To sleep with Evil (ravenloft)

by Andria Cardarelle

  Marguerite opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. The spirits were rising before her, three women, returning. They caressed Ramus as before, sliding through the strings of the violin, then rising up to dance sensuously in the sky overhead. One of them beckoned to Marguerite.

  Ramus ceased his playing abruptly, and the women vanished.

  For a moment, neither spoke. Then Marguerite regained her voice. "Who are they?" she whispered.

  Ramus stood across the clearing. His eyes burned into her. "Members of my tribe."

  "Dead members?"

  Ramus laughed darkly. "Indeed. Thanks to your lord."

  Marguerite hesitated. "My husband?"

  He laughed darkly. "Donskoy slaughtered them. He is a rogue and a murderer, evil incarnate. And you are his latest prize."

  "I don't believe you," she said hoarsely. "You are lying."

  "Am I?" Ramus stepped close. He seized Marguerite by the arms. "Then you are a bigger fool than I thought. But not so great a fool as your lord."

  She tried to pull away, but he held her fast

  His face loomed near. "It is amusing to me. Amusing that a man who cares nothing for respectability, who knows it as a veneer that cloaks the dark perversions of half the nobles in his acquaintance-that this beast so ardently seeks a pure bride, and seeks thereby a pure get of his own. It's as though he thinks that by immersing himself in your purity he can plunge into the holy waters of heaven itself and make himself clean again-as if he could somehow bury himself in the sanctified soil of your body and be reborn anew. But he Is a fool, blinded by his own wickedness. You look heavenly, I'll admit, but you are neither a goddess nor an angel. Like Donskoy, you are just a fool, for you play the game with him."

  "And what are you, then, besides horribly cruel?" "Perhaps a fiend, after all." Ramus kissed her on the mouth, and despite her horror, Marguerite felt the heat swelling within her. She struggled.

  "But I am a fiend you cannot resist," Ramus growled, "and a better match for you than he." Marguerite wrenched herself free. "You are wrong," she hissed. UI can resist." She turned away from the vardo, running toward the safety of the keep. He did not follow. Yet even as she raced through the wood, she heard his laugh ringing through the trees.

  THIRTEEN

  It was nearly dawn when Marguerite emerged from the forest. She followed the path at base of the castle wall, groping for the secret passage that led to Zosia's garden court. She and the old woman had agreed upon this route-agreed that when Marguerite returned she would deliver the sticky white strands of the web directly to the kitchen. To her relief, the secret door lay open to receive her. She turned, giving one more glance to the forest. No one had followed. She parted the curtain of vines and stepped through.

  As Marguerite entered, she heard a rustle in the corner-a retreating rodent, perhaps, or the toad Griezell-bub, acting as a sentry to announce her return. She paused to look about. The garden seemed changed since her first visit, though she could not yet tell why. The crimson cabbage still blazed, visible even in the dim light. And the glass domes of the cupping jars still lay nestled against the soil, neatly arrayed, but no longer vacant. A reddish brown fluid had bubbled up from the soil beneath each translucent prison.

  Marguerite crouched beside one, studying the contents more closely. The fluid divulged its myriad parts.

  Thousands of red ants surged over the corpse of a small frog, scouring away its flesh. The jars were death domes, miniature crematoriums whose contents were kissed and stroked by living flames. In the next jar lay a mouse or rat; only the tiny tufts of gray-brown fur and a wormJike fragment of white tail hinted at the nature of the thing.

  Beneath the final dome, the ants had begun their retreat, draining back into the soil. In their wake lay the skeleton of a lizard, as smooth and white as if it had been cleaned with lye. Perhaps these strange ingredients are meant for Donskoy, Marguerite hoped. Or perhaps Zosia needed the components to mix with the white spicier web.

  Marguerite pulled her cloak around her, then went to the corner of the garden and opened the small arched door that led to Zosia's kitchen. She entered the twisting passage beyond. At the opposite end, she gently pushed open the second door, and was met by the warm, blazing light of the cooking fire.

  Zosia stii) squatted on the three-legged stool before the hearth, gazing into her pot. It looked as if she had scarcely moved since Marguerite last spoke with her.

  "Zo," the old woman said huskily, "you have brought it then." She did not bother to turn toward her visitor. "You have obtained the web."

  "Yes," Marguerite replied. "I have it here." She untied the strings of the satchel at her waist and held the parcel out toward Zosia. The old woman remained distracted. Marguerite put the sack upon the table, which was now clear of the bowls and herbs and the skinned carcasses.

  "Zosia," began Marguerite. "I'd like to ask you about something." She wanted to query the old woman about Ramus, and his assertion that Donskoy had slain the Vistani tribe. And about so many other things, she realized.

  "There will come another time for questions, my child/ Zosia said. "But now you'd best return to your room. The castle will soon be waking,"

  "Another time?" Marguerite asked.

  Zosia dismissed her with a wave of her hand. "There is always another time. Go now. But remove your boots first-you'll leave a trail of mud straight from my kitchen to your door."

  Marguerite tugged off her boots, then hesitated.

  "Go, got" urged Zosia. "Yelena has seen to it that your chamber is unlocked."

  *****

  With the door to her room gently pressed shut behind her, Marguerite shed her muddy clothing and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, and her hair was a tangled mess. She pushed out her stomach, making it round, and ran her hands over the skin. Then she pushed out her cheeks to match, imitating the wind-god personified. She deflated with a long hiss. After washing, she climbed naked into the bed, hoping to steal an hour of steep before Yelena appeared with the breakfast tray, which would hold Lord Donskoy's written instructions for the day.

  It seemed as if Marguerite's slumber had only just begun when Yelena's hand poked at her shoulder. Marguerite groaned and lifted her still-heavy lids to squint wearily at the intruder. Then she pulled herself up to her elbows and blinked in surprise.

  It was apparent that more than a moment had passed. The bed curtains had been parted and tied to the posts. The shutters on the window hung open, allowing a shaft of white light into the room. The fire blazed, freshly fed. And on the table before the hearth lay the familiar silver tray bearing Marguerite's breakfast, along with Donskoy's parchment note. She cringed at the thought of seeing him again, recalling the sting of their last encounter. But she didn't expect to be summoned back to his salon quite yet. Unless his tastes ran otherwise, he would wait several days before he renewed their liaisons.

  The mute held out a steaming stone cup. Marguerite swung her legs to the floor and steadied herself, then took the vessel from Yelena's raw, bony hand. Despite the steam, the surface of the cup was cool.

  "What is this?" asked Marguerite, forgetting for the moment that her tongueless maid could not respond. The answer came to mind as she gazed into the vessel and saw the white hairlike swirls moving across the surface of a greenish brown fluid. "Did Zosia send this?"

  Yelena nodded.

  Marguerite lifted the cup to her nose, prepared to grimace. Then she sniffed hard. Oddly, she could smell nothing at all, except perhaps a trace of smoke. She lifted the vessel toward her mouth, but when the cold rim touched her lower lip, she did not drink. Instead, she pulled the cup away and stared once again at the strange mixture inside.

  So this is the potion that will make me the mother of Donskoy's son, Marguerite thought. She didn't really wish to bear his child, she realized; the thought of it held no joy. But it certainly was the next logical step- what had to be. The black stream of fate was slowly turning. The future wo
uld come, an unstoppable force. And if Marguerite were not pregnant? If she failed her husband? Surely that would carry her to a fete worse than the swelling of her stomach, worse than a bloody birthing in which her own vitality flowed out with the child, worse than gloomy years of mothering Donskoy's son-a son upon whose shoulders the weight of the entire future would be fantastically placed. But who could say? Maybe Donskoy was right. Maybe their fortunes would magically turn with the birth of an heir. Certainty Lord Donskoy believed it was true. Marguerite herself scarcely dared to hope.

  She downed the brew. The icy, tasteless fluid coursed into her stomach, then spread across her loins and limbs. It left her even drowsier than before. Yelena took the chalice, and Marguerite sank back into the bed, descending into the pit, succumbing to a strange, numbing sleep.

  *****

  A week later, the routine had resumed as if her husband's rage and Marguerite's foray into the woods had never occurred. Donskoy became eager and attentive in the salon, bolstered, perhaps, by Zosia's renewed promise that his efforts would soon be fruitful. Marguerite tried twice to seek out Zosia and query her about Ramus's claim that her husband had murdered members of his tribe, but both times the old woman rudely dismissed her from the kitchen, stating she was too busy with Lord Donskoy's brews and had no time. Zosia admonished her to look toward the future, and soon Marguerite did precisely that.

  One morning, she opened the parchment on her tray to discover an unusual message: Donskoy was expecting company. Marguerite was to dress in manner befitting the lady of the keep, and be prepared to greet Miss Jacqueline Montarri in the afternoon.

  After breakfast, Marguerite requested a bath. Two hours later, Ljubo and Yelena had finished wrestling with the tub and heavy pails of hot water. Marguerite doused her hair and scrubbed herself pink while Yelena stood in attendance, adding more hot water from a steaming kettle in a fruitless attempt to keep the bath from growing chill. When Marguerite had finished, Yelena held out a large linen sheet that had been warmed by the fire. By the time Marguerite had dried, arranged herself in a gown, tied the last layer of blue silk to her waist, and coaxed her shining tresses into submission, she heard the clatter of wheels in the distance.

  She went to the window and saw a smart black conveyance approaching across the clearing. To Marguerite's astonishment, she saw that it had no driver, ft was pulled by two black horses, but the reins stretched back to an empty bench where there shouid have been a man-or some other creature to hold the leathers. Instead, the straps simply lay on the seat, as though Miss Montarri's driver had dropped them there when he abandoned her.

  The carriage drew to a halt before the keep. The door swung open, and Jacqueline hovered on the step until Ljubo arrived to help her down. She wore a sweeping emerald cioak, and her black hair spilled loosely over her shoulders. She must have sensed Marguerite's gaze from above, for she looked up toward the window and flashed a smile as white as snow. Ljubo looked up as well, grinning broadly,

  Marguerite went to the door of her room and hurried down to the foyer. Ekhart stood at the crest of the stairs, stiffly at attention. Terse and to the point, he instructed Marguerite to proceed to the drawing room. There, she encountered Lord Donskoy, who sat before the fire, puffing his ivory pipe. The lord's gaze raked over Marguerite, and he smiled approvingly.

  Ekhart appeared in the door "Miss Montarri has arrived," he announced dully as Jacqueline stepped past. She dropped her cloak into Ekhart's hands, exposing her bare white shoulders and her signature green sheath. Ekhart grunted and gave a stiff forward bow, then left the room.

  As the usual greetings were exchanged, Yelena arrived with a tray, bringing brandy-wine and sweets. Jacqueline peeled off her long biack gloves and melted onto a sofa, curving her body into a sensual S. The mute girl decanted the wine, serving Donskoy first, then Jacqueline and Marguerite.

  Jacqueline put her glass to her lips and gently licked the edge, smiling over the rim. "Marriage must agree with you, Marguerite," she said, "You're looking only a little worse for wear."

  Marguerite ignored the jibe. "What brings you to the keep, Miss Montarri?" she asked sweetly.

  "Please, call me Jacqueline. You're not sorry to see me, I hope."

  "Not at all. I am pleased to have the company."

  Donskoy grunted but said nothing. He puffed on his pipe, staring hungrily at his guest.

  Marguerite continued, "Is this a pleasure trip, Jacqueline?"

  "After a fashion. It has long been my pleasure to visit Donskoy-didn't you know that? And I always try to mix in a bit of business."

  "A little business, you say?" asked Marguerite. Perhaps Donskoy intended to sell her after all. Her eyes slid from Jacqueline, who gazed at her with sparkling green cat-eyes, to Donskoy, who continued to stare at his emerald-sheathed guest.

  "Mm-hmm," said Jacqueline. "Nothing extraordinary. It would bore you, I'm sure,"

  Marguerite found herself studying Jacqueline's face. Something seemed odd about the woman's appearance-but what? She had noticed nothing amiss when the woman entered the room-there was the same languid bearing, the same tiny pinched waist, the same delicate gesturing of finely boned hands. Jacqueline's face was sly and expressive, just as before. Her tone was a little tighter perhaps, but the phrasing and accent seemed familiar-precisely as Marguerite recalled. Yet something was not quite the same. Granted, Marguerite had seen the woman onty once before, by candlelight, and a month had passed since then. But there was something markedly different about her-about her face in particular.

  "You seem changed, Jacqueline." At once, Marguerite bit her tongue; certainly she could have been more deft.

  "I seem changed?" echoed Jacqueline coyly. "How so? All for the better, I hope."

  "Actually-yes."

  "My goodness, you seem disappointed."

  "No, I mean-well, I do believe you look younger. Yes, younger. If I didn't know better, I'd say I was looking upon the younger sister of the woman I met last month.11

  "How utterly sweet of you, Marguerite. And astonishingly keen, I might add, How could you know that I have enjoyed weeks of pampering and relaxation? I do indeed feel like a new woman, but it's pleasing to hear my good fortune is reflected in my appearance, how I am thoroughly refreshed and ready for a new endeavor."

  "A new endeavor?"

  "A little excitement. A little business, as I said. But…" She looked toward Donskoy. "Such affairs are nothing for the likes of your pretty little head. Is that not correct, Milos?"

  Donskoy shot her a curious glance. "You needn't concern yourself with Marguerite's pretty head, if that's what you mean."

  "Of course not. I have no concerns, really-merely the greatest admiration. What a lovely head she has, indeed. You know, I had almost forgotten just how lovely she is, Milos, just how great your catch. Have you ever pondered the aesthetic possibilities, Milos, the combination-

  "Jacqueline!" growled Donskoy. "Remember yourself, my dear."

  Marguerite shifted uncomfortably at Donskoy's "My dear." The sound of it left a bitter taste on her tongue. Lords might have their mistresses, but must they flaunt them? Was this insult to be her punishment for failing to conceive? Or something worse? By the gods, she thought. Could it be? Was Jacqueline a merchant who dealt in discarded wives?

  "What kind of endeavors are you planning to undertake?" pressed Marguerite. "And does it involve me?"

  Donskoy and Jacqueline were consumed with mirth. "Certainly not," said Donskoy.

  "Then what kind of endeavors?"

  "Oh," Jacqueline replied, "just an excursion with Lord Donskoy's associates, if I can persuade him." She shifted in the chair; the slit of her green gown parted, revealing a length of smooth thigh.

  Donskoy chortled. He rose and walked toward the fire, turning his back to them both. Marguerite caught a glimpse of his upturned lips. This gathering amused him somehow. And why not? Here sat two women whose only apparent role was to entertain him. He was indeed lord and master, his harem complete.
Only the swelling of his wife's belly might improve the scene. But that did not appear to be troubling him at the moment. He rubbed his gloved hands before the fire-a habit, perhaps, for they could not be cold. Marguerite wondered what kind of thoughts were at play in his mind.

  "Perhaps you can persuade him, Marguerite," said Jacqueline. "You see, Milos has largely retired from the life we knew, ever since he came to this castle. But his associates, whose unique talents are utterly wasted of iate, they still long for the road. I know it, for i feel the same urge. Until recently, I could offer little to change things myself, but fortune has turned. And now I could indeed lead them, in Lord Donskoy's name, of course."

  "Lead them into what?" Marguerite asked.

  "Why, greatness, danger, the fields of wealth beyond these lands."

  "That's rather vague, don't you think?"

  "Perhaps not knowing every detail is part of the thrill," said Jacqueline.

  "We can discuss this later, Jacqueline," Donskoy said, turning away from the fire. "Assuming we discuss it at all. At any rate, such things need never concern my wife. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Of course," replied Jacqueline demurely, "my lord." She licked her glass and stared directly at Marguerite, taunting. "Whatever you desire."

  Marguerite's face burned red.

  Donskoy did not even look at Marguerite; instead his eyes were sliding up Jacqueline's long white leg.

  "Miss Montarri and I have personal matters to discuss, matters with which I do not wish to burden you, Marguerite. I won't be needing your company anymore today. You may go to your room."

  "You don't wish me to come to the salon?" said Marguerite. It astonished her that she wanted it-that she did not relish being replaced. But she feared any rejection might last for more than just one afternoon.

  "No," Donskoy replied. "I may not require your company tomorrow, either."

  Marguerite rose reluctantly, catching Jacqueline's sly smile.

  "Good day, Marguerite," said Jacqueline.

  "Good day, Jacqueline," she replied, struggling not to sound too sour.