She shook her head, dazed by pity and fear, massaging her tender wrist.
He winked. "Ah, but I think I have." He reached up and took her hand again gently, drawing it to his face and inhaling. Then he tugged playfully at her dress. "Come, Marguerite. Come and lie down beside me."
Reluctantly, she stretched out at his side. He removed her slippers, then smoothed the fabric of her dress over her body and surveyed her slowly with his eyes—following the long rise of her legs, the gentle curve of her stomach, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid breaths. He turned and lifted the tip of his hookah toward her mouth. When she turned away, he took a draught from the pipe himself and leaned over her, sealing her lips with his. Then he slowly exhaled, filling her lungs with warm smoke. Marguerite choked and coughed, her throat burning with the acrid fumes.
He lifted his head. "Are you nervous?" he asked softly, pressing his hand to her chest. "Your heart beats like a rabbit's."
"No," she replied. "I am not."
His hand slid left, fingers working like a blind man reading runes. "Does this please you?"
"Yes." It was not entirely a lie. Her head had begun to swim out to sea, while her body was taking another trip entirely.
He smiled. "It pleases me as well." His fingers toyed with the brooch on the dress. "And did my present entertain you?"
She hesitated, unsure of his meaning. "The brooch is very beautiful."
"What I mean to ask ... is whether you enjoyed the unwrapping."
She nodded.
"Then you won't mind if I share in your pleasure. Shall I unwrap my gift now?"
"Oh," Marguerite said, feeling stupid, "but I have nothing for you."
Donskoy chortled. "Oh," he mocked, "but you are sorely mistaken."
He freed the brooch from her gown and gently flicked his thumb over the pin's sharp point. She looked down, wide-eyed, to see him plant the point in the valley of her breasts, poised at the edge of the gown's neckline. He gently lifted her chin with his free hand. "Close your eyes, Marguerite," he said, touching his soft black fingertips to her lids. "And trust." He slid his suede fingers to her mouth. "Close your lips and listen."
She heard a faint scratching sound as the edge of her gown bit into the nape of her neck and pressed into her collarbone. Then the fabric popped, releasing its grip, and a sharp point defined a tingling path from her sternum to her navel. When Donskoy lifted his hand from her lips, the dress lay open across her torso as if flayed apart. Her chest looked strangely wrinkled and white in the gap. Then she realized that it was not her own flesh she saw. The final layer of silk—barely perceptible in the dim light—still lay intact against her skin.
Donskoy tossed the brooch carelessly aside and began to peel away the gown. He worked slowly and methodically, layer by layer. She closed her eyes again, lulled by the hypnotic hiss of his breath. The fina! layer clung to the hollows of her shape as if it had taken root; his gloved fingers picked gingerly at the edges of the silk, then roiled the fabric away with firm, even strokes. He continued to knead her muscles well after the dress had gone, beginning with her fingers and arms, then turning to her feet and working slowly up her legs until she imagined her own skin would start to peel away willingly. She moaned and stretched like a cat.
He slid his cheek over her body. "So sweet," he murmured. "And so fresh."
She heard a giggle, then realized it was her own. Donskoy removed his clothes—all but the black gloves. Then he proceeded to move over her anew with agonizing slowness, leaving no inch unexplored. He took her hand and gnawed softly on her fingertips, then traced a path up her arm with his tongue. At the tender white crux of her elbow, he lingered, lapping like a kitten at bowl of cream. She shuddered.
"My just desserts," he murmured. He chuckled at his own pun.
Marguerite turned her head toward the hearth and watched the flames licking at the wood, as Donskoy was at her. She grew hot as the coals.
A soft tinkling drifted to her ear like some magical summons. Slowly and of its own accord, her head turned toward the sound. The red beads quivered in the chandelier. One great crystal hung from the bottom; it turned to and fro, flashing rhythmically, pulling Marguerite into its grasp. She looked down and saw her body far below, saw herself and Donskoy, entwined and merging, like angry snakes, writhing before the fire. Without warning, she spiraled downward, plunging into the core of her flesh as if it were a pool and she were a stone. Once there, she found she was not alone. She twisted sensuously under the invader's assault, returning each onslaught in kind.
Her mouth was dry, her throat parched. Donskoy's black hands trampled over her slick skin like furtive animals, like hounds hot for the fox. No longer soft, they seemed hard and sharp, lightly scratching her skin.
"Milos . . ." she moaned.
A dark growl of pleasure echoed through the room. Marguerite could not tell from whose lips it came.
* * * * *
Marguerite awoke to find Donskoy's body cupped around hers,
"A son is made," he murmured against her neck.
She wondered how he could be certain, though of course she did not voice her doubts. She was silent, feigning sleep. The past hours were a blur, recalled like changing weather—cool, then hot, then coo! again. Memories scurried forward to be acknowledged, but she brushed them aside. Her head throbbed, still poisoned by the wine and the smoke.
After a moment Donskoy rose and groaned, stretching before the fire, Then he proceeded to dress himself. "Arise, my fair one," he said dramatically. "For methinks you are not sleeping,"
Marguerite rolled over and reached for her dress, then saw the pife of fabric, shredded and faintly pink. She sat up, drawing a small fur rug around her shoulders. Donskoy was adjusting his gloves. He went to the cupboard and unlocked it, then opened the doors just a sliver, withdrawing a red gown from the dark slit between them. He tossed the gown over to Marguerite and relocked the cabinet, returning the key to his pocket.
"My gift to a deserving wife," he said simply. He bent to kiss her, pushing away the pelt. "My very deserving wife.11
She smiled feebly.
"Raise your hands, and I will dress you."
He slipped the silk gown over her head. When the dress encased her, and the brooch ornamented its neckline, Donskoy led Marguerite to the door and locked it behind them, then escorted her to her chamber. She leaned on his arm for support, wondering if he intended to share her bed. They did not speak until they reached their goal.
"Sleep well," he said, kissing her softly on the cheek. "I shall see you in the morning."
Marguerite's question had been answered. She found herself relieved.
She stepped across the threshold and turned to close the door, but it was already shut. A key rattled in the lock, securing her for the night.
EIGHT
Heavy-headed, Marguerite crossed to the hearth, her red gown rustling as she walked. The dress was a JittJe long and snug through the shoulders, but otherwise splendid—worth a peasant's wages for haif a year, an extravagance that should have thrilled any girl of parochial roots. And it did please her. But thrill? No more than trying on a garment that was merely borrowed. She went to the wash basin and splashed her face with cool water, then patted her skin dry.
In Marguerite's absence, Yefena had tended the chamber. The fire was freshly stoked, the wooden tub gone. The desiccated flowers had been planted in a vase, and a steaming pot of tea sat on the table. She lifted the lid and sniffed; the brew smelled of blackberries and honey. As prisons went, hers was not without its comforts.
Marguerite poured herself some of the tea and sank into a chair before the fire. So this is how it ends, she thought—her wedding day, the event she had so long anticipated. She shut her eyes and let a few fragmented images drift across the black field behind her lids: the strange ritual with the dark egg, the brilliant flashes from the stained-glass windows, the fountain of blood from the fallen beast. And, finally, the consummat
ion in the red salon, an event recalled more by her body than her mind. Her chest flushed at the memory, and her thighs tightened. The occasion was hardly the "impersonal rite" that her mother had steeled her to expect; but then, Donskoy's castle held many surprises.
Marguerite wondered if his first wife—the "black-haired hellion" he had murmured about in the salon— had endured a similar wedding day. Obviously, the tragedy of the woman's death still haunted Donskoy— and after twenty or thirty years? Marguerite would not understand her husband until she knew more about his first wife's death, however horrible or incriminating that might be. Only then could they hope to mold a future together; otherwise, Donskoy would forever remain the strange mercurial master, while she played his well-kept prisoner, some kind of prize purchased solely for breeding. In a castle with so few friendly faces, it was a lonely prospect.
Wearily, Marguerite went to the bed to draw back the covers, then stayed her hand. In the hollow at the center of the soft mattress, there was a slight swelling where something lay hidden beneath the embroidered counterpane. The lump shifted. Marguerite stepped back. She drew in her breath, watching as the swollen mass approached the edge of the bed, moving slowly beneath the woolen cover. Then the mass stopped. Marguerite stood beside the bed, immobile. The thing remained frozen as well.
Marguerite had faced this kind of thing before. "All right, you," she breathed, grabbing the poker from beside the fire. "No vermin tonight. No errant cats, no overgrown rats, no—"
She whipped off the counterpane. There sat Griezell. Zosia's queenly toad, black and shining against the white linens. It gazed at her slyly with its enormous, protruding eyes, Zosia's words in the garden drifted back to her: Some say a bed filled with toads ensures conception, especially on the wedding night.
Marguerite cursed. "Tell your mistress her joke isn't funny. Besides, you're late. You should've been waiting in Donskoy's salon, though I'll bet you haven't got the nerve."
Griezell blinked, and Marguerite imagined the creature's wide slit of a mouth lifted subtly to form a smile. She let out a tired laugh.
"Well, as I told your mistress, I do not bed with toads." Grimacing, she poked at the creature's cool, dry hide. The gleaming bumps rippled under the poker's touch. "Off," she commanded. "Off and out. How did you get in here in the first place?"
Griezell did not budge.
"Fine. You're a toad, after all. Perhaps you're too stupid to understand me."
Griezell's throat swelled, forming a huge goiter. With its broad mouth slightly parted, the toad emitted a horrid, reverberant rasp—long, deep, and hoarse. It reminded Marguerite of a death rattle, or of an old man clearing phlegm from his lungs.
"That's enough," she snapped in disgust. "You probably do understand, and I wouldn't be surprised if Zosia understands you in turn. So you can tell her I am not amused."
Marguerite returned the poker to its place, then -;cked up the toad with arms stiffly outstretched. The spaniel-sized creature hissed and paddled, and if it had wanted to, it could have wriggled from her arms or drawn blood with its claws. But the toad had bowed ; to her authority, at least for now. She carried Griezell-bub toward the door. Then she remembered the click of the key—Donskoy had locked her in.
Griezell made another goiter and rasped, this time breaking the hoarse sound into short, staccato rattles. Like laughter. Marguerite gasped and dropped the toad at once. Griezell hissed, then shambled toward one of the tapestries flanking the fireplace. With twenty hounds and a frightened fox looking on, the toad disappeared into the wall. Marguerite wondered whether the little black beast had the fabled ability to teleport—moving from one place to another without actually traversing the space between. Either that, or it had become insubstantial, a specter. Unless . . .
Marguerite heard the faint sound of stone scraping against stone. She cautiously stepped toward the tapestry, half-expecting some kind of trap to be sprung. The cloth wavered softly, teasing her, then settled.
She stared at the wall. Every sinew in her suddenly reawakened, tense with excitement. If her guess was correct, the wall had opened to permit Griezell's passage. There was a secret door, just like the one in Zosia's garden. Then she recalled how the old woman had spoken a word to shift that portal, a magical command. If such a thing were required here, Marguerite was tost. But it couldn't be; Griezeltbub did not speak, did he? And the toad had gone through.
"Griezell." She shook her head. Did she really think it would answer?
Marguerite picked up a piece of kindling from the stack beside the hearth, then put the end of the stick to the tapestry, poking the belly of a hound. Nothing happened. She poked again, then walked to the side of the heavy fabric, lifting the edge. Behind it lay the wall, firm and stony, seemingly impenetrable. Seemingly, she repeated to herself.
A faint scrabbling and hissing drifted out from the cover of the tapestry.
"Griezellbub," she repeated. "Show me how."
Her answer came—the scrabbling again, so soft she might have imagined it.
Marguerite went to the edge of the tapestry and slipped into the black sliver of space behind it, sliding flat along the wall until she came to the place where she thought Qriezell had disappeared. The heavy cloth pressed against her back. It smelled musty and blocked the light completely, making her nose burn, her eyes blind. She ran her hands over the wallT searching for some kind of tatch. There was none. She continued to probe, stretching high, then low, covering every spot she could reach. After several minutes, the weight and the sour stench of the tapestry became unbearable; she imagined herself pressed flat like a flower in an old book, slowly dying between its mildewed pages. Gasping, she slipped out from beneath the shroud and returned to the room. Mold and clotted strands of cobwebs clung to her head like a newborn's caul. She went to the basin and rinsed her face, pulling the worst of the dregs from her hair. Then she returned to the wall and stared at it. The creatures in the scene stared back.
She heard another muffled hiss, impatient and sharp.
To follow a toad, must I be one? she thought. She crouched at the base of the tapestry, which hovered just above the floor. Here, the sound of Griezell's hissing became acute. She lifted the bottom of the rank silk. Blocks of gray stone confronted her.
Something glistened in the candlelight—a tiny pool at the base of a stone. It was as if the rock were weeping, or perhaps drooling. She pressed hard on the surface of this block. It gave way, and an opening appeared, barely an arm's length high, equally narrow. Beyond lay the black, snakelike throat of a tunnel. Griezell's insistent little hiss echoed in the darkness. Marguerite stared in, hesitating. The door slid shut, narrowly missing her head.
Heart drumming, half with fear and half with anticipation, she rose and swiftly retrieved a candle from the table, fitting it with a guard against drafts. Then she retrieved a second candle, unlit, and slipped it into her garter. She looked around the room. Will I need a third? she wondered. After all, she mustn't be caught in the dark. But if either candle blew out in a gust, she would have no way to relight it. No time to hesitate, she told herself. No time. Griezell might not wait.
Armed with the small fire, she opened the passage again and crawled inside, pushing the candle ahead of her as she went. Her progress was slow and discomforting. She yanked the skirt of her gown up toward the neck and tucked it into the bodice so her knees were free. Her woolen hose tore on the stones. After the third bend in the tunnel, she saw a wall looming ahead. Griezell huddled at the base. The creature turned to face her, flashing a row of sharp tittle teeth, dripping with drool. Then it pushed at a stone, triggering another door, and went on.
The door closed before Marguerite could reach it. At the base of the wati lay a little puddle of Griezelt's saliva to mark the spot. She pressed upon the stone's cool surface, and a door opened in the same fashion as the last. Marguerite emerged in the space beyond. She stood slowly, ignoring the complaint of her cramped limbs. Her skirts escaped from her
bodice and dropped to the floor.
She found herself in a chamber shaped like her own, but it was smaller and ruined, her room's stillborn twin. The crumbling hearth pitted the opposite wail like a black, empty wound. Tattered, filthy sheets clung to the modest furnishings. The bed stood completely naked, stripped of the mattress, curtains gone from the spires. The rope supports had been gnawed or rotted and now hung limply to the floor. In the outer wail rose a tall, thin window, bare of giass, The broken shutter hung crazily askew. A sliver of moonlight pushed past it, cutting a white path across the floor. In its glow lay a heap of leaves and dirty rags. Something wiggled inside it. Marguerite thrust her candle forth like a weapon. A mouse squealed on the mound, then scurried away, abandoning a nest of writhing pink babies, hairless and blind.
Qriezell sat beside the chamber door, hissing impatiently. The creature was right; this was only part of the journey, not a fitting end. As if to confirm her conclusion, a cold, wet breeze slunk in through the open window. She shivered, then strode to the door and yanked. It gave way noisily, and the toad and the woman went out together.
[n the hall outside, Marguerite paused to listen, afraid she might have alerted someone to her escape. But no footsteps came. The castle was quiet. She heard onfy a few distant creaks, the moaning of old wood.
A wave of excitement washed over her. Moments ago she had been a prisoner, powerless and small. The rest of the castle had loomed all around, taunting her with its forbidden mass. Now she had mastered one of its secret arteries—a passage that Donskoy would never show her, even if he fulfilled his promise of a castle tour. And Yetena or Zosia—would they too have kept her ignorant of this escape? It didn't matter. Soon, she mused, she would discover more of the castle on her own. In this way, she might eventually come to possess it—not by right, of course, but in spirit. While her husband and the others slept, she could stroll the keep as its haughty mistress instead of its simpering captive.
To Sleep With Evil Page 11