The Beast of the Barrens

by Val Saintcrowe

  “I don’t think you will be able to manage it without me.”

  “It may take some time,” he said, “but I don’t mind waiting. I have waited a long time. I shall wait just a bit longer.”

  “No,” she said. “I bargained with you. I promised to help.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to,” he said.

  “It won’t hurt me,” she said. “I hate him.”

  “Do you?” said Chevolere. “Do you truly?”

  “He hates me,” she said. “He’s not capable of love.”

  “That’s as it may be,” said Chevolere. “But even if he hates you, that doesn’t mean you don’t still love him. Even if he doesn’t deserve it.”

  “I don’t love him.” She waved this way. “That’s preposterous. Besides, if you couldn’t do it, you’d be frustrated, and you’d only grow to resent me in time. You have wanted this revenge for a very long time. I want him gone, Chevolere. I do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” she said. “Besides, I have to go and see him anyway, after our little performance last night. I’m sure he’s heard all about it by now.”

  “You could simply visit your family, you know,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be anything else.”

  “I have no desire to visit him,” she said. “If I’m going, it’s only to assist you.”

  He nodded slowly. “Well, all right, then.”

  “Have you been up all night?” She eyed him. He was still wearing his clothes from the party.

  “No, I slept,” he said ruefully. “I simply didn’t undress. It seemed… well, I didn’t want to.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should never have pushed you last night.”

  “Yes, I’m quite fragile.” One side of his mouth tugged upwards in half a smile. “You’re quite a bit stronger than I am.”

  “You aren’t fragile.” She reached up, to touch him reassuringly, and remembered to stop at just the last minute.

  He grimaced, looking at his feet.

  She slowly lowered her hand. “Well, I’d best get ready to go home.” She looked about the room. “Where did you get that coffee?”

  “Ziafiata?”

  She turned back to him.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for this.”

  “Of course,” she said briskly. “It’s nothing, Chevolere.”

  “It isn’t nothing,” he said. “I want you to know I recognize that.” He gazed at her with such a look in his eyes that she couldn’t bear it. She had to look away.

  * * *

  Her father did not meet her at the door but called out for her when she came back to his house. It was noon by then, but that was the earliest she could have made it home.

  She stepped into the dining room, where her father was using a fork to pick at a roasted fish. The bones rose up on his plate, along with the skin, which he had peeled off. “So, you’ve come back.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I discovered that Chevolere isn’t so horrible after all. He’s actually quite good and kind deep down, and he let me come back to you.”

  Her father snorted. “I also hear tell rumors you have been meeting with my caporegimes and trying to sell them iubilia.”

  “What?” she said. “No, Father.” She shook her head. Of course, she’d known such things might get back to him. “How would I know how to negotiate with men like that? Why, I couldn’t even work the sums.”

  He looked her over, head to toe.

  “What seems more likely, Father? That in my time with Chevolere, he brought out my ruthlessness and made me like him, or that I was kind and good to him and brought out his own goodness?”

  Her father put a forkful of fish in his mouth and chewed.

  “I must go back to him, of course,” she said. “But I hoped that we could invite Gabrielle and Suzanne and their husbands for dinner, perhaps tomorrow? I would like to see everyone again. I have missed you all so dearly.”

  “You couldn’t even conceive of trying to harm the family, could you, little Zia? There’s not a mean bone in your body.”

  “There really isn’t,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Well, of course we’ll dine with your sisters. See to the arrangements, will you?”

  “Of course.” Because when a long lost daughter comes home, she must plan her own reunion dinner in the Abrusse household. She wanted to snort, but she held it in. “Oh, Father, it is so good to see you again. It is so good to be home.”

  Her father grunted and went back to his fish.

  She backed out of the dining room. She didn’t make any plans for a dinner. Her father would be dead by tomorrow morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Chevolere felt anxious all day.

  He could not concentrate on anything, and he spent the day poking his nose into various aspects of the tavern here and there until everyone who worked there had dismissed him in exasperation, assuring him they had their tasks under control.

  Sunset came.

  Chevolere wanted to have a drink to calm his nerves, but he didn’t want to be anything other than clear-headed for the evening’s activities, so he didn’t drink anything, not even more coffee, which he had considered, since he wasn’t planning on going to sleep for some time.

  But sometimes coffee made his fingers shake, and he couldn’t afford that happening either.

  It was odd because there had been a time when all he did was fantasize about killing Federo Abrusse, and he had imagined doing it in all manner of ways. Slow, fast, bloody, clean…

  Now, it was going to happen, and it was going to be simple. Just his dagger.

  He was debating about even waking the man up.

  Maybe he didn’t need to do that.

  He had no illusions that he’d get some admission of guilt from Federo, some declaration of regret. No, Federo was not that way. If he had been, he wouldn’t have been the sort of man who would lose his daughter in a game of cards.

  It was easier if it happened in his sleep, and there was less likelihood of anything going wrong. Furthermore, it might be better for Ziafiata if her father didn’t suffer.

  Yes, he was almost entirely sure that was the way he would do it.

  He would simply remove Federo Abrusse from the world with one quick strike, possibly to the back of his head, burying the knife in just under the man’s skull.

  When he thought of it, some part of him shrank from it, and he didn’t know why that would be. He thought nothing of killing. In the beginning, perhaps it had bothered him, but not in years had he been the least bit troubled.

  He thought some hidden part of him might have been uncovered by Ziafiata. Perhaps, when he’d removed his mask for her—his clothing—he had taken off more than leather and fabric. Maybe he’d removed something else, something more vital, and maybe there was some vulnerable, pink part of him that had been exposed.

  He should despise that, but he didn’t.

  Being with her, seeing her, kissing her… it was possibly the only truly good thing he’d experienced in his adult life.

  And now, he was setting off to murder her father.

  Somehow, it felt wrong to him.

  Even still, at the appointed time, he set off through the city for her father’s house. He wore a cloak with a hood, and he walked with it pulled over his face so that none could see his mask and recognize him. It was perhaps a bit funny that the very thing he’d put on to obscure his identity now was the most identifiable thing about him. He considered not wearing the mask at all, but the idea of killing Federo without it was too much for him. No, he needed the mask.

  When he arrived at the servants’ entrance in the back, where he’d been instructed to enter, Ziafiata was waiting for him there. She was dressed in a purple gown he’d never seen before. It was modest, high in the front, with long bell-shaped sleeves. She had pulled her hair into a tight bun on the top of her head. It almost put him in mind of Madame Vadima. He reached for her when he got there, somehow want
ing her touch as comfort—even though they didn’t do that.

  She shied from him.

  He flinched. Don’t do it, he urged himself. Tell her anything. Tell her you’ve lost your nerve. Tell her you’re squeamish. But don’t.

  “He’s not asleep,” she said.

  Chevolere drew himself up.

  “He went to bed only a quarter hour ago. He has not even extinguished the light in his room,” she said.

  Chevolere opened his mouth to tell her that this was a sign, and that they should abandon the plan entirely. But what came out was, “Take me to him.”

  “Are you certain?” she said. “If you cannot surprise him in his sleep—”

  “I’m sure.” His voice was hard. Something like molten steel was rising up in him, and it was sealing its way around any vulnerable parts that had been exposed. This was his revenge. This had been planned for years. He could never abandon it.

  She drew in a breath. “All right.” A long pause. She didn’t look at him. Then she gestured. “This way.”

  Wordlessly, she led him through the house, and he said nothing either. Now, he was filled with fiery resolve, and it felt like scalding pleasure, a searing bit of perfection that he could not deny.

  When they came to the closed door, the light of the lamp spilling out from underneath, he drew in a breath, savoring this moment, hot all over.

  “Chevolere,” said Ziafiata in a small voice.

  He didn’t even look at her. He looked at the door. “Yes?” He reached out and touched the knob, a caress.

  “I have been thinking about what you said.”

  “Mmm.” He was a string being pulled taut.

  “About how I didn’t need to help you with your revenge?”

  He glanced at her then. “Do you want me to stop?” Don’t tell me to stop, he begged her. Moments ago, he could have, but not now, not when he was so close. He had to have this.

  She hesitated.

  “Ziafiata?” he prompted.

  She only shook her head.

  He took this to mean that she didn’t want him to stop and turned the door knob. The door opened, and he stepped inside Federo’s bedchamber.

  Federo was sitting at a desk clad only in an untucked shirt and his breeches. He was on his feet immediately when the door opened. “Chevolere.”

  Chevolere crossed the room in three long strides. He wrapped one hand around Federo’s neck. With the other hand, he reached back and untied the mask. Now, he understood that he had to take it off. “You likely don’t remember me, Federo.”

  “You’re that brat who had that dead whore of a sister,” said Federo.

  Chevolere clenched his teeth.

  “When I knew you had some kind of grievance with me, I started thinking back. I came up with half a dozen possible contenders. But it’s you. The sobbing, red-nosed boy I threw into the street.” Federo laughed. “Well, what are you planning on doing now?”

  Chevolere tightened his hold on Federo’s neck.

  The man coughed. He raised his voice. “Ziafiata! Come and see how truly kind and good your Chevolere really is. He has used you, just as that Caputio devil did.”

  Ziafiata stepped into the room. “He didn’t use me, Father. Who do you think let him into the house?”

  Federo’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that. He turned back to Chevolere. “What did you do to her? What did you do to my sweet little girl?”

  Chevolere forced Federo back, bending him backwards over the desk.

  The man cried out at the unnatural angle of it.

  Chevolere got out his dagger and held it under the old man’s chin. He glared into Federo’s eyes. “What do you think I did to her?”

  “You’re a monster,” said Federo. “She was innocent. You…” His voice shook. “How is hurting my daughter any better than what happened to your sister? I never even touched her.”

  “Are you sorry for what you did to my sister?” said Chevolere.

  Federo wrapped both hands around Chevolere’s wrist, trying to pull him off.

  Chevolere pushed the tip of the dagger into Federo’s neck, drawing a small bit of blood. “Are you?”

  “Yes, yes,” gasped Federo. “Truly, I had no notion they would be quite so savage with her. I had never seen men do such things to a virgin. If I had known…”

  “You wouldn’t have sold her?”

  “No,” said Federo.

  Chevolere scoffed. He punched the tip of his dagger in again.

  Federo let out a hoarse cry.

  “Chovelere?” It was Ziafiata’s voice.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t watch this.” He didn’t take his eyes off her father.

  “Tell him the truth. I don’t want you to lie to him about us,” said Ziafiata.

  “Does it matter?” said Chevolere.

  “He has never had me, Father,” said Ziafiata. “It’s not like that.”

  Federo glanced at his daughter over Chevolere’s shoulder. “Why did you deliver me to him, then? It’s because of what I did to your mother, isn’t it?”

  Ziafiata’s voice wasn’t strong. “There are many, many reasons, Father. Many, many things you have done to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Federo. “I don’t mean to be the way I am sometimes, truly. I… the rage just comes over me. After it’s over, I’m never even sure where it came from or what raging beast it was that occupied me. If I were myself, I would never have—”

  “Shut up,” said Chevolere. “You don’t get to make excuses.”

  Federo turned back to Chevolere. “We can settle this. I have money.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “I have status and reputation in this town. I can give you—”

  “Your daughter will head the family after you’re gone, and she and I have already negotiated arrangements,” said Chevolere.

  Federo was astonished. “Y-you schemed against me, Zia?”

  “Chevolere,” said Ziafiata in a tight voice.

  “I think you should go,” said Chevolere. “Leave the room, Ziafiata.” Then, to Federo. “And you, old man, no more talking. Our business is at an end.”

  “No!” Ziafiata’s voice broke. “No, I don’t want you to do it, Chevolere. I… I find you’re right. I don’t wish to be part of this. In fact, I don’t wish you to do it at all. Why do you need to kill him? Can’t you… can’t you spare him? For my sake?”

  Chevolere turned away from Federo and gaped at her. “Ziafiata, I…” He turned back to the old man. It was a flick of his wrist to cut the man’s throat. It could be over in seconds. He wanted it. Blazes, he wanted it. It would be right and good and it would fulfill him. He couldn’t stop, not now, not when Federo was broken and begging in his grasp.

  Ziafiata let out a sob.

  Federo’s breath was so loud that it seemed to echo against the ceiling of the room. He was bent backwards, cringing in pain, gazing up at Chevolere, completely at his mercy.

  Chevolere let go of him. “Blaze everything,” he muttered. He pulled back the dagger and stalked out of the room. Outside, he shut the door on them both and put his back against it. He gazed up at the ceiling, and inside him, there was a surge of heat and rage and pain.

  And then, like an ocean wave, it broke and spattered him with its foam before it ebbed back out, leaving him calm and quiet. He bowed his head.

  He opened the door again.

  Ziafiata was there, as if she had been about to come after him. “We’ll take it from him, anyway,” she said. “I have the respect of the caporegimes. I have you and your connections. I’ll take the family from him, and he’ll be nothing. He’ll be no one. It’ll still be revenge. It’ll be better revenge. He’ll suffer for longer, and you’ll see that—”

  He kissed her.

  Her voice died as his tongue found hers. She threw her arms around him, molding her body against his, and he put his hand on her back and crushed her against him. She was soft and warm and her touch was everything.


  He had done it. He had faced the darkest part of himself, the part that craved violence and delighted in blood, and he’d stepped back from it. He had given up what he wanted most for her. He was no longer afraid of himself. He was no longer frightened of touching her.

  She pulled back, gasping, looking at him with a stunned expression on her face. Then she kissed him again.

  They might have gone on kissing, but Federo was there, hand against his throat, which was trickling blood. He had a pistol in one hand, and he was waving it at them both. “Ziafiata, move out of the way.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ziafiata turned, her body between Chevolere’s and her father’s. She had never seen her father have a weapon like that before. “What are you doing with that? You’re not a musqueteer.”

  “I keep one for emergencies,” said Federo, whose hands were busy with a ramrod, jamming a ball down the pistol’s barrel. “This blackguard corrupting my daughter seems emergency enough.”

  “No, Father,” said Ziafiata. “I can’t let you hurt Chevolere.” She stepped backward, pushing him back, toward the stairs. They were just down the hallway, only a few steps away. Chevolere could hurry down them, and she would go after him and they would figure out the next step in the plan.

  She wasn’t sentimental, and she didn’t want her father alive for his own sake, but she thought that Chevolere may have been right earlier when he’d told her that she could love her father even if he didn’t love her. It would wound her to know she had killed him. She couldn’t go that far. It was too much even for her.

  Chevolere’s hands were on her hips, and she was still stunned at how easily he was touching her, how casually, as if he did it all the time. He spoke, his voice low at her ear. “I won’t use you as a human shield, love.”

  Love? She looked up at him, her insides turning over. She wanted to kiss him again. It was frightfully inconvenient that her father had decided to kill him at this exact moment. She turned back to her father. “Put the gun down, Father. You’re not shooting Chevolere. He let you live, and you should be grateful for that. We’re both going to go down the stairs and then—”