The Black Lily (Tales of the Black Lily)

by Juliette Cross

  A pause lengthened. An opening in the woodland canopy revealed the half moon shining bright above.

  “Do you concede?” he asked again.

  He heard her murmur, “Yes.” And he knew what it took out of her to admit this truth.

  “So it is only natural that we serve as rulers of the land.”

  “You are a pompous ass, Prince Marius.”

  “You may call me Marius.”

  “I don’t want to call you anything at all.”

  “Except a pompous ass.”

  “Yes! Except that.”

  She wiggled in the saddle, as if there were anywhere to go. Her wiggling only reminded him how wonderfully and painfully close her bottom was to a particularly rigid part of his anatomy.

  “I understand your plight—”

  “Oh, do you? You know what it’s like to go to sleep hungry, ignoring the cramping pains in your belly. You understand how it feels to wash clothes in the dead of winter till your fingers are numb and cracked and bleeding. You understand the humiliation of being condescended to and beaten by the likes of Lady Lucinda and her vain, goatish, dull-witted pigs of daughters.”

  Marius’s fingers curled at her waist. A flash of fire sped lightning-swift through his blood, the likes of which he’d not felt before.

  “They beat you?”

  He recognized the threatening tone of his voice, yet there was no keeping the menace away. She was quiet a moment before responding.

  “Not anymore. Only when I was too young to defend myself.”

  “You…defended yourself against them?” he asked, admiration rolling over the angry flames still licking through him.

  “When I was fourteen, I was sweeping around the hearth in the bedchamber of that witch, Drusilla. That was not my regular job, but the housemaid and I sometimes help one another. Mary was sick that day.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I swept while Drusilla brushed her hair at her vanity, when an ember popped from the fire onto her pink rug. She jumped up from her seat and whirled on me with some nasty name and raised her porcelain brush as if to strike me with it.” Arabelle paused and gave a little laugh. “I pointed the broom handle at her and said that if she struck me with her brush, I’d creep back up into her room in the middle of the night and strangle her. And no one would hear her, because I’d smother her face with her own pillow. Her eyes got so wide. I must’ve looked so much like a madwoman that she believed me.”

  Arabelle chuckled again. He tightened his grip around her waist and felt her tense. He wished he could pull her closer, so close she would sink right inside of him. Arabelle was like a balm to his listless soul. He couldn’t understand it, much less explain it, even to himself. She would try to kill him again if she had the chance, he was certain. Even so, he longed to breathe in her essence, her zeal for life and passion for a better world, and let it flow through him to remind him that life was good. No matter that it had become sour and bitter on his tongue for so many years. Arabelle made everything right again. Right as rain.

  “I didn’t mean it, you know,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  An owl hooted overhead then lifted off its perch, winging into the night sky.

  “I wouldn’t have smothered her. I don’t murder people for being vapid and repugnant.”

  “No. But you would murder them if they were born into the royal Varis family.”

  She twisted and caught his gaze over her shoulder. By the stars, the urge to kiss her parted lips nearly crippled him with yearning.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would have. I wanted to.”

  “And do you still want to kill me, Arabelle?”

  She didn’t answer, perusing his face as if to memorize its every line.

  “Do you?” he asked again, his pulse racing, for she hesitated, giving him hope that he’d broken through her wall of hatred against his kind.

  A howl erupted not two leagues away. Arabelle whipped her head forward, pressing back into his hold. The mare whinnied and sidestepped at the fearsome sound.

  “A hart wolf,” said Marius.

  Another yelp then a howl off to the right, even closer.

  “Two,” whispered Arabelle. “Come on, Willow.” She clicked to her horse, and they set off in a fast trot.

  A twig cracked to the left, then a pair of luminescent eyes flashed from the woods parallel to their path.

  “Yah!” shouted Marius, urging the beast on.

  That was all the encouragement the mare needed, taking off and speeding away down the trail. Marius heard Arabelle’s pulse pounding wildly, her fear palpable.

  Howls echoed through the woods, closer and closer. They were being hunted, no doubt of it. And by a pack of hart wolves. The mare pounded the ground beneath them, speeding at a dizzying pace. She was fast, that was sure.

  As they rounded a bend, a white beast leapt onto the path ahead of them. Willow jolted to a halt and reared up, shaking one of Marius’s feet loose from the stirrup. The momentum sent both him and Arabelle tumbling backward. He cradled her close, letting himself fall straight back and take the brunt of it. He hit the ground at an angle, with a thud that jarred him but broke no bones. He rolled to the side then leapt to his feet.

  “Arabelle,” he called and yanked her to her feet, pulling her behind him.

  An eerie growl came from behind. He swiveled around to see an ebony hart wolf, larger than the slender white one, slink forward from the dense woods with a lithe, almost graceful, movement. He packed more bulk than his mate.

  Arabelle pressed herself to his back and wrapped her arms around his waist. This certainly wasn’t the situation he hoped for when he dreamed of Arabelle clinging to him. Another rumbling growl came from Marius himself, an instinctual response from a vampire.

  “Damn it, Marius, you should’ve given me a weapon.”

  “And why would I have given a weapon to the woman who tried to kill me? Twice.”

  “In case we were knocked from our horse and surrounded by hart wolves.”

  “We’re not surrounded.”

  A third, then a fourth beast, both of them dusky brown, lurked onto the path close to the she-wolf.

  “I believe we are now, Your Highness.”

  This part of the path was open to the sky, the moon gleaming on the she-wolf’s pale coat. Then a flash of red caught Marius’s eye through the trees, and a scent that was certainly not wolf.

  “What the devil—?”

  “What is it?” asked Arabelle, still clinging from behind, apparently keeping an eye on the large black one behind them.

  Before Marius could answer, the source of the lavender scent stepped from behind a black oak tree—an auburn-haired woman in a black dress with a crimson mantle, the cape flowing down to her calves. She carried a black walking stick, obviously honed and smoothed from a branch of one of the great oaks of these woods. Then she stepped right up beside the white wolf, whose back came up to her shoulder, and laid a hand on the wolf’s coat.

  “A witch,” said Marius.

  Arabelle peered around him.

  “No,” said the woman. “Though that’s not the first time I’ve been called one, vampire.”

  “These are your wolves?” he asked.

  “Hart wolves belong to no one.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It does not matter who I am. The only thing that matters is who you are, or actually, what you are, and whom you hold so fast in your company. But if it makes you feel better, my name is Sienna.”

  The black beast growled at his back.

  “Stay close, Arabelle.”

  “Is that your name?” asked the red-haired witch. “Arabelle? Step forward.”

  Marius instinctively shielded her. The witch smiled.

  “You keep this woman against her will.”

  “She is my prisoner,” said Marius, realizing how ridiculous it sounded, since he’d protect her to the death should these wild animals attack. She was more than a
prisoner. And he knew it.

  “She was your prisoner.”

  “How so?” asked Marius.

  “Because I am setting her free.”

  Marius stiffened into a defensive stance. Growls rumbled from all the wolves. The two brown ones—both with stocky builds and hackles raised—circled to the side. He measured each of them in turn.

  “You may be able to make a run for one of them, but Duchess will pull off your head before you can do your worst. Her brothers, Hugo and Kai, are fearsome opponents, but she is the most cunning killer in this circle, vampire. Except perhaps you.”

  “My name is Marius, Prince of Varis.”

  She leveled a cool gaze on him and said very calmly, “I know who you are. Bringer of death. Killer of babes. And you are not welcome here in this forest.”

  Marius flinched at the accusation. She stroked her hand over the white wolf’s neck, seemingly to calm the creature whose narrow yellow gaze was leveled on him.

  “Come forward, woman,” she beckoned to Arabelle. “Unless you would like to remain his prisoner.”

  Arabelle had already let him go and now eased to his side, walking away but holding his gaze.

  “Don’t do this, Arabelle. She could be a witch. You can’t trust her.”

  “And I can trust you?” she asked.

  He had no answer. His instinct was to say yes, and yet he had fully intended on bringing her back to the palace, where he might discover more answers of this Black Lily and their stash of gold they were weaponizing against his kind.

  Marius had been prepared to fight the wolves to protect Arabelle. He would’ve gladly died doing so. But he wouldn’t kill the beasts for setting her free. A thread within his chest seemed to snap as Arabelle stepped farther away from him and joined the woman in red. What had come over him to feel such a strain at her leaving?

  Arabelle whispered, though he could easily hear with his vampire senses, “Do not harm him. He did not hurt me, and so I wish him to remain unharmed. Please.”

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. The woman who’d plunged a dagger into his chest, barely missing his heart, now pleaded for his life.

  The woman called Sienna shrugged a shoulder. “If you wish it.” She turned to the beasts flanking him. “Hugo. Kai. Escort the prince to the border.”

  She knew who he was and yet she treated him with as much scorn as one would a beggar. He should be grateful to be escaping with his life, yet all he felt was a sharp pang of loss in his gut.

  “Come, Arabelle,” Sienna said.

  She turned, her red cloak billowing as she disappeared behind the trunk of a black oak. The she-wolf followed. When Marius turned, the black wolf was gone, too, but the brothers eyed him carefully. One bared his teeth and snapped. That was his cue to start moving. When he glanced over his shoulder, Arabelle stood by the oak, one hand on the bark, watching him go. What more could he do but give her a small bow in farewell.

  She won. This time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Arabelle followed Sienna in silence as she led them through the woods. She worried for Willow, who had bolted at the first sign of a hart wolf, but knew she would find her way home. The path was dark, but the sky lightened to gray in the east. It was near sunrise.

  “You live here in this forest?” she finally asked.

  “Yes. We’re not far from my home. You should eat and rest before your journey back.”

  “How did you know we were here in the woods?”

  Sienna pointed her walking stick toward the great white hart wolf trotting at their side.

  “Duchess told me. She scratched at my door while I was brewing my morning tea.”

  Arabelle glanced again at the sky, then at Duchess, inching farther away. She’d heard tales of the hart wolves running wild in the Silvane Forest all her life. She’d heard them howl on many a moonlit night, but never had she seen one. And never so close. They were indeed fearsome to behold.

  “You’re an early riser,” she finally said, focusing on the path ahead.

  “Never needed much sleep,” said Sienna as they left the path into a clearing.

  A pretty gray stone cottage stood there, with a white stone chimney and a fenced yard from which she could hear chickens clucking. A plume of gray smoke unfurled from the chimney, and a goat baaed as they crossed the yard toward the door.

  “Hush, Mildred,” said Sienna to the goat that poked her head through the fence, one horn broken. “We have company.”

  Arabelle patted the goat’s head before following Sienna inside. She turned at the door to find the two hart wolves who’d escorted them were already gone.

  “Come in and make yourself at home.” Sienna unhooked her red cloak and hung it on a peg by the door.

  The inside of the cottage was a surprise to her senses—all pretty pastels and porcelain figurines. The stone walls had been covered over with white plaster. There was a proper vanity in one corner, with an oval-shaped looking glass, a lovely quilt of pinks and greens covering the bed in the corner, a beautiful dressing screen painted in a smear of blues. Hung around the room were several paintings of landscapes—a rising sun over a grassy hill, a tall waterfall splashing into an emerald green pool, and one of Duchess and the black hart wolf standing in the woods.

  “You’re an artist.”

  “Hmph. Not much of one. But it passes the time. I wish I’d had more time to study with the masters, but alas, that wasn’t possible.”

  Arabelle frowned at that remark. This woman had an unusual past, whatever it was.

  “Is the black wolf her mate?” she asked.

  Sienna busied herself near a wood stove, half the size of the one Cook used at the Pervis house, but just as nice.

  “Yes. Luca never leaves her side. He is devoted to her. Please, have a seat and make yourself at home.”

  Arabelle sat on an overstuffed couch with burgundy brocade covering as if she were sitting in the parlor at any fine home in Sylus. A white afghan was crumpled in the corner of the sofa, obviously where Sienna usually sat facing the fire. A book sat open on a mahogany table.

  Arabelle took in her cozy, domestic surroundings, her mind reeling with the events of the past day.

  Sienna joined her with a silver tray and set it on the little table. She poured steaming tea into porcelain cups with yellow flowers decorating the rim. While Sienna served the tea and placed a pastry on a plate for each, Arabelle studied this woman who perplexed her beyond reason.

  “What is it?” asked Sienna as she passed her a cup on a saucer.

  Arabelle took it and laughed. “I have been rescued by a woman and her wolves in the dark woods of Silvane Forest. I am now sitting in her cozy home where she apparently lives alone with the finest furnishings any noble lady might have in her parlor. I am…confused.”

  Sienna smiled, her moss-green eyes sparkling. That was when Arabelle noticed how beautiful she was. She bore the fine lines of nobility, with flawless skin to match her teacups. And shining red hair she wore down around her shoulders, with two thin braids framing her face. She did not wear it up as a proper lady should.

  “You—” Arabelle started to say her conclusion aloud but could hardly imagine it to be true. “You are an aristocrat. Aren’t you?”

  Sienna sipped her tea. “Yes. I was once, anyway. I’ve left that life behind. Please eat. They are a day old and not as good as my cook used to make, but they’ll do.”

  Arabelle sat, stupefied. “But…why would you leave? What happened?”

  Sienna turned her face to the fire and sipped her tea again, seeming to remember. “I was betrothed to a detestable man. Rich, yes. Handsome, to be sure. But loathsome in character. When I caught him beating one of his servants, I determined to have none of it.”

  Arabelle clasped her cup tighter. “Bastard,” she stammered, then softened her grip. “Sorry. Go on.”

  Sienna nodded and continued. “When I told my mother, she called me a silly girl who didn’t know the ways of the wor
ld. And that a man of his stature had pressure he needed to let out. She told me, if you can imagine this, ‘Better the servants than you, dear daughter.’ Well, I couldn’t accept that. And I wasn’t entirely sure he’d stop at the servants once he had me in his grasp.”

  Arabelle set down her tea and clasped her hands in her lap, agitated by Sienna’s story. All her life, she thought only the poor were oppressed and abused. But here she was sitting with a noble lady who’d fled a life of luxury because of the same.

  “So, you ran away into the woods?” Arabelle shook her head in disbelief. “And this house? How did you possibly build this on your own?”

  “Oh, I didn’t build this place. It was my grandmother’s, my father’s mother,” she said with a tender smile. “I rarely visited her, as she lived so far from home. My original home was in the east, in Dale’s Peak.”

  “I have heard of it. Mountainous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And cold.”

  Sienna set her tea down then took a bite into her pastry.

  “My father was an eccentric man. His mother was even more so. She left civilization ages ago, preferring to live alone in these woods where no one would bother her. The witch the prince spoke of? It was my grandmother.”

  Arabelle sucked in a gasp, shocked that she’d admit to such a thing. Witches were burned at the stake.

  “Not a real witch, mind you,” Sienna continued, brushing the crumbs from her lap. “She loved medicinal plants and finding balms and potions to help heal the sick. She was a widow very young and had only one child by my grandfather before his sudden illness and death. She was determined to become a healer, but that was frowned upon by the gentry, as you can imagine. That is partly why she finally came to the woods. There were noblemen in our province who began to whisper about her. Father helped her get this place built, for he knew the rumors would turn into accusations soon enough. That is what she told me anyway. Father died when I was quite young as well.”

  “Your grandmother is gone now?” Arabelle asked hesitantly.

  “Yes.” Sienna gave her a sad smile. “But I enjoyed five good years with her before she passed on. It’s been two years now. She taught me all she knew about medicine.” Sienna picked up the open book on the table. “This was her favorite book, written by an apothecary in Dale’s Peak. I find something new that I missed the time before every time I read it.”