by Renee Peters
“You —” His voice resounded again, and it felt as if something solid had struck her with the word.
Startled, Joanna raised her head, and this time, when she met the blue of his eyes, she was caught in them.
“She’s a Frog, m’lord,” the driver said. His voice sounded far away. Then he coughed and corrected himself. “A Huguenot refugee. She don’t speak English.”
“Come down,” the Lord continued.
The Frenchwoman felt heavy and light at once as if she were floating on ripples in water while sinking slowly into the depths. Her body was moving on the tops of the waves: first, an arm reaching out to grip the iron bars, and then her legs unfolding. She pulled herself into a stand and walked, drifted, to the door of the cell.
His hand was cold to the touch when he took her own to ease her onto the ground, and he released her as soon as she had landed.
“I am taking this one,” his voice over her head sounded as if it were coming from above the waters, and suddenly lightheaded, Joanna began to wobble. His palm found her back again, nudging her toward the pair of carriages.
Somewhere, the driver of the prison cart was protesting, but no one stopped her from her walk.
A masculine drawl carried from within the nearer coach. “You do realize she stinks of piss and shite…” The voice hovered somewhere between confusion and annoyance as it addressed her savior. “We have some time yet upon the road.”
It was a woman, not the golden Lord, who answered the speaker.
“How polite you are to skirt the obvious, Dorian.” Her voice bore the hint of an accent Joanna did not recognize. “I, for one, want to know why our devoted Sovereign has determined to take the vagrant to begin with. It is the most interest he has shown beyond his own person in decades.”
Something more than an accent — disapproval — weighted the noblewoman’s words.
Her rescuer was unmoved by either observation.
“Put her on the bench for now, then. We shall find a river to dunk her into until the stench has faded.” His voice spoke from behind her. “Owain.”
At the name, the older coach driver hopped down, and it was his gentle touch that guided Joanna up to his driver’s bench.
Once she was seated Owain turned away. Somewhere through the fog of her senses, she was aware of the creak of the carriage that betrayed when the blond Lord entered it — and of his muffled words spoken from within the shadows of the coach.
“Was it not the consensus of this Council that I have been utterly irresponsible in my duty of claiming a song?” the Lord asked. “No doubt she sings more sweetly than she smells.”
Chapter 4
It was a dream.
There was nothing else it could be. Except her dreams now were usually filled with fire and Marjolaine calling out through the smoke. This one was just as hazy, but instead of fire, there was water. The cold water of the river, and then warmer water in a copper bath.
And hands.
First, it was a man, Owain, apologizing, stripping her down to help her wash. Then the hands were rougher, smaller. Maids, who did not apologize for her shame or their roughness. They scrubbed until Joanna was raw and raked a comb through her tangles, sometimes pulling out mattes of blonde hair that they plucked free and let flutter to the floor.
It was a dream.
Until it wasn’t.
As if she were waking from a nightmare, Joanna suddenly became aware of herself and her surroundings all at once. She sat on a plush ottoman with her back against the edge of a mattress and thick blankets from the bed behind her. Beneath her bare feet was a rug that felt entirely too soft. The walls were dark wood paneling, lit by an oily glow of candlelight that brought a surge of nausea with its flickering.
The French woman bowed forward, distracted from her illness by the strangeness of the clean linen dress she wore. A dress that was not hers.
She sensed him even before she lifted her eyes.
Standing before her was the blond Lord from the road. His expression remained as impassive as it had been the last time she had seen him; although the intensity of his eyes had not faded as he stared at her.
“What is your name?” he asked.
She was silent.
“Your name. Tell me.” With his words came another sensation as if something had struck her.
Her name slipped off her tongue like water before she could keep it back. “Joanna.”
“Joanna,” he repeated and bowed his head slightly. “I am Lian Redmond, Sovereign to the Immortals of the British Isles, and Arch Lord over Anowen Coven. This is Ancaslon, one of our House’s residences. Soon it will be one of yours. You will be my daughter and sister to the others in our family. We will protect you, shelter you, and for however long the strength of your song lasts, you will give us life again.” He stepped forward, and the coolness of his palm rested on her crown, like a parent soothing a child.
Only there was nothing soothing about his touch, and he seemed distracted or disinterested as he spoke his riddles. His hand slipped from her hair and clasped behind him.
Lian continued quietly, “I know you must understand some English, and I know this must make little sense. It matters not. You are mine now, and so I expect you to use your remaining time to secure your strength for the transition. Eat well and rest, Joanna.”
Chapter 5
Someone had brought food, though Joanna had little appetite despite how the buttery scent of chicken and roast potatoes carved out her stomach. She pulled at the door and found it locked. Some childish part of her thought the next time a maid came through the door, she might bash her over the head and flee.
The thought vanished as quickly as it had arisen. She was tired. Too tired.
Instead, she tugged on the door again and then crawled into bed. The straw mattress and down blankets obligingly swallowed her up.
There was no telling how much time had passed before a hot, thick liquid spilled over her hair and onto her face. Startled, Joanna ducked back and swiped her hand over her cheek. Her palm slid over the liquid, and she lifted it in front of her to see.
Bright red.
Blood red.
Blood.
“Oh, darling, I am terribly sorry,” the voice was honey sweet and female. Trembling, Joanna lifted her eyes to find her visitor. The noblewoman wore a flame-red dress with golden accents and no collar so that rosy pink arches interrupted the pale line where her breasts were exposed. A fur piece, of the same dark color as her curls draped over her shoulders low enough that it did not impede the view of the ruby choker that adorned her.
In her hand, she held a gold chalice, still tipped and hovering over the bed in the place where Joanna had been. The noblewoman laughed, before raising the chalice to her lips.
“Dreadfully clumsy of me, wasn’t it, pet?”
Joanna felt the drip of blood — it could not be blood — down her cheek and her jaw, already cooling. She gripped the sheets as if they could be any shield in between them. Rising into a sit, she curled her legs beneath her and tried not to look at the red stain blossoming on her dress.
“So, you’re to be our new little sister?” The noblewoman spoke over the rim of the cup, taking a sip. “You know, in the autumn it will have been fifty-nine years since our beloved Lian has made a sibling for us. Though I cannot say you make a fitting replacement for those who died.”
The woman, the girl, could not have been much older than nineteen. She rounded the bed with her chalice.
“Certainly not,” she continued, tsking. “You look all of a malnourished cow staring at me wide-eyed as you are. Is it true you’re a Froggie? Lian’s kiss will not make you a princess, you know. Something more like this —”
The young woman smiled, and as she did, her blood-stained canine teeth distended into fangs and her eyes flared red.
Joanna sucked in a gasp and scrambled to the other side of the mattress.
“He’s been so different since he became the King of the Monster
s. Everyone here says they wish for a new sibling. None of them truly want it. We know what will happen when the blood and songs flow in this coven again. You’ll make the old wounds bleed, and no one will be appreciative. Just as no one appreciates your presence now. I promise you’ll be alone forever. We’re very good at hating. We all even hate Lian, just a little, and he made us.”
The noblewoman blinked, and her eyes shifted back to a soft brown as she glanced back to the door. Her smile faded, and she lifted her shoulders in a shrug before drifting to the dinner plate that Joanna had abandoned. Humming, she plucked up the slender knife by its pearl-inlaid handle and turned it so that Joanna could take it.
She did not. Instead, the French woman edged backward onto the floor, putting the bed between herself and the girl.
“You’re already dead, little Frog,” the girl laughed, and the sweetness had returned to her tone as she laid the knife down again. “Your god does not look kindly on the beasts that we are. For if we sin willfully after we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins. But, no doubt He will look kinder upon your own sacrifice, dear one.”
“That will be enough, Angelica.”
The voice that lifted from the doorway was as cool as Joanna’s tormentor’s was a raging fire in her blood. “We have lost much, but we have not lost our souls — or the ability to be compassionate to one who will sacrifice much for our living.”
Joanna turned her head toward the woman who had intervened. This one appeared older than Angelica. Her hair beneath her pearl-embroidered coif was as silver as the stars, and a compliment to her silver and blue garments. Joanna could not place the style of the clothing she wore, save that it reminded her of the fashions in the old paintings at the churches.
Angelica tsked again. “I have nothing but compassion, my Queen. This girl will suffer greatly, no? Or have I been absent for the welcoming airs? The last I heard, she stunk of piss and shite and seemed struck with dumbness. Not entirely kind. Or particularly promising for the refugee’s future.”
“The future of Anowen’s children, while I am its Queen, will be as prosperous as its past. The coven has not been orphaned, as much as some might be inclined to believe it so. Time will heal our wounds and it must begin somewhere...” A gray-eyed gaze turned toward Joanna and gentled, “With someone.”
The Queen addressed Angelica again. “You will go now and send Dorian to me here.”
The girl in red shrugged and finished the liquid in her chalice. Another bloodied smile flashed Joanna’s way. “You hear that, pet? Your future shall be prosperous. I do hope you remember that promise in the years to come.”
She dipped into a curtsey before passing the Queen, with a musically spoken ‘M’lady’, and disappearing down the hallway.
The silver-haired Queen crossed the room as if she drifted on the currents of the air.
“You must not be afraid, Joanna,” she said quietly.
The weight of terror that had threatened a chokehold on the French woman slipped away on a whisper of breath, only to be replaced by a cloaking fog of tranquility.
“My name is Celia. I am to be your sister and your Queen.” She pulled a kerchief from a pocket of her dress and traced a path over Joanna’s jawline where her touch lingered. “It is my hope that you will have no need of my comforts one day.”
Joanna closed her eyes. The Queen’s skin was as cool as Lian’s was, but when her hand retracted, the French woman felt only a strange absence of warmth there. She looked up at the Queen once more.
“And yet,” the Queen continued. “I fear we are only at the beginning of a journey through the shadows.” Her smile was faint. “You must be strong. I am certain it is a part of you. Lian has never failed us in his choosing.” She took a step away from the bed. “Now rest. Your brother will be here soon with the trunks I have prepared for your viewing. It is time to bury your past, Joanna, and to embrace the best of your future.”
With another smile tinted by shadows, the Queen nodded a graceful farewell, turned, and disappeared through the exit of the suite in a soft bustle of silks.
Chapter 6
Joanna stared into the washbasin at the water that had been tinted pink for her efforts at cleaning away the blood. Blood.
Blood, and fangs, and red eyes.
The woman wiped her palm across her cheek and lower — to the place the Queen had touched before she pulled away to study her burn scars. Thoughtlessly, she reached to brush the place where her ribbon had been and found only its absence.
It was enough to break through the peaceful haze. Her fingers curled around the column of her throat, and she turned, searching the surfaces in the room for it. It had to be with her clothes. Wherever the maids had taken them.
With a cold sensation settling in her stomach, Joanna pivoted on her heel. The rug nearly slid out from underneath her feet as she bolted for the door. This time when she pulled it, it swung open for her, and she all but crashed into the hard body that had stood there, fumbling with the latch.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, little Frog.” The voice that rumbled above her was touched with amusement and curiosity. “Celia can be impressive, but I didn’t think she was panic-inducing. Where’s the fire?” His hands were resting lightly on her shoulders, but there was no denying the strength that restrained her there.
She lifted her eyes to his face and felt the breath leave her. Not because he was a Spaniard with an olive-skinned complexion and a length of black waves, but for the captivating darkness of his eyes. Her heart skipped, and it was all she could do to reign in the foolishness of her reaction behind a press of her hands to her face.
Jakob. Marjolaine.
Jakob who had fled France with her and their unborn child in tow to avoid the war with the Spanish and the other Habsburg allies.
“Non,” she murmured and lowered her fingers so they rested on her lips. “My… clothes. Mon seigneur… Seigneur Dorian. My daughter. Her ribbon. I wore it. I need. Je vous en supplie.”
“Dorian will do,” the Lord answered easily, but she noted that he had not released his hold on her. “I’ll send for a maid, but you’ll be lucky for it to have escaped the fire,” he added. “Besides, there’s bound to be finer quality in these.”
His dark head nudged toward the wooden trunks at his feet. Finally, almost too carefully, his touch fell away from her arms and he reached past her to tug on the bell pull near the entryway.
She stepped back from him with her arms folded to allow him his entrance. He lifted both trunks easily upon his shoulders. Watching him set them down in silence, the woman tilted her head toward the door to listen.
When the maid arrived, Dorian asked after the ribbon. The young woman only frowned and curtsied before offering to check the rubbish to see if the fires had been lit already.
Marjolaine’s ribbon was likely gone. Joanna could tell from her expression, and rubbing the back of her neck, she sat on the ottoman, uninterested in the maid’s departure or the trunks.
“Merci,” she offered.
The length of the silence that lingered in the wake of her words surprised her. It stretched out long enough that she found the will to lift her gaze toward her visitor again, puzzled.
The Lord was staring at her intently, and she wondered if every male of the household made a practice of looking into a soul in just that way. A look of surprise — and what passed for confusion — skittered over his dark features.
“There is… some wrong?” she murmured.
“Not at all,” Dorian answered, distracted. “I thought I heard something, but it is… unlikely.” He straightened. “I will leave you to your exploration, madam. It is quite likely that when next we meet you will be a sister. The maid will return with your ribbon if she finds it.” With a bow, he turned to the door.
“Adieu, Dorian.”
He spared a final glance her direction but offered nothing more than the soft click of the door closing behind him.
Chapter 7
The maid returned what charred pieces she had found of the ribbon.
It was a small blessing that carried Joanna through the rest of her days; though once she had stitched the remains together, there was little else to occupy her time in her wait. The maids were her only companions, but their visitations were as brief as it took to bring fresh food and sheets, before taking the soiled plates and blankets away.
She finally opened the trunks, shifting through silk gowns that would have to be altered to fit her, if they meant her to wear them. Holding a green dress against her body, Joanna frowned at it, and with a light prickle of wariness shimmying down her spine, the French woman folded it back into the depths of the trunk.
When Lian returned, it was well past sunset, several days after he had left her.
She felt him first by the weight that settled on her mattress, and then the coolness of his hand as it slipped against her crown, threading through her tresses to cradle her head. Leaning forward, Lian touched a kiss to her brow.
Easing up onto her elbows and against the pillows, Joanna reached to pull her sheets higher. Not that the linen gown she wore had not been her dress of choice in private or in front of the maids.
“It is time, Joanna,” Lian offered. “It will hurt for a moment. Blesser.” His voice was gentle, and with his free hand, he held her scarred fingers between his own. “These will heal. It will all heal. Guérir. You will be perfect and beautiful. Belle. You will be forever. Éternel. But there are shadows in my claim, and though I will be as gentle as I have with any of my children, I am not giving you the choice.”
She stiffened in his hold. He squeezed her fingers and released her.
“I hope you will come to forgive me, Joanna,” he continued. His smile flickered just briefly onto his expression, distant and too small and shadowed to have been genuine. “Yours will be a difficult transition in many ways, but that I desire so deeply to make you one of my own, must mean that you are meant to be here. I do not doubt that eventually the dividends will be paid.”