Soul in Darkness

by Wendy Higgins

  “Bright soul, why must you make this difficult?”

  In his nearness, I felt his words on my cheek. A scream immobilized in my throat as I was overcome by the surprising scent of rain and honeysuckle. That was not what a monster should smell like. How was he hiding the reek of sulfur and decay? Was he somehow altering my mind and senses? I let out a moan of despair.

  This time when he spoke, he sounded a few steps away.

  “Sleep.” He, himself, sounded exhausted.

  What was happening? Did he truly want me to sleep?

  “I can’t see a thing,” I told him.

  A golden glow shone from beside the bed—a small candle.

  “Go on,” my invisible husband said.

  I glanced inanely around for him before moving hesitantly over, removing my shoes. When I got to the bed, I let my hands sink into the softness of the blanket. A small sigh escaped me. The material was more luxurious than anything we had, and we had the best man could make.

  I turned, placing my back to the bed and crossing my arms instinctually. “Are you…leaving?”

  “No.”

  That was not good. Across from me I heard him sniff, and I wondered if he was smelling my fear again. When I made no move to get in the bed, he spoke.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Please,” I said boldly. “Just tell me what you want from me.”

  “I seek you, all of you, readily given.”

  Not happening.

  “Then…” I swallowed hard. “Perhaps you should give me space tonight.”

  He chuckled, a sound of disbelief, again surprising me by sounding amazed that I would not want him. Perhaps I was reading him wrong, but I couldn’t help the impression I got, that this creature was accustomed to getting what he wanted from women without any fuss. But how could that be possible? Maybe in the realm of Olympus the godly creatures revered the power of this monster, not caring if they were torn to shreds in the process, but he knew nothing of humans.

  “I won’t be able to sleep with you near.”

  “I stay,” he told me. “That is not negotiable.”

  Gods, no. He would be here all night. I would never rest.

  “Where will you—” I cut myself off from asking where he’d sleep, and he chuckled again.

  “I will not join you in the bed until you invite me, wife.”

  He was deranged. Delusional. I nearly laughed until I found his breath warm against my cheek again, the sweet and natural smell dizzying my senses. I clutched the downy blankets beneath my hands.

  “And I promise you this…” His voice lowered. “You will invite me.”

  BODY, NOT SOUL

  I woke bleary-eyed from exhaustion, soft light spilling through the windows and filling the room with a loveliness that contrasted how I felt. Then I remembered where I was and sat up with a jolt, my heart like a rusted hammer against stone.

  I made it through the first night unscathed! But how?

  I did not invite him into the bed, obviously, and he never laid a paw on me, but his self-assuredness set me on edge. There was nothing he could do or say that would ever make me invite him. So why the confidence? What did he know that I didn’t, and why couldn’t he tell me? What was he planning? I did not enjoy the mystery of it.

  Knowing he was in the room with me last night kept me awake far too long. And since I slept fully clothed, the skin under my breasts was tender from the bunching of material, and my shoulder ached from where the pin of my stola dug into me. I would have to work out a way to change into my comfortable nightclothes without his invisible eyes all over me.

  I peered around the room.

  “Hello?” No response. “H-husband?” Again, nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Leodes. I associated that name with someone special. Someone who didn’t cause me to smell like rotting onions. Was my marital beast staying silent to trick me? Hoping I would undress in front of him? Well, that wasn’t happening. To be honest, I didn’t sense anything nearby. Even invisible, he gave off a presence that was difficult to ignore. Still, I felt on edge and wondered if I’d ever be able to relax again.

  I carefully explored the room in more detail, opening both of the two doors. One was a lavatory and bath so lavish and clean it sparkled. The other was a closet twice as large as mine at home, with stolas of every style and color, more bright and vivid than I’d ever seen. Each had pins, broaches, and clasps made of gleaming gems, and fine stitching of gold and silver. These were more fashionable than what I’d wear on a special royal occasion. Nothing in the closet was what I’d consider normal, daily attire. These garments were fit for the goddess Venus, a thought that soured my stomach. I couldn’t wear these.

  I jumped, startled when the door to my room opened and a tray flitted through the air, setting down gently on a table. My heart thumped until the kind voice from last night’s meal spoke.

  “Your morning meal, Princess Psyche.”

  “Thank you,” I said, then rushed on before she could leave. “What is your name?”

  She cleared her throat daintily and said, “I am Renae, but I’m only a servant, Highness.”

  “Renae. Why can’t I see you?”

  A short pause passed, then, “I have been spelled, madam. If you cannot lay eyes on the Lord of this home, you cannot lay eyes on anyone.”

  “Says who?” I tried to keep my voice light.

  “Says He, your husband, madam. But even he has rules upon him.”

  “Rules from whom? A master?”

  “Not…necessarily. I can say no more.” I heard the hesitancy and guilt in her tone. “I must go. Do you require anything more?”

  “Wait.” The thought of being left alone gave me a jolt of worry. “What am I to do?”

  “You may do whatever you like, Highness. Walk the property. Explore the palace. You are safe here.”

  “Safe from all but my husband?” It slipped out, and I heard an intake of her breath.

  “I can say nothing, Mistress,” she whispered. “I will be in the kitchens. If you need anything at all, ring your bell and someone will be ‘round to serve you.”

  Her feet made heavy sounds against the marble floors as she left, like the clacking of wooden shoes. When the door clicked shut, I was overcome with a rush of complete aloneness.

  I leaned my palms against the table and fought the welling emotions. I had to be strong. This entire elaborate ruse was no doubt meant to lure me into a sense of safety, and I had to remain on guard. As much as I didn’t want to eat anything in this strange place, it was imperative to keep up my strength. So, I sat, took a deep breath, and lifted the lid on my breakfast.

  My stomach applauded with a gurgle as the scent of fresh, warm flatbread hit my nose, followed by eggs, peeled tomatoes, and greens.

  Like last night, everything was perfectly seasoned with pinches of coarse sea salt. I decided if the food was poisoned, it would be a preferable method of death.

  But alas, I failed to die, and was left wondering what would happen next. I was here as a punishment; therefore, it was only a matter of time before the horrors began. I could not allow myself to get comfortable. This was not home and never would be.

  I paced the room, so tense that my neck felt like a thickly knotted rope, and an ache threatened to split my skull. I finally stopped and stared from the window at the extensive gardens. How I longed to be out there. If only the thought of walking through the substantial palace didn’t terrify me. But it was more than fear holding me back. The idea of walking the grounds was like saying I felt comfortable. That I was making myself at home, which was what he wanted. If I gave him that, I was one step closer to fulfilling whatever master plan he had—the plan to trust him.

  Madness.

  In my infinite stubbornness, I refused to show any level of comfort. I would not lounge on the divan or hum a merry tune. I would not ring Renae for tea. I would not search for a book of philosophy or poetic ministrations to muse over. I would pace this room
, silent and expressionless.

  So, I did.

  Gods, what a bore.

  Perhaps this boredom was part of the plan to bend my mind to his will. I had to remain alert. To my shame, a soft knock at the door had me jumping and grasping at my chest, breathing far too hard than the moment warranted.

  The door opened slowly, and a gorgeous tea set on a tray came forth, setting itself on the table without a sound other than the wooden footsteps of Renae.

  “Tea, madam?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, wishing I hadn’t sounded so earnest, but I’d been pacing for what felt like hours.

  A copper pot with vines for the handle lifted into the air and poured steaming liquid into a cup, perfectly steeped. She added the exact amount of honey and milk that I would have given myself.

  “There you are,” she said. “Anything else, High One?”

  I took a sip and accidentally smiled at the delicious perfection. “How did you know this is how I take my tea?”

  “Your husband knows much about you.”

  I paused, uncomfortable at the thought of how he’d obtained such knowledge, before taking another small sip and letting the warmth fill me.

  “Madam?” Her voice was hesitant. “You’re still in the clothing from yesterday. Let me fill you a bath while you choose a clean dress.”

  “No. Those aren’t mine.”

  “But they are!” She sounded cheerful. “Each was made specially for you with your exact measurements. He chose the details for every outfit. They’re exquisite.”

  “He chose them? My…”

  “Your husband. Yes.”

  I thought of the closet full of inhumanly perfect fabric and couldn’t fathom how that was possible.

  “Renae…what does he look like?”

  “Oh, madam.” She sounded wistful. “Even if I wanted to disobey him, the spell would never allow my tongue to form the words.”

  Curses. “He spelled you?”

  “No. There is a spell over him, his home, and all within it.”

  Disturbing.

  “So, what can you tell me about him?”

  “Nothing at all, madam.”

  I sighed, vexed. “Any advice, then?”

  “Yes. Bathe yourself. And do what he says.”

  With those unhelpful words, spoken in exasperating kindness, she shuffled away on heavy feet. I sniffed and squared my shoulders, the stubbornness setting back in the moment the door closed.

  He already thought I smelled badly, so what difference did a bath make? If he thought I was going to come to his home, enjoy luxuriating baths and fawn over fine clothing until he was ready to strike, he was mistaken. I would not play the pretty princess with him.

  I’d nearly drunk the full pot of tea and was sitting full and sleepy when one of the windows began to shake and clatter. It blew open with a gust of fragrant, warm air that lifted my hair and took my breath away. The unmistakable sound of beating wings filled the room, and I stood, spilling my tea as I backed against the wall.

  His presence brushed against my senses, nearly physical in its force. Dark Hades…had he flown through the window? What sort of horrible creature was he? With a whoosh, the window closed again, and the bolt came down. My eyes darted around uselessly. Everything went very still, and I held my breath until the room began to dim. I squinted toward the windows and watched, startled as the bright sky darkened into evening twilight. Candles erupted around the room, flames flickering to life.

  “But…there were only a few hours of daylight.”

  “I prefer night.”

  He had done that, changed it from day to night, just as he’d said he could. My mouth fell open and snapped shut again. I didn’t want him to think I was in awe of that sort of power.

  “In your home,” he said, “you happily bathed and changed your wardrobe daily, often more than once.”

  “How do you know that?” I challenged.

  “Is it not the truth?” he asked. “It matters not how I know. What matters is why you deny yourself those simple pleasures here, in your new home.”

  This is not my home. I bit my tongue to keep from releasing the thought.

  “Do you believe you are somehow punishing me by refusing to bathe or dress or leave your chambers?”

  I lifted my chin, wondering if he could see the involuntary tremble of my muscles and smell the tell-tale scent of my fear. I hated my body for its lack of cooperation.

  A gasp was wrenched from my throat as the bathroom door flung open and the sound of rushing water filled the room. Then I let out a yelp when my husband spoke low, close to my ear.

  “My wife.” I spun to face him. “You will bathe and enjoy the comforts I give you.”

  I gritted my teeth. “You can force me to do something, but you cannot force me to enjoy it.”

  “Try not to enjoy it then, bright soul.” He dared to sound amused.

  The air seemed to press against me, urging me in the direction of the bathroom. I tried to dig my toes into the rug, but I slid easily right through the doors until my thighs bumped the porcelain tub. The water still rushed forth from the spout, lightly steaming. How did he get the water to come out already warmed? I knew the wonders of piped, pressurized water, but at home it was still cool and needed to be heated manually.

  It did look inviting with a frothy milkiness from vanilla scented soap. I shot a glare toward the doorway, and it shut with a bang, making me jump. The water stopped of its own accord and the room was suddenly silent. I peered around, suspicious.

  I felt no presence in the room with me, yet that did not put me at ease.

  “Bathe,” came his voice from outside the door.

  I sucked in a trembling breath and let it out, still glaring at the door.

  “Shall I call in Renae to assist you?”

  “No,” I said ungraciously. I unclasped the pin at the shoulder of my stola and let the silken, dirty material fall down to my waist. I’d never been prone to modesty, but the thought of my husband possibly watching somehow caused me to cover my chest with one arm while I tugged at the rope around my waist with the other. As my stola fell around my feet in a pile, I stepped quickly into the tub and slid down with a slosh. I accidentally let out a sigh. The water wasn’t normal. It had a thick, wondrous consistency that made me feel cradled and buoyant.

  Great Olympus, it was magical. On the other side of the door my husband chuckled, and despite the heat of the water, I shivered at the sound.

  I made quick work of my clean up, scrubbing my skin and hair, working very hard not to relax too much or give him the satisfaction of a long soak. The moment I finished I stood, squeezed out my hair, and snatched a cloth wrap from a nearby bench. I rubbed my hair as fast as possible and wound the cloth about my body. When I went still, the door opened, causing the air to hitch in my chest and my heart to gallop.

  The air propelled me forward again, a giant, gentle hand pushing me out of the bathroom, through the bedchamber, and straight into the closet. I fought to right myself when the air abruptly left me standing on my own. Three drawers covered in rose carvings slid open, revealing luscious looking sleeping gowns. A wave of sleepiness hit me then, making me peeved since my mind knew I shouldn’t be tired yet. This place was maddening. I grasped the closest nightgown, a vivid green with soft cream lacing at the edges and high waist, and slid it over my head, keeping the bath cloth around me until I was fully covered. As the wet cloth fell to the floor, the air lifted it and carried it out of sight.

  Then the wind pushed me out of the closet until I was standing directly in front of a massive high-back chair with an indentation in the seat.

  “Come now, Psyche,” said my husband in an amused rumble from the seat. “You were never this oppositional at home.”

  His nonchalance over my situation made me want to spit fire.

  “Nobody at my home was toying with me like a cat batting a mouse.”

  “Am I batting you?”

  “Yes.” I cleare
d my throat. “Or fattening me up for the kill.”

  “I see.” His voice was deep and lackadaisical. “Your attitude on the mountain when we were pronounced married…you were frightened, but not angry. Not like this.”

  I lifted my chin, ignoring my continuous trembling. “I willingly gave myself as a sacrifice for the transgressions of my family and people; however, I thought—” My head dropped as I attempted to fight back the emotions that pummeled me now.

  “You thought what?” he asked quietly.

  Still fighting for composure, I swallowed hard and drew in a breath. “I thought you would have your way with me and dispose of me quickly.”

  “I see,” he said again, this time more firmly. “And your way of dealing with the fact that you believe I am toying with you is to be angry.”

  I cleared my throat and gave a small shrug. “I suppose so.”

  “You are not accustomed to feeling anger, are you?”

  My eyes welled. I rarely became angry. To feel it so acutely each moment I’d been here was exhausting. The fact that he seemed to know it made me ill. I didn’t want to be analyzed. I didn’t want him to know me, or anything about me, and yet here he was. Learning me as I learned myself.

  “There is nothing I can say that will ease your mind, Psyche. Only time can do that, if you allow it. But time is a fragile commodity, so I hope you will come to terms with our situation sooner rather than later.”

  I froze as the indentation in the cushion lifted, and I heard the slow padding steps of my husband drawing nearer. My instinct to run struggled against the riddled words he’d spoken. I hated the fact that my gut believed him to be genuine. This entire, horrid situation would be much simpler if my body, mind, and intuition behaved as one, but he had a way of muddling it all with his strange, gentle sincerity. A heap of fear mingled with a sliver of hope. Raging anger battered against a glimmer of tenderness. This had to be his plan.

  To drive me to madness.