oh, no, not Dominique.” He glared at her side of the bed—not that she deserved a side, considering the meager time she’d spent in it.
As soon as she brought her rear end back home where she belonged, he would make it a point to drag her to bed with him until she understood that was where she really belonged. And afterwards, he might ask her what to do with…
Wait, someone had already told Dominique of his other wives. She already knew he’d been married before. Who told her? And if she knew he’d been married before, what else did she know? Who had told her?
He took a deep breath to calm his suddenly racing heart. “Relax, Julien. It’s forgotten. She has new things to be angry about now. Let it go and it will never come up again.”
A knock on his door drew him out of his thoughts and Julien drew himself up to his full height. He composed his face, attempting nonchalance in anticipation of his wife’s late return. “Come in.”
A servant’s face appeared and Julien bit back a curse of disappointment. “Yes, Laurent?”
“The boy’s parents would like to leave now.”
“Already? They’ve only been here a day.” Julien drummed his fingers on his thigh. He didn’t want to brag, but he had one of the finest homes in this area of Sanguennay. The boy he’d saved from Parlangua should have been over the moon to stay here, as should his parents. They were being treated like royalty, Julien had seen to it. “Why do they want to leave?”
“The boy’s leg could not be saved. The healer had to remove the mangled flesh below the knee.” The servant’s face twisted with sympathy, grey eyebrows drawing together. “It is healing nicely, much of that no doubt due to your own wife’s gris-gris, but the boy is understandably upset. He is only twelve, a very active age for a young man. And now he’s been told he will never walk again.”
An image of the boy rose in Julien’s mind. He could still see him holding onto the slim cypress in the swamp, face contorted in determination and no small amount of agony and terror. Parlangua’s gnarled muzzle locked tight on his leg, blood flowing, painting the giant white teeth crimson. It was no small ordeal for anyone, to say nothing of a twelve-year-old boy.
Dominique will be devastated. She’ll blame herself.
“He will walk again.” Julien thrust a finger at the older man. “He will walk, he will run, he will flourish.”
He strode across the room to a large trunk beside the wall. The heavy, buckled lid clanged as he flung it open. “I know it’s here somewhere.” A black lump rolled as he jostled the contents, landing with a disturbingly solid thunk. “A cannonball? No wonder this blasted thing was so heavy.” He grunted, shoving the ammunition to the side with a mental note to make Drust lug it back to the ship. He tugged at some red material that was either a cloak or a blanket. Finally he spotted his prize. “Ah-ha!”
Laurent peered over Julien’s shoulder and barely missed getting struck in the face when Julien hefted a piece of wood over his head. A leather harness had been fastened to the top of the smooth club with a stem as wide as a man’s leg and a tapered pegged tip.
“My lord?” Laurent eyed him warily.
Julien grinned and hefted himself to his feet. He passed the bemused servant and plunged into the hallway, making a beeline for his guests’ room. He threw open the door and found the boy huddled on the bed in a mountain of forest green pillows. The lad’s cheeks had lost the angry red tint his tears and panic had painted on him before, but they still glistened with the remnants of fresh tears. The tears of a boy who saw too much time lost in bed in his future. His leg was propped up on its own lump of down and cotton, shiny scarred skin glistening in the daylight shining through the large windows.
It was nothing short of a miracle. Julien had seen more than his share of severed limbs—it was an unfortunate hazard of life at sea. If it wasn’t a sea monster of some ken or another, it was a mermaid with a twisted sense of justice or poorly secured rigging. Never had he seen a wound like that heal to shiny scars in twenty-four hours. Dominique was more powerful than even he had anticipated, if her gris-gris could yield results like that.
The boy’s mother—Gertrude, he’d heard a servant call her—was cradling her son’s cheek in her hand, speaking in a low, soothing voice. His father—Claude?—stood beside the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes bright with tears he was desperately holding back. Julien noted the man’s clothing, the dirt, the broad-rimmed hat held in a half-hearted grip. He was a farmer then. Julien winced. The boy’s help will be sorely missed on a farm.
It took them all a moment to register his presence. Claude startled first, scrambled to keep from dropping his hat, then bowed his head. “Monsieur Marcon.”
Julien nodded back to him, but quickly focused his full attention on the child—young man, he corrected himself.
“It has been brought to my attention that I completely failed to present you with this gift.” Julien held the wood over his head and grinned. “I do hope you’ll forgive me.”
The boy sniffed, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. “What is it?”
“This, mon ami, is your ticket to fame.” Julien strode over to the bed and plopped down beside the boy. Gertrude made a small sound in her throat that might have been a squeak of surprise or indignation—it was hard to tell, the woman had a poker face that would bring some of the pirates Julien had known to tears. He tried to ignore her as he settled by the boy’s leg.
The next sound out of the mother’s throat was definitely protest, but this time Claude put restraining hands on his wife’s shoulders. She dropped the hand that had been reaching for Julien, but her eyes gave him plenty of warning about what it would mean to harm her child.
What would Dominique do if she looked at her like that? He fitted the wooden club to the boy’s leg and fastened the harness to secure it. Dominique would probably start using the woman’s full name, emphasizing the first, middle, and last with equal finality. Then she would do something creepy, gather a hair or bit of clothing, insinuate that she would use her magic to bring misfortune to the woman. One corner of his mouth quirked up. She’d done the same thing to him the first time they’d met and he’d tried to kiss her without asking properly. He could still hear his name on her tongue.
“Ah, ah, ah, Julien. Francois. Marcon.”
A shiver ran down his spine, heat infusing his body. Dammit, he had to find that woman and he had to find her now. He didn’t care if it took all evening, he would woo her out of her foul mood and tonight they would have a proper wedding night.
“Now, you must swear that you will not use this to shame the other boys.” Julien refocused on the boy, sternly keeping his thoughts from going too far afield. “After all, it isn’t their fault they don’t have proof of their masculinity such as this.” He thumped a hand on the wood. “Not many men can saunter around the village a proud survivor of an attack by Parlangua.
” He met the eyes of the boy’s father. “The girls will be all over him. I don’t envy you the time you’ll have.”
The boy’s eyes had grown wide and he was sitting considerably straighter than he had been a minute ago. His father had a considering look on his face, his shoulders rising as if a weight had been taken from them.
Gertrude on the other hand…
“It sounds hollow.” She eyed the wooden limb suspiciously. “Is that a cork in the end?”
Julien froze, smile carved into his face as he fought not to let his eyes fall to the cork in question. Now that she mentioned it, he did recall the pirate he’d won it off of taking a swig before he’d handed it over. It hadn’t seemed strange at the time, they’d all been a bit worse for the rum, but now…
There’s no way that Dacian beast would have forked it over if it had so much as a drop left in it. He held Gertrude’s eyes—a feat he didn’t think many liars could master. “Yes, it is hollow. It has to float so it can be found if it goes overboard—hazards of working at sea, you know.”
“And the cork?”
“Why, to let water out should the surface be punctured and the leg compromised. Have to drain it before it can be properly fixed, you know.”
The tides take it, Dominique, where are you? This interrogation is intolerable without a pint to wash it down.
“If you’ll excuse me, I should go see to my wife. New bride, and all.”
He winked at the boy’s father, drawing a small smile from the man. As he’d hoped, Gertrude zeroed her attention on her husband, leaving him free to leap off the bed and bolt.
He closed the door gently behind him. “There’s no pleasing some people.”
“If I might have a word?”
The voice came out of nowhere and Julien’s heart leapt into his throat. He threw himself against the wall, swearing as his back connected with the edge of a painting. The gilded frame jarred his spine, the impact knocking the painting from its moorings. The whole piece of art crashed to the ground with a resounding crack.
Tenoch stood in front of Julien, one black eyebrow arched as he observed the chaos. He couldn’t have looked more out of place if he’d painted himself pink. His copper skin was still mostly bare, his body kept from complete nudity by only the simplest of animal skins and a smattering of gold jewelry. A dagger hung sheathed at his side, but more than the weapon, the man’s bearing kept him from appearing silly. He radiated calm, bottomless black eyes not quite empty, but not giving any hints to his emotions either.
Julien took a few slow breaths. He was half leaning against the wall, but he wasn’t ready to stand just yet, not when his pulse was still beating like a wild animal in his throat. “Tell me, Tenoch, do you intend to make these little surprise visits a habit?”
“I’ll answer your question if you like, but it will waste valuable time. Your wife would benefit from a speedy conversation between us.”
Wood snapped as Julien crushed the painting’s frame in a sudden scramble to regain his feet. “What about my wife? Where is Dominique?”
“Do you love her?”
“Do I…” Julien flexed his hands, barely able to hold himself back from throttling the answers he needed from the man’s throat. “Where. Is. My. Wife?”
“If you don’t love her, then her location is irrelevant. You cannot help her if you do not love her, if you are not willing to do what only a man in love would do.”
A chill frosted up Julien’s spine, an aching, bone deep chill. He swallowed past the lump in his throat with some effort, struggling to remain calm. “You have always spoken plainly with me, Tenoch. Do so now. Please tell me where she is.”
Tenoch’s gaze remained steady, though there was a glint of sadness in his eyes now. “That knowledge will doom you both if you don’t love her.”
Julien clenched his jaw. “Tell me.”
“She is at the mausoleum that contains the bodies of your deceased wives.”
Julien took off at a dead run before the last word left the copper-skinned man’s lips. He didn’t need to hear the rest of what Tenoch had to say—it wouldn’t matter. If Dominique was at the mausoleum, then she was in more danger than she could possibly know.
She doesn’t know them. She doesn’t know what they’re capable of.
Because I didn’t tell her.
He tore off his clothes as he ran down the hall, stopping only to shuck his pants and boots. Servants stared at him like he’d lost his mind, surrounding him with wide eyes and open mouths. None of that mattered, and he didn’t spare them a glance as he careened down the stairs, throwing himself into the change with more force than he ever had before. The transformation was blessedly fast, human flesh becoming lighter as it changed, bones hollowing, muscles stretching. Feathers flowed like water over his body, holding him in a cushioned embrace as he spread massive wings. Guillaume tore open the door in time for Julien to sail out of it and he made a mental note to reward the man when he returned. That is, if he were still there. If any of them were still there now that his little secret was out.
No time, no time. Dominique is there—with them. Oh, blessed gods, I should have told her. I should have told her everything, should have told her… Now she’s there, and she’s a voodoo queen…
Gods, forgive me.
Pain exploded up his leg. Bones splintered as something closed on his ankle and held on with merciless tenacity. His body stuttered in the air, flailing. He beat his wings, instinct driving panic through his veins like an acidic wave, an avian scream tearing from his beak. The added weight yanked him out of the air, and he slammed into the grass with enough force to snap his beak closed.
Agony lanced his nerve endings as he floundered on the ground, fighting the urge to shift and heal himself. Such a course of action would be fruitless while the threat was still present. Better to stay in this form, to summon his power. Thrashing against the ground with his wings, he craned his neck and pointed his beak over his feathered shoulder.
Parlangua dug its teeth deeper into his calf, and pain like flames scorched up his leg to lick at the rest of his body.
Julien screamed again, but this time it wasn’t just pain. “Traitor!”
The word barely escaped his beak, the syllables twisted, screeching as he fought to get them out of a mouth not meant for speaking. Parlangua narrowed its eyes, its words garbled by the limb trapped between its teeth. “You would bring her nothing but misery.”
Julien screamed again, frustration tying his nerves into hard knots. Plumes rose around his neck. “Danger! Wives…magic!”
Curse this form and its pathetically inadequate vocal cords. He beat the air harder, trying to build up the power he needed for the lightning that would save him. Slate grey clouds rolled over the sky like a winter blanket, but they were too slow.
There was nothing else for it.
The change came slower this time, impeded by the pain seizing his body and the fact that the jaws locked on his leg sent blood pouring from open wounds as he shifted. His warping fingers and feathers rooted into the soil as he braced himself through the agony and rushed as fast as he could, gasping when he finally had proper use of his vocal cords.
“Wives were magic,” he gasped. “Dominique is in danger.”
Parlangua froze, chartreuse eyes sharpening. It opened its mouth, just wide enough to let Julien finish his shift, his flesh blessedly knitting together with supernatural speed as his body went from one form to another. The skin over the wound was pink and shiny, but at least blood no longer poured from the wound.
The beast’s teeth grazed his leg, faint threatening prickles. “Explain.”
“No time, no time,” he panted, trying to resist the urge to yank his foot free. “I have to get to Dominique.”
Parlangua said nothing, had no reaction beyond the way light refracted against its cold eyes. Julien couldn’t wait for it to make a decision, he didn’t have time to convince the beast, to wait for it to choose whether or not to believe him.
It would be a huge benefit to have Parlangua on his side right now, but time…
Teeth skated over his skin as he jerked free of Parlangua’s still blessedly open jaws. Instinct made the beast snap its mouth closed, but panic gave Julien the speed he needed. He kicked out with all his might, his heel making contact with one of the creature’s glowing yellow eyes. A fierce roar of pain and a wet trickle heralded the destruction of the eyeball, fluid dripping down his foot as Julien flipped over and scrambled onto his feet.
He bolted into the forest, weaving through the trees as fast as he could, gaze locked ahead of him where he could see the mausoleum in his mind’s eye. Weakened from shifting form twice in such a short time span, his body protested, his chest heaving as he struggled to move through the fatigue weighing down his limbs. Some part of his mind panicked, reminding him that he was now naked in human form—no weapons and no magic. He was helpless until he recovered enough to shift again.
I’ve already shifted twice, not ten minutes apart. It will take hours to recover for another shift. I should go back, get a weapon. He ran faster. No. No, there’s no time, no time, no time.
Dominique, I’m coming.
Chapter Seventeen
Waves of cold air rolled off the mausoleum, thick with the scent of death and old blood. Dominique rubbed her arms, trying to smooth out the gooseflesh as she stood at the mouth of the threshold, the heavy stone door hanging on its hinges, unmoved by the breeze. The bodies inside—and she had to think of them only as bodies for now—lay silent and unmoving. The mausoleum had three levels, so the sisters were lying on slabs one above the other. All Dominique could see was their bare feet…and the blood stains.
Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) Page 16
