by Ann Aguirre
Finally Njål says in a deep, grave voice, “I don’t want you to go, even if you’re my downfall. Perhaps . . . it might be for the best. I wouldn’t fight if it was you.”
I don’t think, only react. My feet are moving, carrying me to him and as I draw close, I shut my eyes and offer my hands. If he doesn’t reach out, I won’t press the issue. He only leaves me wondering for a few seconds, then he goes a step further, pulling me all the way into his arms. I feel his racing heart along with his nervous gulps of breath.
“I’m not your nemesis,” I whisper against his chest. “I intend to save you.”
Because we’re some distance from the guttering fire, he tucks me inside his cloak and I stay, resting against him like I belong here. Njål touches me gently, stroking a big hand down my back. There’s some temptation to open my eyes, but I resist.
“When you say things like that, it becomes difficult for me to believe that you’re a simple brewer’s assistant.”
“Why? Because common folk can’t be daring? The bravest people I’ve ever known often have no idea how they’ll feed their families through the winter. They fight hunger and cold instead of dragons.”
“Point taken. I would rather fight a war against demons than return to my solitary state. The unseen enemies can be the fiercest.”
“I won’t leave you,” I promise.
A shiver rolls through me, as if Bitterburn has heard and marked my promise. Perhaps it’s my mental state, but I feel as if I cannot leave, like it’s no longer my choice.
“May I kiss you?”
Oh.
The soft rumble of his request, so close to my ear, sends pleasurable chills throughout my body, and my stomach flutters. I still haven’t seen his face, but I don’t mind. He said he wouldn’t touch more than my hand until I was ready, and I am. I want Njål’s mouth on mine like I want my next breath.
“Please.”
With exquisite care, he kisses me, so delicate that I barely feel it. That won’t do at all. With my eyes still closed, I tangle my hands in his hair. It’s coarser than it was when I soothed him to sleep, a bit tangled as well. I urge him on with soft pressure at the back of his head. I can tell he barely remembers how to do this—it’s been so long—and I lead the way, with soft turns of my lips, pressing and grazing, until he opens his mouth on a moan.
I deepen the kiss with a teasing tongue, reminding him how to give and take, stroke and slide, until he kindles. The kiss grows fierce, increased heat and demand. I can tell that he has sharper canines than most, and his stubble scrapes against my jaw. Nothing about his touch troubles me. In fact, I only want more. My body throbs, slick and hot, and I resist the urge to rub against him. I crave more kisses, and I ache at the idea of him stroking me between my legs, long caresses right there until I twist and writhe and wet his hand.
He makes irresistible noises as we kiss, deep in his throat, as if I’m utterly delicious. I suck lightly on his lower lip, then soothe it with my tongue, glad that I’m good at kissing at least. I have no more bedsport skills, but this feels incredible. My excitement builds as he pulls me closer, whispering incoherent accolades against my mouth.
“So good. You feel so good.” Agonized pleasure, just from the kissing. His lips rove to my neck, and he licks me like a dessert. He’s shamelessly hard against my belly, so big that it feels intimidating. “Amarrah . . . will you . . .”
Njål stops, he doesn’t ask for what he wants. He pauses with his lips against my shoulder, his big body curved over mine as he trembles. I don’t know if the keep is filling his head with lusty images, but this need is real. I created it and I want to do this.
Bold as brass, I slip my hands inside the front of his pants and rub. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it must feel good. He pants and pushes, sliding his hot, hard length against my palm, faster and faster, and then he helps me, adorably awkward with his claws, showing me how to grasp and tug. Njål wants it hard, and he goes wild when I get it right. Little grunts and whines escape him as I work. Soon, he shudders and does it in my hand, so it’s all messy and wet when he’s finished.
I’m not satisfied but I’m not ready to ask for anything. I can take care of myself later if I’m still feeling the tingle when I go to bed.
He rests his head on mine, still shaking slightly. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you?”
Eyes still closed, I laugh softly. “Not at all.”
“I lost myself a little. You . . . did I take advantage?”
“Freely given,” I assure him. “I’m glad I could please you.”
I’m used to having my eyes closed when he’s near, and I wonder if he’ll blindfold me when we become lovers. In my head, it’s when, not if. I think I’ll be all right with that.
He sighs. “Normally I have more self-control. I had no intention of pressing for that.”
“You didn’t, precisely. Don’t worry, if I hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t have. And no matter how the keep was whispering to you, I trust that you’d respect my wishes.”
“I would. I swear.” Njål is built like a mountain, I can tell that from touching him, but he would never use that strength to hurt me.
Not ever.
13.
I am a witch.
Two weeks after I cast those charms in the kitchen garden, green shoots push out of the earth. Out here, it’s tangibly warmer too. I can’t do anything about the wan sunlight, but it seems like it’s enough for plants to grow. It’s too soon for me to know what’s emerged, but I planted strawberries, yellow gourds, beans, potatoes, and onions. The rest of the crop will be a surprise, and it will take months—
Or maybe not.
If I’m a witch, then my blood will make the vegetables grow faster. I wonder what else I can do with that book of charms. The warding spell seemed complicated but if it means I could properly take ownership of Bitterburn, perhaps I ought to try. I might even find the key to unlocking Njål’s curse if the keep becomes more receptive to my will.
Bart and Agatha have taken to following me everywhere, and I let them. Because I noticed yesterday, with two goats running about outside, there should be dung in the stables, poop in the courtyard, and I’ve been too preoccupied with other matters to clean up after the goats. Yet there is none. Not anywhere. This strange fecal phenomenon must be related to the reset I noticed in the pantry, in the stables, and in the ice statue garden when I burned the rubbish. After a certain point, changes to Bitterburn are discarded and it returns to its original state.
So far it hasn’t happened in the kitchen. All my updates remain there, as they do in my cozy little room. It can’t be related to me being a witch, or the fire I started would have caused permanent scarring on the ground. I think. Obsessing over these matters makes my head ache. Never have I devoted so much of my mental energy to esoteric issues.
Bart bumps his horns against the door. I’m not deranged; I won’t be letting Agatha and Bart gobble up my delicate seedlings.
“Settle down,” I call. “I’ll be in presently.”
I pace the perimeter of the garden, my gaze lingering on the empty skeps. Wax and honey would be so useful. “Wish the bees would return,” I murmur, then I clap a hand across my mouth.
But it’s too late. I’ve made another wish. Curse that word anyway. Silently scolding myself, I head inside. The goats might well wreck up the kitchen if I leave them too long. Njål has apparently shooed them out because I find him waiting, but not Agatha and Bart.
“Our Lady Doe looks a bit plump,” he observes.
“Yes, they wasted no time in starting a family. In a few more months, I’ll be a doting auntie, provided I can manage as a midwife.”
“Does that make me a doting uncle?”
“Only if you mean to marry me.” The teasing remark pops out before I can stop it, and it falls like a stone into a still pond, silence rippling outward in rings where there was amiable conversation.
“Would that I could,” he says quietly.
/> He can, though. It wouldn’t be a formal service with rites pronounced by a cleric, but he could claim me as his wife if he wanted to. The townsfolk, especially those who can’t afford the fees and the festivities, have long since quietly plighted their troth and lived together, raised families together, a kind of common magic. This might not be a rejection. Maybe Njål doesn’t know about that custom, as he was a nobility before, and he’s been trapped here for a long time, so how would he learn?
I lack the courage to inform him because that would seem like I’m trying to coax a declaration out of him. When he asks what I’ve been reading, I answer cheerfully enough. I finished that history book and I’m learning how to make goat cheese from the animal husbandry tome, anticipating a day when I’ll be able to milk Agatha.
“Fry bread and cheese,” he says in a dreamy tone.
“If all goes well. There may be fresh vegetables too.”
He stills. “The garden grew.”
“It did.”
Njål doesn’t speak it aloud, but I’m aware of his thoughts. Bitterburn has awakened my potential, and neither of us can be sure what it means, whether it heralds good or ill. But from what I’ve been reading in The Witch Within the Walls, magic is neither inherently good nor evil. It depends on the intention behind it, and I don’t think I’m a bad person.
Maybe the baroness didn’t believe that either.
I silence that icy whisper, refusing to believe that I’ve been lured here to take on a role as Njål’s tormentor. I had never been near the keep when I decided—of my own free will—to come here. My head feels strange, a touch muzzy, and I realize that the silence is lengthening again, like shadows at nightfall.
“Are you afraid of me?” On the surface, it’s an absurd question. In terms of physical power, Njål could crush me, but I’m sure he understands why I’m asking.
The long pause nearly does me in, and I imagine there’s a gaping hole in my chest, so wide that my heart might spill out.
“Perhaps I should. Not who you are now but what you could become.” Then he sighs. “Even with confirmation that you could be my undoing, what I said before holds true. If you turn into a pillar of fire in my arms, I’ll hold on while you burn me to ash.”
“Njål.” His name is all I can get out.
Nobody has ever said such a thing to me—not even Owen—and I react like a turtle overwhelmed by five grabby children. I drop into a squat and curl into myself, much as little Njål did the night I dream-walked to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in alarm. “Are you hurt?”
I let out a gusty breath. “I’m broken. But I’m starting to think you can fix me.”
“I can?” Such a shocked tone.
Gathering myself, I push upright and decide this is the perfect moment to surprise him with a gift. He’s given me so much since I’ve been here, often without realizing how much I needed those particular words or to feel essential in someone’s life.
“Wait here. I’ll be back presently.”
I don’t wait for questions, and on the way to the storeroom, I herd Agatha and Bart into the courtyard. They bleat in protest, but goats don’t need to gambol in the great hall, no matter how fancy they’ve become with Njål referring to them as Lord Buck and Lady Doe. After closing the door firmly, I mentally cross my fingers that the ale has fermented correctly and will at least be tolerable.
I’ve been checking on it, and it looks right. The smell seems decent, but there’s only one way to be sure. I’ve got clean bottles ready and I pour the jugs deftly, remembering the work I did for my father with a touch of nostalgia. That life seems almost like a dream now. I remember how unhappy I was, and I know I lived with them for over twenty years, but even the village where I lived and the woods where I walked with Owen—those moments have faded, like a bright banner left for ages in the sun.
On some level, that ought to alarm me. Because there’s only Bitterburn inside me now, Bitterburn and Njål. When I first arrived, I feared being devoured by this place, but it’s not happening as I predicted. Instead it’s eating up my past in greedy bites, absorbing my pain and loneliness, so only contentment remains.
That . . . that isn’t right. Something is—
The feeling passes. I hum as I cork the bottles and arrange them in the basket. I tie a red ribbon around the handle and rush back to Njål, hoping that he’ll like the lager. This is the first batch I’ve made by myself, and while I didn’t have premium ingredients or ideal conditions, I did the best I could.
He’s not where I left him. Instead he’s standing boldly in the middle of the kitchen so I can see the full shape of him. Njål is massive, cloaked head to toe in deep gray. I suspect the garment was black once, before time had its way with the ragged garment. The sleeves are frayed, as is the hem. This isn’t all he’s got on—I know that from touching him—but the hood prevents me from getting a look at his face.
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
“I don’t want to frighten you,” he says, which isn’t an answer.
“I’m fine.”
I try to act natural, as if this isn’t a huge step forward. In truth, I long for the day when he’ll discard the cloak as well and I can finally see him. To me, it doesn’t matter how he looks because his face will be inexpressibly dear, no matter what shape his features take. Because Njål is precious to me.
Briskly I set the basket on the worktable, nudging it toward him. “My first batch of ale. Would you care to try it?”
“I’d love to. Will you join me?”
“I was hoping you’d ask, but just pour me a bit of yours. I’ve no head for liquor and I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“That might be entertaining.” But he fills a ceramic cup halfway. The ale is light and creamy, the best I could do.
Carefully I take a sip. I made a few creative substitutions and the result is . . . interesting. The flavor is bitter and nutty, like nothing my father ever created. But Njål savors his with every appearance of enjoyment.
“It’s almost like being a regular person,” he says. “We talk, we eat our meals together. You laugh at my silliness, and now we’re having a drink.”
I notice he’s not mentioning the heated kisses or the way I pleasured him with my hands, right in this kitchen. My whole face heats when I think of that. Since then, he’s given me a fair amount of physical space, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I don’t exactly have a list of things that need to happen before I invite him into my bed, and I don’t want to leave it until it’s too late, like I did with Owen. How am I supposed to know when’s the right moment for that?
“I know what you mean. It’s starting to feel like home.”
“Because of you. I used to loathe this place so much, but now, even eternal imprisonment doesn’t seem as bad.”
Anger sparks inside me, blazing like a low fire in my gut. “You shouldn’t have to live that way. I wasn’t jesting when I said I’ll set you free.”
“You shouldn’t go around making vows. Not here. It’s dangerous, Amarrah.”
Considering the goats, I know he’s right. I don’t have the courage to tell him that I’ve let my guard down and wished for bees. “I’ll be careful.”
“Please. It would destroy me if anything happened to you.” I see the tremor in his hand as he lifts the amber bottle and drains it.
And he can’t even die, that awful voice whispers. The presence flickers in my head, a serpentine shadow that seems to relish that prospect. I shake my head like I can dislodge it, and the evil sensation fades. What the hell? I need information and I need answers. The library is one possibility, but I could spend years there without finding out what I really need to know. It’s time to be bold.
“I haven’t asked before,” I say softly. “But I think we need to talk about the origin of your curse. Are you ready to tell me what happened?”
14.
For a long moment, Njål keeps silent.
I doubt he wants
to discuss this, but I need to do something or my talk about freeing him will never amount to more than that. I understand his reluctance. If he pressed me for more details about Owen’s death, I’d respond the same way. But I’m not pushing for more information out of idle curiosity or for my own entertainment.
Finally he says, “Are you asking how I came to be cursed? Or is it more about the conditions under which I can gain my freedom?”
“Either could be helpful.”
“I’d rather not talk about the former,” he says. “I’m not being difficult. But I’ve managed to lock that door and throw away the key, and if I force myself to remember . . .”
“Something bad will happen?” That’s how I interpret his grim, hesitant tone.
“You might wonder how I’ve not gone mad, living this way for so long. The truth is, I was after the curse kicked in. I . . . did things for the baron and baroness. I went mad and came back again, only at great cost. I remember fragments of that time, but I can’t scrutinize those memories. I can’t.”
Alarmed by his distress, I move to his side and take his hand. His fingers are cold, trembling in my grasp. He holds on to me desperately, as if these lost memories are hateful indeed. Given how Baron Bitterburn mistreated Njål before the curse, I can imagine what dreadful tasks he was assigned afterward.
“It’s fine. I won’t ask anymore.”
He nods, controlling his emotions as I comfort him with little strokes on the back of his hand. “I can only describe that time as living at the bottom of a deep pit. No light. Only the sense of being trapped and powerless and all the while, I was . . . doing things. For them. When I finally came back to myself, so much time had passed.”
