Victoria’s hellish glare swung towards Emma and instantly transmuted into something entirely more sinister. The whites of Victoria’s eyes were suddenly engulfed by inky shadows that stretched out like black veins from each iris until all was black from one corner to the other. “You dare accuse me?”
At the sight of Victoria’s vampyre eyes, Milli was overcome with hysteria. She dug rigid fingers deep into Emma’s arms and backed away from Victoria.
Winterly gave an impatient growl. “Do cease your theatrics, Victoria.”
Victoria faced him with a pointed look aimed at his great wings. “I was merely following your example.”
“Markus,” Emma’s voice was almost inaudible, but to the vampyres it rang out like a clap of thunder. It had been a calculating step on her part to use his name against him, the name he’d urged her so often to use. “You mentioned some sort of ownership earlier…” She spared a brief glance for her sister, not wanting to upset Milli more than she already was. “But you never said who has lain claim to me.”
“I would have thought that obvious,” he replied, dropping his gaze to the dragon and the gold chain that encompassed her throat. “My sigil imports to the nocturnal world to whom it is that you belong.”
“But I will never truly belong to you unless it is by my own will.” She filled her lungs. “So let us strike a bargain.”
“A god,” said Victoria, “does not make bargains with a—”
“Go on,” said the master, silencing his sister—or whatever she was—with an imperious hand.
“My life in exchange for Milli’s. I will remain here with you, so long as my sister—” she shot Victoria a fleeting look “—is no longer used as a comestible. She must be removed from this place and taken to the Priory Church of Holy Virgins.” Where, she hoped, Milli would remain inviolate upon sacred ground, under Sister Mary’s watchful eye. “These are my terms.”
He stroked his jaw a moment. “Consider this carefully, Emma, I do not strike bargains lightly.”
“You cannot do that!” Victoria rounded on him. “The girl is not yours to—”
“I know,” he answered coolly.
“The consequences, Markus—”
“Are mine to weigh, and my commands yours to obey, now leave us.”
Victoria bristled under his glare, but finally she acceded with a stiff bow of her raven head. Her eyes narrowed to slits as they settled on Emma. “This obsession,” she said to Winterly, “will end as the one before.” She shook her head. “All this for a termagant with a homely face and a shrewish tongue.”
“I said leave us.” Winterly’s scowl turned black.
At last, Victoria withdrew from the library like a miasmic shadow. The entire room was now engulfed in chilling gloom, dusk having chased the sun from the sky. Only the fire was unaffected by the cold and crippling disquietude. It lurched along the logs with fiendish vigor.
Markus stalked to the casements and flung them wide to admit the night air and the whispers of the gloaming. “Come, Millicent.” He held an imperious hand out.
But Milli shook her head, overmastered by her fear of him, her tongue having long since ceased to function. It was left to Emma to guide her trembling sister to the waiting vampyre looming atop the window-seat. But this was all too much for Milli—she dropped to the floor again. Emma caught her sister’s shoulders and sank down gently under the added weight so that Milli’s head came to rest on her lap. She took a moment to run her fingers through the flaxen locks. Though Milli was no longer bloodless, her countenance still bore an awful want of color, such as could only be imposed by crippling terror.
It was easier this way, Emma decided. She had not the heart to force Milli into the arms of the very creature that had struck such terror in her, nor the stomach for teary farewells. She couldn’t bear her sister’s heart-rending sobs. Not now that her own heart was in fearsome throes. “Her life is more valuable than my own,” she said.
“That is a matter of opinion.”
She watched as he lifted Milli’s senseless body from the floor. “Guard her well.” His jaws hardened irritably as Emma removed his dragon sigil and then fastened it instead around her sister’s neck. “To the priory,” she said, placing one last kiss on Milli’s cheek. Mary will guard you from evil better than I.
“As you wish.” With a fierce look, the vampyre shot from the window. He was like a monstrous black raptor, poor Milli as boneless as a doll draped over his arms.
The gale shrieked along the battlements, whipping at the trees and flinging twigs and leaves at the windows. The curtains blazed in fits and starts and the thunderclaps rattled the window panes.
Emma considered the chess board in front of her, paying no heed to the rain lashing the windows or the fire snapping lustily behind the grate. It took every ounce of concentration just to move a chess piece calmly across the board, what with those cool black eyes boring into her. It was such a weighty stare to bear.
She lifted the black rook that she had just now claimed from Winterly, running her thumb over its marble crenellations. But Winterly still had a rook to spare and both bishops to aid his king and queen in the endgame. Her bishops were both taken and her king was now protected only by the white queen and a lonely rook. A particularly powerful piece, the rook. A tricky piece. Like the master of Winterthurse, she thought, lifting her gaze from the chess piece in her hand to her opponent sitting quietly across from her in his armchair. He had something of every piece in his character—black knight, black king, and black rook. A rook with sharp spurs mounted on his stygian wings. Those weapons were now folded away, concealed beneath his skin, or so he’d intimated earlier when she’d asked how it was that he kept them hidden. The heavens had ruptured not long after his return from Hobkirk Priory.
Of Valko and the rest of the gentleman there was no sign. Even Boudicca had determined to camp indefinitely under the bed, so Emma felt quite alone in the castle with Winterly. She’d have liked nothing better than to join the cat under the bed, but she’d been summoned by Skinner to dine with the master in that great empty hall.
Rather, she’d dined and he’d watched her. There was no longer any need for pretense—she knew very well it was not solids that sustained him. Not even for the sake of easing her discomfort had he made an attempt at feigning the deed, only sat there in brooding silence over his untouched napery and empty dish; would that Skinner had forgone the trouble of setting his side of the table.
After dinner she’d had every intention of escaping swiftly to her chamber, but he’d invited her to play a game of chess by the fire. Had insisted, really. So here they were.
“I think you are very like this rook,” she said, placing the piece beside her small collection of captured foes. “A lethal adversary. And I am that pawn”—she pointed to the useless white pawn beside his black bishop—“to be used and resigned to a dangerous fate, entirely at the mercy of another’s whim.”
He sat back. “Is that so?”
“Decidedly.”
“That is your choice. You may choose to be a pawn…or a white queen.”
“My choice is to be free—to be your equal.” But she was neither. “Instead I am at your mercy.”
He moved his rook to menace her king without breaking eye contact. “You do not have to possess supernatural gifts, nor be a giant, to be powerful. Take the Battle of Thermopylae.”
A battle he had no doubt witnessed from some distant espial. “A battle in which a king lost to a god? Hardly a David and Goliath tale.”
“Ahh, but Leonidas died as he lived, with ferocity, freedom, and honor, and thus made of Xerxes a flesh and blood mortal where once he’d been a god. The freedom I offer you is, I grant you, without Spartan glory, but it does not follow that it should not be considered a liberation of sorts; or that you will not enjoy it.” He leaned forward. “Did you know rooks mate for life?”
“I did not know that,” she answered. “But I do not for a moment believe a devil like you
is in want of a life mate.”
“You little know me and you know even less about what I want; you cannot see into my heart.”
“What heart?”
“What sharp thorns you have.” He smiled. “Yet for all her thorns, the rose savors of the very sweetest perfume.”
Emma’s brow furrowed.
“Desire.”
“You’re mad.”
“Blood does not lie,” he said, “and yours courses with desire even now.”
Her throat convulsed as she moved her threatened king.
No sooner had she made her play than Winterly made his. The black bishop now cast his fatal shadow over her king. No matter the direction of her next move, her king would be taken by either his bishop or the black queen herself. She was deadlocked with nowhere to go. A daunting parallel of her current condition.
All that was left now was for her to move her king and hear the dreaded ‘checkmate’ slip smugly from his lips. She couldn’t bear it. Resigned, she rested her hands in her lap and said. “The game is over. You’ve won.”
“And what have I won?” A sudden cold gust rushed out towards her, seeming to emanate from his flesh. “Certainly not a smile. You have decried me time and again for being a devil; you are determined to sit there as though I mean to take your virtue as my prize. But I will no longer allow you to make a devil of me. And your misery is hardly a worthy meed for a victor.”
Surprised, she met his eyes.
“Despite the affirmation you gave me, not six hours ago in this very room—” he gestured to the rug “—I will not come to your chamber tonight, nor any other besides.”
She was stunned. It was a reprieve most unexpected.
“It is for you to seek me out henceforward, of your own free will.” He lifted the white queen and, as she’d done earlier to his rook, ran his thumb reverently over her pale curves. “It is for you to acknowledge what that will entails; and it isn’t escape from me, I’ll be bound.” He returned the white queen to her vanquished subjects. “Nosce te ipsam.” And with that said, he stalked from the hall.
She, however, remained long after he’d withdrawn. When the clock on the mantelshelf chimed the darkest hour, she bestirred herself from her thoughts. It seemed her lengthy contemplations had been so dark as to snuff even time itself, for she knew not whence the hours had slipped. The storm had abated and the castle was swathed in deep silence. The slumberous heart of the fire was reduced now to ash and ember, pulsing its languid death throes. The taper beside her had bled itself near to nothing, the wick all but spent.
Unlike Milli, Emma had always felt a sort of kinship to the night; it had never frightened her, not really. She was not like everyone else, she’d always been a bird of another color, yet that had never stopped her from trying to blend in with the rest of the flock. She had never wanted to be different, but with Markus she’d never felt more so. Moreover, she’d never felt more herself than when she was with him—never more so awakened and enlivened.
Why did she still crave his touch after all that had transpired? Despite what had been done to Milli. What hellish power did he wield over her? Was she in her right mind or had he tampered with it somehow? She thought not, but how was she to be sure?
Once she no longer allowed herself to look through that glass darkly, she knew she could never go back. Nosce te ipsam. Know yourself. She knew it was not escape she really wanted. Not now that Milli was with Mary. Markus had brought a letter back from Mary as proof he’d followed Emma’s directive faithfully.
So what did she want? She delved into the oubliette of her mind and stood up with a disturbing epiphany. That indwelling daimon had met her gaze and now it would never allow her to look away again. There was really only one thing she wanted tonight.
Taking her candle, and the white queen from the chessboard, she quit the hall and bent her course towards the master’s chamber.
Chapter Forty-Two
Sinistra
My Dear Mary,—Bootless now to speak of honor or righteousness; I am no fit companion or guardian to my poor Milli. So in your safekeeping I commend her. You shall do the office better justice than I.
Be patient, Cousin, I shall write again soon and expound. God willing, you shall believe me. Until then, do all in your power to protect my sister. And, for Heaven’s sake, bar the windows against fearsome dreams. The night has deadly wings. As to my fate, I have made my bed and take to it gladly… God keep you both safe,
Emma.
Emma was a specter in a white dinner gown wandering through the haunted castle of her beloved books. But unlike a noble heroine bent on fleeing the bête noire, she craved the company of her wicked viscount.
Her tarnished reflection was etiolated amidst the dusky patination of the large looking glass in the hallway. Her eyes appeared too large for her face and the candlelight cast unkind smudges of shadows beneath them. Her impromptu portrait, confined in that ancient silver frame, savored of death. A corpse bride fit for a vampyre’s bed. The thought amused her a little. At least she was no longer afraid of that reflection. To be afraid of it was to give it power over her.
She was only afraid for Milli. How had her sister come by that mark? Now that she was clear-headed, Emma conceded that it had not looked like a bite; then again, she’d never seen a vampire bite for herself. Would to God she never did. No, that was just another lie she was too much in the habit of assembling, like another stone in a wall of lies she’d built for herself. Tonight she must be honest. The thought of Markus’s teeth upon her neck struck her as deeply intimate and, dare she admit it, exciting. In truth, the threat of vampyre kisses was not inducement enough to sway her from her course. On the contrary, it was as though an invisible red thread had coiled its seductive length about her midriff and was tugging her forward with languid inexorability.
Her taper flickered nervously in the hush. Or was it trembling anticipation? Doubtless a little of both, she decided. At the stairhead she turned left instead of right where her bedchamber lay, and where chastity prevailed. Sinistra for her tonight—to the vampyre’s den. And just as she reached the imposing door behind which her lover dwelled, her flame suddenly sputtered out, smote by an invisible gust. Now she could not retreat, for all was as black as Hades, save the irresistible glow of candlelight beneath his door. There was no turning back, even if she’d wanted to, she was as like to fall and break her neck in the dark as find her way back to her room. Death by misadventure seemed somehow more tragic than death by exsanguination.
She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before she could announce herself. Markus stood aside, tacitly inviting her in. His neckcloth was discarded, and his white cotton shirt lay open. His cuff, she noted cursorily, still bore the stain of blood.
She endeavored not to gape at the unconcealed ridges of flawless flesh and sinew along his abdomen as she slipped past him into his chamber. Yet she knew that if she lowered her unsettled eyes to escape the top half of him she’d only wonder about the lower half beneath his black trousers. No thanks to the so-called literature in his library, she now had a very good idea of what lay therein. There was no help for it, she could look at none of him without her face filling with vinous heat. And arousal. The door closed with a quietus snick of the latch.
His imperial bed drew her gaze. The ebony fourposter was as wide and impressive as a sturdy Spanish galleon, its thick pillars hung with crimson brocade drapes. Each elaborate post was guarded by a coiling gargoyle dragon, glaring with toothsome ferocity. The counterpane onto which she would soon spill her blood was appropriately red.
A warm finger slipped beneath her chin and turned her face up. “You came,” he murmured. Thankfully there was nothing of smugness in his expression. He took her lifeless candle from her fingers and set it aside.
“I believe, Lord Winter—”
“Markus,” he bade her gently. “You have already used my name tonight, remember?”
“Markus,” she whispered, nodding. Unaccust
omed to this gentler side of him, Emma unwittingly reverted to using the only armor she had at her disposal—her irony. “Why wouldn’t I come?” She placed the chess piece in his hand. “To the victor the spoils. Did I really have a choice?” She had meant only to make light of the situation, for she was inordinately nervous, but it had sounded all wrong. Truly, there was no other choice because she was only ever going to choose Markus.
But he mistook her meaning. “Don’t be dramatic, there is always a choice.” He released her abruptly and deposited the white queen none too gently on his ornate dresser beside her dead candle.
“Not when the devil himself beguiles a woman to—”
“Exactly!” he growled. “The devil has no greater weapon than words, no power other than that which he is granted.” Suddenly he was caging her in against the door, though he was careful not to touch her. “And I shall tell you something else for nothing: there is no devil. You mortals are your own devils and you create your own hells.”
“What of God? Is he merely fiction too?” she scoffed.
“Of course He exists. It was He that cast me from Heaven, and banished me to hell.”
“Hell? But you walk here amongst us.” Had he somehow escaped the Lake of Fire?
“Precisely. Did you never consider that this earthly realm is the Underworld? Surely the pain and suffering you mortals inflict upon each other will have convinced you of that.”
Was he lying? she wondered, her mind reeling. “Why were you cast out of Heaven?”
He gave a shrug. “I allowed love to corrupt me.”
Love?! Surely he could not mean—
“But Satan, as you know him, is the fabrication of man,” he went on. “A means by which to cast the blame of omnipotent evil to a faceless entity, one that controls, possesses, and destroys. It is an excuse, and one which allows for mankind to shirk responsibility for their own misdeeds and depravities. The Destroyer, my dear, is mankind, not I. Look to history and you will see that I speak the truth.” Those gleaming black eyes dropped to her lips. “So, you see, you have a choice after all. You are here not because I forced you, but because you too crave the forbidden; you yearn for what only I can give you.”
Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1) Page 29