The Dark Kingdom Anthology

by Krissy V et al.

Locked.

  The baron’s warning.

  Curiosity burns in me until I cannot push it aside any longer.

  Just stretching my legs. That’s all. Not enough space in here, in this Godawfully small room. I’ll just pace outside in the hallway until I’m rid of this nervous energy. Then I can fall asleep, tomorrow will come, and the world will be a better place once—

  That’s what you always think. But it’s not, is it? Nothing you do makes your world a better place.

  I turn the knob, but the door doesn’t open.

  Goose flesh pimples my arms. I step back and rub my hands over my exposed flesh.

  I never heard the key turning in the lock.

  How long have I been here? When did Mrs. Potter lock me inside?

  I hug myself even harder, until my nails dig into my flesh, and even then it’s not tight enough. I spin around and scan the tiny cavity I’ve been shoved into, left to rot until someone remembers I serve a purpose and comes to extricate me.

  The knob rattles as I will it to open under my hand, to turn. The old, clammy metal leaves the smell of tin—

  Blood, so much blood, Howard’s blood

  —On my hands.

  I pivot, scan the room again, desperate for even the slightest hint that there’s more to the world right now than these four walls.

  And then I see it.

  A trick of the light; flames dancing on the craggy walls.

  But when I hurry over and run my hands over that line, it becomes real, as if I forced my will on the manor and it provided.

  I push at that seam, then beside it. Some hidden mechanism allows the servant’s entrance to swing open, revealing…

  Nothing.

  Firelight plays on a blank wall, until I realize that there’s barely more than five feet of space before the opening turns into a staircase, its steps hugging the wall of my prison. I step out onto that pitiful landing, and my stomach twists itself into a knot when I see those tight, narrow steps descend into a murky darkness.

  I’m not sure which is better — remaining trapped in my tiny room, or gambling my life on these wickedly dark stairs.

  Brandon

  “She needs to eat,” I say, staring Mrs. Potter down in case she doesn’t understand the depth of my irritation. “You tell her to come down here at once.”

  “The girl says she’s taken ill.” Mrs. Potter drops her gaze, shrugs. “I wouldn’t want m’lord to catch anything.”

  I purse my lips, and glance down at the spread before me. Looks like the staff will be eating like kings tonight. “Then best you take something up for her.”

  “She’s vomit—“

  “She’s the only one who can feed my child!”

  Mrs. Potter’s throat moves as she swallows, and she drops a deep curtsey. “I will see to it at once, m’lord.”

  I scowl at the back of her gray head as she hurries away, and absently take a bite from a chicken leg.

  Making sure my nanny gets enough nutrition isn’t the only thing riling me up. Seeing Pippa has somehow become the highlight of my day.

  Then again, if you stay inside this damn manor long enough, it won’t take much to brighten the hour.

  I have a strong urge to go check on the girl myself, but it would be most improper for me to attend her in her bedchambers. Mrs. Potter will have to take care of her, as reluctant as she is.

  Chapter Eight

  Pippa

  Things could have been worse for me. I could have decided not to take a torch with me. Then I’d have been lost and utterly terrified in the dark. Now I’m simply lost and terrified.

  Rats skulk down here. The air is thick with disuse as if it’s stagnated and turned to gelatin. With every step, my torch casts fanciful demons on the walls who prowl and dance around me, reaching for my soul with their sharp claws.

  As if I don’t know where I’m going when I die. But that is not now, not here, not unless I miss a step and break my neck.

  I tried keeping track of the turns I took, the doorways I passed. I hadn’t even considered the fact that they would be locked, but from this side I see there’re a latch and a padlock on most of them. I go down two flights of stairs and take several twists and turns through each level, only to end up in front of a big metal door barring my way.

  Hell would have a door like this one, I’m sure. I feel warmth emanating from behind it, as if it conceals a massive fire. The air is filled with the stink of burning wood, and my mind instantly goes back to that warped door on the second floor — the one I’m not allowed inside.

  Have I somehow managed to find my way to the servant’s entrance for that room? Of course that makes no sense — that locked door is on the same level as my room was, and I’ve descended several floors…

  But that doesn’t stop the thought circulating in my mind like a ghostly carousel, rotting wooden horses sneering at me.

  A sound plays out behind that door, too muffled for me to identify.

  Wouldn’t want the master of the house to catch you out here, would you? Howard says. Best you go back to your room, little mouse.

  I huff at the thought of Brandon coming down here.

  Never. Much too inappropriate, and he’s the kind of the man for whom decorum is as important as his social status.

  The thought stings. Brandon’s been nothing but kind to me. A bit gruff in the beginning—

  Until he banished you to your room.

  My free hand is in a fist, and I’m taking the stairs two at a time. Howard’s right, though; Brandon is treating me like a simple child he’s too embarrassed to have seen in public. Because I’m nursing his child?

  My lips thin.

  Stuck up bastard. I should take my leave and…

  And nothing. This is all I have. Out here, no one knows who I am. What I’ve done. That’s the part I keep forgetting. It doesn’t matter if Brandon locks me in my room. Hell, he could chain me to his bed and it would be a better fate than the one waiting back home.

  Someone must have found the bodies by now. The big one, the small one.

  Take them a while to identify me though, won’t it, little mouse?

  I stop on a small landing and glare at the convergence of passages. Stairs lead up, a corridor leads east and west.

  Was this landing here the first time I came down, or have I gotten myself even more turned around? Is this the second floor, or am I on my way to the attic? Which means a doorway down one of these halls could belong to Brandon…or the locked room I was forbidden from entering.

  My breath comes quick and hot. My hand is sweating so much, it’s becoming difficult to hold onto the piece of wood that I’m using as a torch. When I try to move it to the other hand, I fumble it.

  It shouldn’t have, but for some reason the impact snuffs out the flame. There’s a moment when I can clearly see that splint of wood laying there on the cold stone before darkness swoops in and takes my eyes.

  Shit.

  Swallowing hard, I hold out a hand and move forward until my fingers brush stone. I can’t dare to take the stairs now — it will have to be left or right. Hopefully, one of the doors on this level is unlocked.

  * * *

  Relief floods me when the first door I touch opens under my hand. A few yards away stands a ladder that can move all the way around the ceiling-height bookshelves lining the wall. More shelves form rows, angled so I can’t see to the end.

  The only illumination comes from a light source hidden from view by a nearby bookshelf. But from what I can make out, someone’s gone through this place without any apparent sense or reason. Books lie everywhere, stacked haphazardly as if someone was attempting to construct a labyrinth between the shelves. How strange for this room to be in such disarray. Brandon doesn’t strike me as a person who would allow any clutter, especially in a place like this and Mrs. Potter keeps a very clean house.

  A bout of laughter draws me from the hidden passage. The door swings closed on silent hinges, and my legs nearly melt out from
under me at the thought that I may have stranded myself in this room, unable to get back to my room. At least, not without Mrs. Potter finding out I’d escaped in the first place.

  I creep forward, hugging myself as cool air stirs over my exposed flesh.

  Why hadn’t I slung a shawl over my shoulders? Oh yes — my room had been piping hot when I’d decided to go on my little adventure and catching a chill had been the last thing on my mind.

  I peer out from behind one of the three pillars supporting the domed ceiling. A little way off, a dark shape moves strangely around in the shadows. My muscles lock as my heart begins pounding.

  Are my eyes deceiving me?

  I blink hard and strain in an effort to discern shape from shadow. A tall lamp placed a few feet away from a hatstand creates a frame for the bedsheet draped between them.

  The figure I saw moving about is in fact a shadow cast on that tightly drawn fabric. There must be a lamp behind the man prancing around like a loon.

  Another laugh. This one makes my stomach turn cold.

  “Why good evening, Mizz Goodwin.”

  Ice water runs through my veins. If my throat hadn’t been so tight, I might have let out a squeak of surprise, perhaps even an excuse for why I’m creeping around in the dark. The shape straightens, suddenly a tall man with a big chest and broad shoulders.

  “So good of you to come.” Snickers interrupt the performer until he can get himself under control. “If it weren’t for you, my little girl would have starved!”

  The person on the other side of the cloth shrinks down, becoming a fat, waddling child.

  “Dada! Dada! Gimme milk, Dada.”

  If I could have moved, I’d have been running. Screaming even. Instead, my terrified body holds me hostage, forcing me to watch this hair-raising play to its finale.

  The performer jumps up and twists to the side. His silhouette becomes that of a curvy woman. “Ooh, Baron, I shall nurse your baby! These big tits of mine are just bursting with milk.”

  The shadow bulges into an obscene exaggeration of the baron. “Excellent suggestion, dear Pippa!” The man manipulates a hand by his groin, and the shadow sprouts a massive penis. “And then you shall suck my cock, Mizz Goodwin, like the good little—”

  I don’t realize I’m backing up until my heel slams into a pile of books behind me. They cascade to the floor in a series of thumps.

  My gaze darts back to the curtain, but the shape is gone. Heart stuck in my Goddamn throat, I turn and flee. I have no idea how I find the servant’s entrance again, or how I get up the stairs without twisting an ankle, but I fly back to my room as if an invisible hand is dragging me up.

  My hands slam against wood that gives way and swings open and transforms into my scorching hot prison and then I’m tripping, falling, clambering up and onto my bed and under the sheets, breath still heaving from a chest clamped down with iron bands—

  A key turns in my door. Mrs. Potter appears, walking backward, and turns to me with a tray in her hands. At the sight of me, she frowns and scans the room. Then she sniffs, apparently satisfied that there’s nothing out of place, and comes closer with the tray.

  As the flames in my fireplace dance, I catch sight of the bottom of my foot where it’s sticking out from under the sheet.

  The contrast between the white fabric and my soot-black soles is night and day. I twitch at the fabric to cover myself, and Mrs. Potter’s gaze darts to my hand.

  “The baron doesn’t need you tonight,” she says, sounding smug. “The baron gave me leave to feed Rose.”

  I don’t trust myself to speak. I’m trembling inside and out, and can’t even risk taking the tray from her. Instead, I keep her gaze, willing her to get the fuck out of my room before she spots a hair out of place.

  She must think me cowed, because with another sniff, her lips move into an arrogant sneer. “I guess you won’t be staying in the manor after all, Miss Goodwin.”

  Suck my cock, Mizz Goodwin, Howard says through a chuckle.

  I swallow hard, and drop my gaze. Mrs. Potter leaves, practically shivering with glee as she locks the door behind her.

  There’s the faintest sound behind me, and it takes every ounce of courage I possess to make myself look over my shoulder.

  The servant’s door stands an inch from the jamb. My heart climbs up my throat at the thought that I’d left it partially open and Mrs. Potter might realize it was open…but then it slides shut.

  For a moment, I can’t breathe. Then my body takes over and my lungs draw air by themselves.

  Whoever was in the library…he must have followed me up here. Had to see who had seen him act out his perverted play.

  A whiff of beef broth reaches me, and I dry retch before I can control myself.

  I was never one for signs, but even a pagan can’t deny I’m being guided by the hand of the Lord…and He’s telling me to get the hell out of Dunnwood Manor.

  Brandon

  The howling wind refuses to let me sleep. Every time I’m about to drift away, it batters the window panes as if intent on joining me in my bed. Such strong winds are usually a precursor to the first snows

  If Pippa is still feeling ill, it would be best to get her to a doctor before the road becomes impassable. While the wind rattles against the window, the thought of Pippa refuses to leave my mind. Her fierce eyes whenever I challenge her, yet the gentle grip she has for my daughter.

  Alaine never saw Rose; she was dead by the time Rose finally came out of her.

  I whip away my sheets and dress absently as I glare into the muddy dark outside the windows. Sometimes, I can see the forest canopy if there’s enough moonlight, but the manor could have been submerged in ink tonight.

  If I check on Pippa and deem her too unwell to remain here, then Norm can take her home with the coach tomorrow. As I thump down the stairwell, a certainty builds inside me that she will be unwell, that this is her last night in the manor.

  Thank God she’s convinced Rose to take to the bottle. Mrs. Potter can take over from here. She’s been insisting since Alaine’s death that she can get Rose to feed…perhaps all we needed was Pippa’s brief stay to make that transition.

  I hesitate in front of Pippa’s door, hand on the knob and about to turn. It’s my house, but this is a young lady’s bedroom — what if she is some stage of undress and I just burst through?

  The thought should have shamed me. Instead, it excites me. But I push away the urge to barge inside without invitation and instead I knock.

  Then again.

  Again.

  I didn’t even check the time. Perhaps Pippa is fast asleep. She is feeling ill, after all. I step back, but then I hear the faintest of sounds from behind the door. I knock again, and this time, I hear bedsprings creak as if Pippa is sitting up in the bed.

  “What?” she demands. “Are you expecting me to perform magic and open the door myself?”

  My eyes widen, and a tiny smile creeps onto my mouth. I’d never have thought on first sight that Pippa had so much fire in her. “Are you decent?” I ask, ignoring her strange query.

  The springs squeak again, and then bare feet slap on stone. “Brandon!”

  My muscles tense, leaving me rigid as the floor cants beneath me. There’s pleading, almost desperation in her voice.

  “Pippa? What’s wrong?” I grab the knob and turn, and almost walk into the door when it remains shut. In my befuddled state, the fact that it might be locked doesn’t register. I rattle the knob, and shove against the door, realization reaching me the same moment Pippa mutters, “You’d need to use your key,” from behind the barrier.

  I step back, glaring at the knob as if it’s done me a personal injustice. “Who locked it?”

  Pippa lets out a strange laugh. “Did you hit your head, Sir?”

  I turn my head to the side, frowning. When I hear footsteps approach from the corridor, my mouth thins.

  “Mrs. Potter,” I murmur, and somehow Pippa hears me through the thick door. />
  “Seems everyone in this house is a performer.” For some reason, I’m convinced she’s standing on the other side of the door with her arms crossed over her chest, a scowl on her face. I have no idea what she’s on about — I have keys for every room of the house, but they are upstairs.

  I have a feeling the person approaching has one at the ready.

  Mrs. Potter comes around the corner, one spindly hand clutching at her housecoat, the other a candle holder. It is dark down this hallway, but the image of her is so archaic I feel as if this might all be part of some dream I’m having, brought on by that incessant wind banging against my window panes.

  When she spots me, her already pale face turns gray. “What are you—?” she begins, but then cuts herself off with a rough rattle in her throat and gives me a wan smile. “M’lord, it’s terribly late.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” I stab a finger toward Pippa’s door. “I never instructed you to lock her in her room.”

  “She was poking around where she doesn’t belong,” Mrs. Potter says, having the audacity to look affronted as she draws back her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Do you want her finding something she shouldn’t?” She drops her voice. “Perhaps sneaking into the nursery?”

  I fight for breath, anger holding my lungs hostage. I thump my fist into the door, and hear Pippa hurry away on her bare feet, gasping. “Open the fucking door.”

  Mrs. Potter drops her gaze and sidles past me. The tiny heat from her flickering flame seems a bonfire as it nears my hand. In the same moment I realize that I’ve left my gloves upstairs, the door swings open and Pippa hurries out.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and take a big step back, letting the corridor’s shadows partially obscure me. My heart’s beating just a little too furiously, and the sight of Pippa doesn’t help.

  Her brown eyes are large, frenzied. Loose curls frame her face, disarrayed and utterly wild. She’s not scared, but angry. So angry, she doesn’t seem to realize that her nightgown is far from decent. The barely opaque fabric clings to every inch of her body, draping her curves like a waterfall. Small hands fisted at her sides, Pippa turns her glare to me. An electric pulse jolts through me, and it takes all I have to stay where I am when all I want to do is drag her upstairs to my room and—