“And the part where I tell you in simple declarative sentences that I’m not breaking up with you?”
“Goes under mixed signals,” he said.
She took a deep breath. On the street, a siren rose and fell.
“Sorry,” she said. She got up from the bed, pulling one of the sheets with her and wrapping it around her hips. “Look, I understand that this has been hard. I’ve asked for a lot of faith.”
“You really have.”
“And given that I don’t have an entirely uncheckered past, and all,” she said. “I see why you would freak. You and my mother both.”
“Your mother?”
“She’s been reading me the riot act ever since she heard about it. She really likes you.”
He leaned back, surprise and pleasure in his expression.
“Your mother likes me?”
“Focus, sweetheart. I’m apologizing here.”
“And I don’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
Relief had left him giddy. Between his brave face and her attention being elsewhere, she’d managed to ignore the sadness and dread that had been seeping into him. Now that it was lifting a little, she saw how deep it had gone. She found her pants in a heap on the floor, sat down at the dressing table and lit a cigarette. The taste of the smoke helped her to think. When she spoke, her voice was lower.
“I’ve had a rough ride this life, you know? I used to be ashamed of that. I used to think that after Nash I was… broken. Damaged goods. Like that. And feeling like that has…”
She stopped, shook herself, laughed at something, and took another drag.
“Feeling like that has haunted me,” she said, with an odd smile.
“And this house is part of not feeling that way?”
“It is.”
“Then I already like it,” he said. “Sight unseen. If it helps you see yourself the way I see you, then it’s on my side.”
Corrie chuckled and shook her head.
“That might be going a little far,” she said. “But anyway. I want you to come over. I want you to see it. You should bring a sweater. It gets kind of cold sometimes.”
“I’m there.”
“And I want you to think about whether you’d like to move in.”
“Corrie?”
“There’s enough room. The neighborhood’s a little sketchy, and the jet noise sucks, but not worse than the jukebox hero practicing all the time.”
“Corrie, are you saying you still want to live with me?”
Her smile was tight and nervous.
“Not asking for a decision,” she said. “But I’m opening negotiations.”
He slipped to the side of the bed, slid to the floor at her feet, and laid his head in her lap. For a long moment, neither of them moved or spoke; then Corrie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Come on, silly,” she said. “You’ve got to get ready for Gemma. Go get that scanner back.”
“I do,” he said with a sigh. “Come shower with me?”
“Not today,” she said. And when he raised his eyebrows, “I want to smell like you when I get home.”
1532 LACHMONT DRIVE seethed around her. Every noise—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant roar of the furnace, the ticking of the wooden floors as the push-pull of heat and cold adjusted the boards—had voices behind them, screaming. The faintest smell of hair and skin burning touched the air. She knew they were meant to be hers.
Corrie hung her coat in the closet. A shape flickered in the basement doorway, dark eyes and inhuman teeth. She set a kettle on the stovetop and smoked a cigarette while it heated. When the clouds outside broke, the doubled light of sky and snow pressed in at the blinds. The kettle whistled. She took a mug out of the cupboard, put in a bag of chamomile tea, and poured the steaming water in. When she sat down, there was blood on the floor. A bright puddle, almost too red to be real, and then a trail as wide as a man’s hips where the still-living man had been dragged across to the basement door. When she looked up, the air had a layer of smoke haze a foot below the ceiling. It might have been her cigarette. It might have been gun smoke. She sipped her tea, savoring the heat and the faint sweetness.
“Fine,” she said.
She stood up slowly, stretching. The stairs down to the basement were planks of wood painted a dark, chipping green. The years had softened the edges. The basement had none of the brightness of the day above it. Even with the single bare bulb glowing, the shadows were thick. The furnace roar was louder here, and the voice behind it spat rage and hatred. She followed the trail of blood to the corner of the basement, where washer and dryer sat sullen in the gloom. She leaned down, put her shoulder to the corner of the dryer, and shifted it.
The metal feet shrieked against the concrete. The scar under it was almost three feet wide, a lighter place where the floor had been broken, taken up, and then filled in with a patch of almost-matching cement. She sat down on the dusty floor. There was blood on her hands now, black and sticky and copper-smelling. A spot of white appeared on the odd concrete and began to spread: frost. She put her hand on it like she was caressing a pet.
“We should probably talk,” she said. “And when I say that, I mean that I should talk, and you, for once, should listen.”
Something growled from the corner by the furnace. A shadow detached from the gloom and began pacing like a tiger in its cage. She sipped her tea and looked around the darkness, her gaze calm and proprietary.
“It’s funny the things they get wrong, you know? They remember that you threatened Joe Arrison, but instead of his cock, you were going to cut off his nose. They know I went to the Laughing Academy, but they don’t remember that I got out. Apparently, I was going on about Satan or something. ‘Mind gone to putty.’”
She stroked the concrete. The frost was spreading. A dot of red smeared it at the center, blood welling up from the artificial stone.
“And you really screwed me up, you know?” she said. “Shooting you really was worse than I thought it would be. I was so scared that someone would find you. I had nightmares all the time. I’d see someone who looked a little like you or I’d smell that cheap-ass cologne you liked, and I’d start panicking. I even tried to kill myself once. Didn’t do a very good job of it.
“I was one messed up chica. Every couple weeks, I’d do a search online. I just knew that there was going to be something. Bones found at 1532 Lachmont Drive. So what do I find instead? Ghost stories. There was one that even had a drawing of you. And so I knew, right?”
The shadow shrieked at her, its mouth glowing like there was something burning inside it. The blood at the center of the frost became a trickle. Corrie let the icy flow stain her fingers.
“I was so freaked out,” she said, laughing. “I spent years putting myself back together, and here you still were. I don’t think I slept right for a month. And then one day, something just clicked, you know? I’ve got a job. I can buy a house if I want.”
She sipped at her tea, but it had gone cold. She was sitting in a spreading pool of gore now, the blood spilling out to the corners of the room. More blood than a real body could contain. It soaked her pants and wicked up her shirt, chilling her, but not badly. The shadow hunched forward, ready to leap.
“David’s coming over tonight,” she said. “I wasn’t going to let him until I was sure it was safe. But tonight I’m going to make him dinner, and we’re probably going to get a little high, watch a DVD, something like that. And then I’m going to fuck him in your bedroom. And you? You’re going to watch.”
The blood rushed up. It was almost ankle-deep now, tiny waves of red rising up through the basement. Corrie smiled.
“You’ll really hate him,” she said. “He is everything you could never be, and he really, really loves me. And you know what? I love him too. And we’re going to be here, maybe for years. Maybe forever. And we’re going to do everything you couldn’t. And we’re going to do it right. So, seriously. How’s that for revenge?”
<
br /> The shadow screamed, rising up above her, blotting out the light. She could almost feel its teeth at her neck. She scratched.
“You’re dead, fucker,” she whispered to the darkness. “You can’t hurt me.”
Blood-soaked, she picked up her teacup and walked to the stairs. The ghost whipped at her with cold, insubstantial fingers. It screamed in her ears, battering her with anger and hatred. Corrie grinned, a sense of peace and calm radiating from her. The voice grew thinner, more distant, richer with despair. With each step she took, the visions of blood faded a little more, and by the time she stepped into the winter light, she was clean.
Cecelia Holland
There’s a cost for everything, but here we learn that sometimes the cost can be much too high, no matter how glittering and wonderful the prize is—or seems to be.
Cecelia Holland is one of the world’s most highly acclaimed and respected historical novelists, ranked by many alongside other giants in that field such as Mary Renault and Larry McMurtry. Over the span of her thirty-year career, she’s written almost thirty historical novels, including The Firedrake, Rakóssy, Two Ravens, Ghost on the Steppe, The Death of Attila, Hammer for Princes, The King’s Road, Pillar of the Sky, The Lords of Vaumartin, Pacific Street, The Sea Beggars, The Earl, The Kings in Winter, The Belt of Gold, and more than a dozen others. She also wrote the well-known science fiction novel Floating Worlds, which was nominated for a Locus Award in 1975, and of late has been working on a series of fantasy novels, including The Soul Thief, The Witches’ Kitchen, The Serpent Dreamer, and Varanger. Her most recent books are the novels The High City and Kings of the North.
Demon Lover
She slept, and in the dark it came on her, heavy and sweaty, its weight all along her body. Its mouth quested greedily after hers and she rolled her head away, sick. She felt its nakedness prodding and poking against her thighs. Her body roused; even as she fought it, a gritty, shameful lust to submit coursed through her blood. Deep inside some ancient itch woke, longing for penetration. Her hips rolled, arching upward, her knees parting, and she heard its horrible, triumphant laugh.
She jolted awake, drenched with sweat. In the dark room around her, the other girls were still sleeping. None of them made outcries. None of them moaned in her dream. Fioretta slid quietly up off the pallet, her nightdress sticking to her, her long hair dripping down her shoulders. One tress had wrapped itself around her neck. She fumbled her way to the water basin, and washed her face; she felt dirty, all over.
The day was coming. Light began to filter into the room. Behind her now the others were waking. She kept her back to them. She did not want to see them, to know their faces. They bustled around her, whispering and yawning; without asking, they peeled off the damp nightdress, they brought her a clean shift, a fresh gown. They murmured around her like a crowd of bees. She did not look at them, afraid they would see the dream in her eyes. Afraid of what she would see in their eyes.
They hated her. She had felt that at once, behind their cooing, their simpering words, “my lady this, my lady that,” and their rigid smiles. They pulled and slapped at her, dressing her, yanking on the brush as they did her hair, tugged the necklace into her skin when they clasped it. One pinched her so hard she jumped. They slid golden slippers on her feet, and in their midst she went down to court.
They left the room on a cold stone stair, but as they went down the step smoothed under her feet, the space widened, the swelling light struck on burnished walls. The girls around her began to laugh and giggle. Ahead of them were tall white doors figured with gold, and as they approached the doors burst open and on a rising excitement they swept through into the brilliant, merry bustle of the court.
The room was full of young and beautiful people, in satin and lace, their faces smooth as silk. As she came in, they swooped toward her and bowed. Their eyes glittered, eager—or desperate. She went through them toward the throne at the far end, lifting her skirts in her hands; and the wizard-king stood up, his hand out. Tall and lean, he was dressed head to foot in a straight plain white gown, his hair hidden under a cap. His beard was a narrow dark fringe, his face with its long eyes and straight narrow nose chiseled as if from walnut.
He said, “Ah, my beauty. My darling one, today I shall call you Marguerite, for you are a pearl.” She could not speak; her breath choked in her throat, her skin creeping. He looked so well, but she knew now. Her eyes downcast, she went up the steps to the chair beside his. He laughed, as he had in the dream, triumphant.
FROM THE BEGINNING she had known there would be a cost.
She had been born in the village at the foot of the mountain. Her mother died when she was only a child, and her father was a drunkard, so they were very poor, but Fioretta was pretty and clever and worked hard, and as she grew into a handsome girl many young men thought well of her. She was getting ready to choose one to marry when her father, blind with drink, set the house on fire. She dragged him out of it, but the fire scorched her face and burned her leg so badly she needed a crutch to walk. The wound on her face faded, but the scar caught one corner of her eye, so she seemed to squint a little.
After that, the young men thought less well of her, all but the bailiff’s younger son, Palo, who was cross-grained anyway, his family’s black sheep. He was round and plain, a daydreamer, a stutterer. While her father went around drinking up everybody’s sympathy, Palo came to Fioretta and demanded that he marry her.
Fioretta stopped short. He had been waiting for her by the riverbank, down from the bridge, where she often went searching for herbs. She propped herself on her crutch, hostile, quick to sense pity. “What did you say?”
He stood there, squat and round, his hands on his hips, his blue eyes intense, and said again, “Y-You ought to m-m-marry me. This is a great f-f-favor to you, you know.”
At that she went hot with temper. She burst out, “What makes you so wonderful? You’re a fat, pompous oaf.”
He sneered at her. “You’re a c-c-cripple. And you’re poor. Your father’s the village d-d-drunk.”
She flounced off, tossing her head. “You’re a fool, then, to want me.”
“You’re a sh-sh-shrew, then, to turn down what you should gratefully accept,” he said, in pursuit.
She wheeled to confront him. “You’re pocky-faced. You’re shorter than I am and you smell.”
“You’ve got a tongue like a v-v-v-v—” He put his hands on his hips again. “You squinty gimp, you don’t even have the wits to kn-n-now what I’m offering you.”
“At least I have the wit to know to reject it.”
He flung his hands up, his face bright red, and stormed off.
At that she was suddenly very lonely. She sat down on the riverbank, exhausted. She had nowhere to go—she was sleeping in the church, and she would only eat if she found herbs and mushrooms and housewives in the village to buy them. The next day would be the same. She thought regretfully of Palo. Even fighting with him was better than being alone.
There was a convent in the village on the other side of the mountain; she could go there. Her gaze rose to the river rushing by. Or she could just throw herself in. Bitterly she wished the world were different.
“Good morning,” said a strange voice, beside her.
She looked up, startled, at the old man standing there. He wore a long gray hooded cloak, which shadowed his face, but his eyes shone bright and clear. His hands were tucked away in his sleeves.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted. “What do you want with me?”
“I have been watching you,” he said. “For a while.”
“Me.” A shiver went through her. She struggled up onto her feet and braced the crutch under her armpit. “Why would you wait for me? Who are you?”
He shrugged. The gray cloak obscured him, as if he went wrapped in a faint mist. Half turning away, he mumbled into his hand, “Call me Goodman Green’m, that’s near enough. Don’t remember.” Then he turned back toward her. “What is your
name, child?”
“Fioretta,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, “such a lovely name. And so harsh a fate, as I have seen, for such a lovely girl.” His bright eyes glimmered inside the shadow of his face. “Fate is too cruel, isn’t it? But what if I told you there is a place nearby where you could be made whole, and beautiful again? More beautiful than ever.”
A ripple of yearning went through her, almost overwhelming. Resisting that, she gave a snort of disbelief. She said, “I would think you were a great fool.”
“Well,” he said. He began to drift off, like a mist, moving along the riverbank. “But the castle is just up the mountain. Only a mile or so on. You’re going that way anyway.” His eyes gleamed at her from the darkness of the hood. “Come,” he said. “Take the right path.” And went off.
She stared after him, her mouth open; she watched him until he disappeared in the busy crowd by the bridge. She rubbed her eyes with her hand, thinking, people shouldn’t say such things, that’s cruel. She saw ahead of her only the world, cruel and cold.
There was the convent. If they would not let her take the veil, since she had no dowry, they would give her work, and keep her. That was all she could hope for now. In fact, if she got less, she would not be hoping too much longer for anything. She started off toward the bridge.
The crutch dug under her armpit; her leg ached. But she had hours before sundown. One of a dozen people, she clumped across the bridge and turned onto the path up the mountain.
The other travelers soon turned off, and she was alone as she climbed. The path wound steadily upward, rockier and narrow between tall pines. The crutch slipped on the stones and she almost fell. She should try to walk without it; her leg seemed to get stronger when she used it. But it hurt more too, to walk without the crutch.
Far behind her, someone called out. She shivered. The voice was too far away to tell who it was but in her heart she knew it was Palo.
She could stop. Go back. Take whatever he deigned to give her. He wasn’t so bad, quick-tongued and sometimes funny. She imagined the drudge work of keeping house while he lay around, as her father had. Then the drudge work in bed at night. She hobbled along; he was far behind; he would give up soon. The path narrowed still more and turned a sharp bend around a boulder, and she stopped, startled.
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