Yes, he understood that. That was how it started.
What price would Ziafiata pay, lovely Ziafiata, beautiful Ziafiata? It would be his fault. He was doing this to her. She was fodder in his revenge.
Maybe this revenge meant that he was no better than Federo Abrusse in the end.
But perhaps there had been no question of that, not for some time. This was the consequence of Federo’s actions, this was what he had wrought in the world.
“You made me, Abrusse,” he whispered. “This is what comes of doing what you did.”
Of course, it wasn’t fair to Ziafiata. She was an innocent caught up in all of it.
It couldn’t be helped.
He could not undo what he’d already done to her. But, well, he knew that he couldn’t actually go through with ravishing the girl. He was incapable of that. He had no further to go in that direction, then. His threats had not worked. She was too strong.
He admired her strength. He didn’t want to batter her until she became weak. He could hardly bear that.
“But you have to,” he said to himself with gritted teeth.
Yes, it was true. He did.
But not this way.
There must be another way to get her to give up the location of the key.
He leaned against the door, toying with his mask, running the leather through his fingers, thinking.
Sometime later, decided, he stood up and tied the mask back on his face.
He left the room and descended the steps, going back to find her still there on the stage, exposed, bound, the lamps that illuminated the space burning low.
* * *
Ziafiata’s arms ached. She could hold herself up on her feet and take some of the slack from the way her arms were stretched above her head, but that hurt her feet and legs, and, when it did, she would sag against the chain that held her, which made the shackles bite into her skin, and that became painful too.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here, alone like this, and she began to be horrified that Chevolere meant to leave her there all night, that she would be there when the workers came into the tavern in the morning, and that everyone would see her like this.
The horror and humiliation of that was too much for her to even consider.
When Chevolere came back down the stairs, she was relieved and grateful to see him, and she hated him for making her feel any possible bit of gratitude toward him.
He climbed back onto the stage and advanced on her. “I find I am enjoying savoring this. The longer I wait to have you, the more you will dread it, and the worse it will all be.”
“You want it to be awful for me.”
“That is precisely the sort of man that I am,” he said, and he fitted a key to her shackles and freed her.
Her arms fell limply to her sides. She let out a little groan of relief.
He grimaced, tugging the sides of her shift closed over her skin and then, realizing this seemed to be hopeless, stripping off his cape. He settled that over her shoulders and began to do up several ornamental braided fasteners on the front of it. “Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, kneeling to unshackle her feet.
She swayed. Her feet hurt. Her legs ached.
His fingers ran over the places where the shackles had been on her ankles.
She let out a little mewl of disapproval.
“I didn’t realize it was so tight,” he said softly. He stood up. “Let me see your wrists?”
She thought about resisting, but he was parting the cape to find one of her arms. He brushed soft fingers over the red welt there, making a tsk-ing sound.
“My apologies,” he said. “As I said, I have very little experience with this sort of thing.”
She let out a harsh laugh. “Apologies? Do you expect me to forgive you?”
He glanced at her, and there was something regretful in his too-light eyes. “No, of course not.” He began to lead her across the stage.
Her legs weren’t steady. She collided with him, and she wanted to recoil, but he didn’t give her the chance.
He wrapped a strong arm around her and supported her, helping her off the stage and up the narrow steps to her bedroom. He left her on the bed, with the door open, still wrapped in his cape.
She got up, ready to run, but he was back with a tiny ceramic container. He took off the lid and began to smear a smoky-smelling salve into the welts on her wrists and ankles. Then he wrapped them in strips of linen.
“I’ll be back to see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Are you going to ruin all my dresses?” she said, sneering at him.
“Well, I suppose that would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” he said. “If you had nothing to wear, I wouldn’t have to remove your clothes.”
Her face twisted.
“I suppose I could just take your wardrobe,” he said, rubbing his chin.
“You’re too awful for words,” she said.
“Mmm,” he said. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t tell you if it did. You’d probably derive pleasure from it.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Of course.” He drew in a breath and then let it out. He crossed to the door. But there, he hesitated in the doorway and turned back to her. “Do you have any notion of how to find Diago Caputio?”
“As if I’d share that with you either,” she said.
“Right,” he said, nodding again. “Of course,” he repeated. He sighed again, shaking his head. He left, locking the door behind him.
Once he was gone, she threw off his cape. It was horrid, and it smelled like him, and she thought of that terrible thing he’d said to her about Diago, as if he was an animal and she was territory he was scenting.
Shuddering, she went to the wardrobe and found another shift. She didn’t bother to put on a dress over it. Maybe there was no point. She climbed into bed and huddled into the blankets.
It was an interesting thing, however, wasn’t it?
He’d threatened to do all manner of awful things to her. But he hadn’t actually done any of them.
* * *
The next day, Marta came to bring Ziafiata’s meals again, and she needed the other woman’s help to dress, because she only had one other set of stays, and they laced in the back.
Marta saw the linen strips on her wrists and ankles and made a face. She was subdued and seemingly eager to get away. She barely looked at Ziafiata.
Chevolere came back that night, as the tavern was closing.
He was wearing a new cape, and he stayed on the opposite side of the room from her, lounging against the door. “I don’t want to string you up again until your welts are healed.” He held up the ceramic container of salve. “I’ll leave this with you.”
She also stayed on the opposite side of the room. She wasn’t eager to get close to him.
“Have you been imagining what I’m going to do to you?” he said.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think about you when you’re not around.” She wouldn’t share that she had begun to wonder if he was all talk and no action, because she was frightened that would spur him to prove that he was quite capable of taking action towards her.
His mouth quirked into a smile. “I like you, Ziafiata. Much more than I thought I would. I didn’t consider liking you at all.”
She glowered at him. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because I’m not impressed.”
He chuckled.
She continued to glower.
“Oh, you might be interested to know that I heard word of your Diago. It seems he’s hosting some sort of card tournament in an inn on Rosa Street tonight.”
Her heart leaped. So close? Why would he be in an inn when he had his own house in the city? On the other hand, while playing cards was legal, gambling was not, and it would likely be easier for Diago and all the others to scatter if the authorities decided to attempt to break up the tournament. So, perhaps that was why he was in the inn.
Chevolere was still sm
iling. He looked smug. “So, how did he convince you to marry him? Did he offer it only when you spurned his attempts to get under your skirts otherwise?”
She gave him a withering look. “I don’t know why you persist in thinking that you can talk me into having a low opinion of Diago.”
“It was that way, wasn’t it? I’m sure when you sneaked out of your house to meet him, he’d immediately have his hands inside your bodice.”
“It was not that way,” she said.
“You did surrender your virtue to him, though.” This was stated as a fact.
“Why do you care?”
“Perhaps it’s for my conscious.” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want your first time to be with something like me. As I said, I’ve come to like you.”
She scoffed.
“So,” he said. “Admit it. You are not a virgin.”
She folded her arms over her chest.
“He was never interested in anything other than getting between your thighs, Ziafiata,” said Chevolere. “Everyone in the entire city knows this is true. Everyone.”
She pressed her lips together in a firm line.
“Perhaps he was a skilled lover. Is that it? Perhaps he pleased you, and you miss that.”
She looked down at the floor.
“No?”
“Are you actually going to do anything to me or just stand there flapping your lips?” she burst out with. Immediately, she regretted it. She did not wish to challenge him. It was too risky. Especially now, when she knew that Diago was so close. She must find a way out of this room tonight. Perhaps she could wedge something between the cracks in the floor, pry up the floorboards and wriggle down onto one of the tables below.
But Chevolere only chuckled again. “I find I’m gratified to think he didn’t please you. Blazes knows why.”
She gave him a sharp look.
“Not that I could ever provide a woman pleasure,” said Chevolere. “Not that I could…” He sighed. “Furthermore, I’m going to kill your father and destroy what’s left of your reputation. There’s nothing tender in our future, is there? Pity that.” He sighed. “Well, I shall speak to you again soon, I suppose. We’ll talk again of Diago Caputio then.” He pushed off the door and went through it.
When he shut the door behind himself, he did not lock it.
CHAPTER SIX
Ziafiata stood there gaping at the door.
What had all that been about? Why had he said those strange things to her? He had made rather much of the idea that he was growing to like her, and then he’d acted as if he wished her to like him in return, which was ludicrous, given the way he’d treated her thus far.
Of course, he’d acknowledged that, but he’d seemed wistful about it.
Odd.
Strangely, it put her in the mind of nursery stories. There was the one about the woman who was married off to a bear man, who was cruel to her until she tamed him with her soft caresses and then his fur melted away and underneath he was a kind prince who never misused her again.
Ziafiata knew instinctively what those stories were. They were lies told to young girls so that when they were old enough to be sold off by their fathers to other men, to be used to arrange business deals and exchanges of land, women thought that rough men might become sweet if a woman was patient enough and kind enough. And they served another darker narrative, to assure a woman that if she had not tamed a rough man, it was probably her own fault.
Even still, there was a raw sort of power to them. Romance in them that called to some primitive, soft part of her soul.
Had she tamed the Beast of the Barrens? Is that what she would like to believe?
But she’d gone about it all wrong, hadn’t she? In the stories, the woman tamed the beastmen by being good and kind and soft. She’d done nothing but fight and resist.
Perhaps that, however, was the way to tame Chevolere. Perhaps a man like him wanted a woman with some fire to her.
But she didn’t want to tame Chevolere. She hated him. He was abhorrent. Everything about him was…
She didn’t want to tame him.
Did she?
No, if she felt anything toward that man, it was obscene. It must only be a product of some trauma he’d written on her soul. He had terrorized her.
And yet she had the strange notion he’d left the blazing door unlocked on purpose.
She didn’t go through it right away. Instead, she sat on the floor and peered down through the cracks in the floor, watching as the workers set the chairs on the tables, as they extinguished the lamps, and as everything grew quiet and still.
Even then, she sat without moving for some time, waiting.
She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for, but she felt as if she must not try the door too quickly, that she must be certain that no one was left in the tavern.
Finally, she could wait no longer. She must try. And sitting here was getting her nowhere.
She tiptoed across the floor to the door.
The floor creaked, and it was monstrously loud. How had she never heard the creaks before? Perhaps because of the music below, or perhaps it had never creaked until now.
She paused at the door, waiting, sure that Chevolere would come out at the sound of the loud creaks.
When all remained still and quiet, she tried the knob.
For a moment, she worried it would not turn, that Chevolere had locked the door and that she simply hadn’t heard him do it.
But the door opened and outside, the hallway was shadowed and silent.
She crept down the narrow steps to the lower level.
These also creaked.
She attempted to go slowly, and the creaks were prolonged and loud. She attempted to go quickly, and the creaks were a cacophony.
Finally, she made it to the bottom floor. She looked up the at steps, frightened Chevolere would be coming down them, his cape fluttering behind him, his gray eyes glowing behind his mask.
No one was there.
She darted across the floor and then stopped.
Should she go out the front door or the back door?
Well, there might be people on the street, even in the middle of the night like this. The Barrens was full of activity long after the last of the taverns shut their doors, as drunk men and women cavorted along the sidewalks.
Back door, then.
She pivoted and hurried into the kitchen.
It was empty, though there was a fire going in the stove along the far wall.
Stacks of tankards lined shelves above the counters, which were wiped down. Piles of onions and potatoes loomed, casting long shadows. Large bowls full of rising bread dough sat out, covered in towels.
She dashed past all of this and to the door.
The doorknob did not turn.
Oh, yes, it would be locked, but that was to lock people out. She unlocked the door and then darted through it, locking it behind her.
Outside, the air was chilly but fresh and she drew in a lungful, almost unable to believe she had actually escaped.
It had happened. She had gotten away.
She looked up at the tavern and noted there was a light on in Chevolere’s rooms.
She flattened herself against the building, her breath coming in gasps.
The light went out.
She hesitated. Had he seen her?
If he has, run, you idiot girl!
She ran.
She ran and ran and didn’t stop until she’d reached Rosa Street. There was the Cruel Willow Inn, which was bright and open, laughing people spilling out of the doors into the street.
Panting, she pushed her way through them and up to the doors.
She yanked a door open and stepped inside.
The Cruel Willow had a tavern on the bottom floor, and it was obviously about to close. Half of the tables had the chairs sitting on top of them, and people were standing up and talking to each other, heading towards the doors.
But in the corner, a group of men sat
around a table, and she caught a hint of the back of Diago’s head, which was wreathed in golden curls.
Her heart stopped.
She stared, unable to move, unable to breathe. It had been two years.
And then, miraculously, he turned, and he saw her, and his eyes widened.
She could breathe. She could move. She started toward him.
He got up from his chair. He was stunned.
She moved more quickly, practically running across the tavern. Her face broke into a smile.
He raised his eyebrows and then he smiled too. He opened his arms to her.
She ran into them, throwing her arms around his neck.
His arms came around her. “Zia,” he breathed. “I heard that you were—”
“I escaped.” She pulled back. “The Beast of the Barrens, he was awful, and he threatened me with all sorts of awful things, but I got away from him before he got around to doing any of them, and I knew you were here, and I came to you. I have nowhere else to go. Please, you don’t have to… I don’t need… I know I’m not the sort of girl anyone could marry. Not anymore. So, don’t send me away. Let me stay with you?”
His lips parted. He took a breath as if he was going to say something, but then nothing came out, and he closed his mouth. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. He wrapped his arms protectively around her.
She burrowed into him. She felt safe, finally safe, for the first time since she’d been ripped out of Diago’s arms two years ago.
* * *
Chevolere stood just inside the back door to his tavern, waiting.
He had watched her leave, and he’d been frightened she’d see him in the window above, peering down as she escaped, and then she might know something was afoot. But extinguishing the light seemed to have reassured her, and she’d run off down the street as if she was being chased by the living flame itself.
Now, he could only hope she’d gone where he’d told her to go.
It couldn’t have worked out better, really. Diago’s tournament happening that night, so soon after he’d decided on his plan? It was almost as if it had been ordained by the blaze itself. Not that Chevolere believed in such things. Why, he knew that the living flame in the musqueteers pistols was nothing more than a mixture of specific ingredients. Anyone could make the powder if they had the right things. There was nothing magic about it at all.
The Beast of the Barrens Page 5
