What have I done? What was I thinking, demanding she stay? His gaze flew wildly around the room, his breathing ragged. The witch’s sister—her sister!
Every scale on his body grew heavier, reminders of what he was, what he would be as long as the curse held him trapped in this form. Neither man nor beast. Unfit for human company. The meditations were already pathetically ineffective at managing his temper. With that woman here—reminding him…
“You’re upssset.”
Daman whirled to find the cuelebre peering up at him from the floor, tiny from Daman’s vantage point. It flicked its tail from side to side, like a dog greeting its master.
“What are you doing here?” Daman snarled.
The cuelebre snaked its tongue out and blinked. “I told you. I’m here to help you with your visssitorsss.”
“You are in my private chamberss.” Daman slashed at the cuelebre with the heavy coil of his lower body, cracking it against his diminutive intruder. The cuelebre sputtered as it was sent skittering over the floor.
“It iss the wrong daughter.” Daman shoved a hand through his hair, not caring that his claws drew ragged, bloody furrows across his scalp. The pain was lost in a flood of adrenaline, a mere drop in the ocean raging with gale force inside of him. “He wass ssuppossed to bring me the witch.”
“Did you tell him to bring the witch?” the cuelebre asked. It stared intently at him from a cave created by a large and mostly undamaged section of down comforter. Only its pink tongue slithering out as it spoke gave away its position.
Daman flexed his fingers as he imagined squeezing the miserable pest in his fist. “No. But sshe iss the one who had reasson to want the rosse. It sshould have been her.”
“Well, sssend thisss one back and sssee if you can exchange her for her sssissster.”
“Do not mock me!” Daman thrust against the stone floor, sending his body hurtling to the bed faster than mere mortal eyes could track. There was a startled burst of flame and the comforter caught fire as the cuelebre shot into the air, wings beating furiously.
“Don’t be mad at me.” The cuelebre sailed across the room and wrapped itself around a wall sconce, clinging stubbornly as if daring Daman to try and remove it. “It’sss not my fault that your heart ssspoke for you.”
Daman trembled with the urge to strike out again, to give free rein to the fury burning him alive. He tried to clear the haze from his eyes so he could focus on the cuelebre. “What iss that ssupossed to mean?”
The cuelebre snorted. “I heard you. You sssaid you were going to sssend her away, but when it came time to do it, you forccced her to ssstay. You want her to ssstay.” The serpent stabbed the tip of its tail in Daman’s direction. “It wasss not your head that made that decisssion.”
“It wass a mistake.” Daman rolled his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side to ease the muscles in his neck. “A sslip of the tongue.”
“Ssso you intend to go back to her father and tell him he can take hisss daughter home?”
Daman looked away, focusing on the dark, empty fireplace. His gaze slid across the room to the shattered statue, the gleaming shards of the broken window. For a moment, the temper receded, leaving him unspeakably tired. His shoulders sagged. “I am better than this.”
Scales sliding against metal signaled movement on the cuelebre’s part, but the serpent said nothing.
“The girl is a changeling.”
“Ah. Ssshe remindsss you of your passst purpossse.”
Daman slid his gaze to the cuelebre, the skin around his eyes twitching. “Not passt. It iss sstill my purposse, however incapable I may be of fulfilling it at the moment. And what do you know of it?”
The cuelebre scrunched up his body, pressing a coil to the side of his head in a serpent’s version of a shrug. “I know what a naga isss. Your people are protectorsss, guardiansss. If I remember correctly, upon maturity, a naga choosesss a protectorate, a people he will dedicate hisss life to. You were well known in thisss land for being a sssavior of changelingsss. I have heard of them praying to you to deliver them from cruel parentsss.” The cuelebre paused. “You’re ssstill well known, of courssse. Only now, people fear you asss a monssster.” It tapped its chin with the tip of its tail. “Though I think there are ssstill prayersss—”
“Sstop.” Daman clenched his hands into fists, sucking in deep breaths as he battled his temper back down. An image of the girl waiting in the treasure room filled his mind. He could see her face pale as she peered at him from the questionable safety of her father’s arms. Even as terrified as she was, she’d spoken with calm confidence to ease her father’s worries, to assure him that she would be all right. The knowledge that he’d frightened her, that a creature that beautiful and kind-hearted had seen him not as a savior, but as a threat…
“Do they only know me as a monster now?” He had to wrench the words from his vocal cords, dreading the answer.
The cuelebre inched closer, tiny scales glittering with the movement. “No. They know who you truly are. They remember.” He tapped his tail against the floor. “They wait.”
The blood drying on his scalp itched and Daman examined his claws. Brittle flakes of blood drifted down from the sharp points as he flexed his fingers, falling to the ground like macabre snowflakes. He silently moved to the dresser beside his bed and the wash basin with its chipped pitcher sitting next to it.
The cuelebre’s gaze was a tickle between his shoulder blades, a tangible weight. He moved mechanically through washing his hands, pouring the water from the pitcher, trailing his claws through the water. The liquid turned pink as the blood released its grip on his skin and scales, flowing through the bowl like eerie fog. When his hands were clean, he dried them on a scrap of linen that had once been part of a bedsheet.
“I can be that man again. I can be the knight instead of the dragon in the eyes of those who need my protection.”
The words lacked conviction, but hope flickered inside of Daman, meager though the flame was. If he stared hard enough at his hands, he could see the human limbs they had once been. He could remember.
“Isss it your intention to sssave the changeling girl?” the cuelebre asked curiously.
Daman pressed his lips together in a fine line. He slowly slid his hand down his armor, feeling the supple chainmail and strips of heavy, worn leather. It had been part of the armor he’d worn in human form, one of the few pieces that he could wear even in this stage of his transformation. It settled him, reminded him of honor, his discipline. “The day the witch came to me a year ago, she pretended to be a changeling, pretended to be the victim of an abusive host family. She had blood on her arm—the blood of a changeling.”
Daman replayed the memory in his head. The beautiful girl crying in his foyer, holding out her bloody arm as she pled for sanctuary. He could still remember the passionate urge to protect that had swarmed over him, the rush of tenderness he’d experienced as he’d comforted her. There had been no attraction, only the passion of his cause, the satisfaction of knowing he was doing exactly as he was meant to do. The zealousness of the righteous.
“She fooled me until I sent her to get cleaned up. She didn’t realize that I would visit her home, that I would go to see for myself what circumstances she was escaping from. It didn’t take long to learn that she’d lied. Her bedroom was the nicest room in the house, full of beautiful dresses and thick, comfortable blankets. Her father and sister did not have the look about them that comes with cruelty to others.”
“What doesss thisss have to do with the sssissster?”
Daman picked up scraps of bedsheets from the floor, gathering them in his arms. “Corrine had bandaged her arms by the time I arrived back at the manor, but I already knew the wounds were fake. The scent of changeling no longer hovered about her.” He straightened with his arms full of ruined fabric, his gaze sliding to the door as he pictured the changeling who was in his home now. “She must have gotten that blood from her sister. I heard the wo
man tell her father to take the treasure I offered him and use it to hire people to care for Corrine.”
“Ssso?”
“So, there is nothing wrong with the witch.” Daman’s grip tightened for a moment, crushing the fabric to his chest until he could feel the pounding of his heart through the thick material. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, imagining his meditation candle, picturing the gentle flame. His posture relaxed and he dropped the load of cloth into a pile near the wall. “She’s obviously taking advantage of her sister’s good nature, probably working her like a slave.”
“You can’t know that,” the cuelebre pointed out.
“You didn’t meet Corrine.” Daman gathered the largest pieces of shattered ceramic and splintered wood. Every bit of debris he removed from the floor calmed him, order returning to his mind as it returned to his environment. “When she first came to me and the taste of the blood on her arm led me to believe she was a true changeling, I told her I would relocate her, find her a loving family. She insisted that she wanted to stay here, with me.” He snorted. “Tried to seduce me. She didn’t want safety, she wanted wealth. One look at her hands and it was clear she’d never worked a day in her life.”
“That doesssn’t mean ssshe isss cruel to her sssissster.”
“Her sister is sidhe.”
The cuelebre stilled, its beady eyes growing wider. “Sidhe?”
“The sidhe exchange children with humans to keep their bloodlines strong, to bring in new blood. But they don’t abandon their true children. I’ve never known a sidhe family that didn’t check up on their child after leaving them, to make sure they weren’t being mistreated. This changeling tastes of sidhe, but she does not have the same aura. It is muted, weakened. Someone is trying to hide her from her true family. What reason could they have to do that if they aren’t afraid of what her family would do if they found her, discovered her circumstances?”
“Perhapsss the humansss are trying to hide her from her family becaussse they believe her family will hurt her?”
“Perhaps.” Daman dumped what he’d gathered in the same pile as the shredded bedsheets. “But until I am sure, I will keep her here.”
“Isssn’t that dangerousss?” The cuelebre curled around the wall sconce. “You sssent away your ssservantsss, your warriorsss, all becaussse you believed they would be in peril if they remained here with you. Do you not think that you are a threat to the girl asss well?”
Daman focused hard on the stone floor. “It is my purpose to protect changelings. I stopped helping them because I can no longer take my human form and when I tried to continue on in this body, I frightened them too much. But this girl is already here.” He squared his shoulders, though he still didn’t look at the cuelebre. “Perhaps this is a sign, a chance to remember how I once was.”
Daman nodded at the improvement in his room. It was still a disaster, a few moments of clearing debris wouldn’t change that, but the act of cleaning had been symbolic. If the gods were giving him another chance, then he needed to show he could change. It was time to stop living like a demented hermit, a monster too destructive to be trusted in human company. He was a man. He needed to act like it.
Before the cuelebre could say anything to change his mind, Daman swept out of the room to join his visitors, nervous energy singing against his skin. He entered the room slowly, head held high and posture as formal as though he had strode in on two legs. He ignored the way his visitors cowered as he approached, offering them a slight bow of greeting.
The old man groped behind him for his daughter, an instinctive need to protect his offspring, but the girl appeared to notice the change in his manner. She tilted her head slightly, watching him steadily with only the slightest hesitation in her body language.
Encouraged, Daman gave her what he hoped was a pleasant smile, grateful that his fangs remained snugly retracted against the roof of his mouth so his expression was human rather than draconic. The girl returned the smile, albeit shyly.
They’d filled the chest with riches, as he’d instructed them. The enchanted wardrobe had been as kind to them as he’d expected and the chest not only contained gold coins and jewels, but gowns of fine silk and lace. It was enough to please even the greediest witch…
His temper leapt up at him like a leviathan coming up for air, the full weight of his rage all too ready to reappear as an image of the witch roared into his mind. Copper burst on his tongue and Daman tamped down on a fresh wave of irritation as he realized he’d bitten his tongue grinding his teeth. It was fortunate his fangs were retracted against the roof of his mouth, else he likely would have ended up with a second fork in his tongue.
He offered his guests a small bow while he got his facial expressions under control. The man clung to his daughter as though desperate to protect her from Daman. They stood silently as Daman lifted the heavy chest with ease and carried it out to the waiting carriage. It took more effort than he wanted to admit to ignore the tears shining in the woman’s eyes as her father climbed into the carriage and drove away.
She stood there, hands worrying the folds of her worn blue skirt. In all the years he’d been rescuing changelings, Daman had seen many of them cry—but never because of him. He had never once forced a changeling to leave their home, it had always been their choice.
It was still her choice, Daman reminded himself. A small voice in his head scoffed at him.
He cleared his throat. “What is your name?”
“Maribel.” She didn’t take her eyes from the horizon where the carriage had disappeared. “And yours?”
“Daman.”
Slowly he turned back to the manor, gesturing for her to walk with him. She tore her attention from the horizon and locked it firmly on the ground as she followed obediently. At first he thought she was lost in her own wondering. He wouldn’t blame her if she were thinking of the life she’d left behind, perhaps wondering if staying had been the right choice. But something about the brittle set to her body, the utter stiffness in her neck… Realization dawned. She was trying not to gawk at him.
He stiffened. “If you want to stare, then just do it and get it over with.”
She flinched and closed her eyes for a moment. Her hand drifted to a pocket in the apron she wore over her dress and she withdrew something too small for Daman to make out. Her hand rose to her mouth and she popped something small and red onto her tongue. As she chewed, she opened her eyes, attention fixed firmly ahead.
She said nothing.
A cherry tomato? She brought food? Daman swallowed a growl. She’d probably expected him to starve her, to be some sort of monstrous beast that would relish her suffering and inflict torment on her at every opportunity.
So, show her she’s wrong. Barking at her certainly won’t disavow her of such dismal notions. Stewing in a broth of his own temper and frustration, he took a breath to muster an apology for his harsh tone. Before he could speak, Maribel came to an abrupt halt, her back stiff as a board. Daman reared back slightly as she whirled to face him. With a defiant flash in her eyes, she proceeded to look him over from head to toe.
For a moment, Daman didn’t know what to do, so he stood there, letting her look her fill. Maribel’s gaze took in every minute detail, starting from the ridges of his face and following every glittering scale down his neck and over his chest. She hesitated at his waist and Daman had an odd flash of gratitude that he’d thought to put on his armor. He had no real need for clothing in this form, especially since there was no one around to dress for. He’d only put the armor on today because he’d known he’d have visitors. And he’d expected one of them to be an enemy.
As she examined the thick coil of his tail, Daman clenched his hands into fists. Already his mind tortured him with images of the disgust that would pinch Maribel’s face at any moment, the terror that would send her running from him in tears. Like the others.
“Can I… Can I ask what you are?”
He crossed his arms, realized he looke
d defensive, and dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m a naga.”
“Oh. I’ve never heard of a…naga.” Maribel bit her lip, her gaze sliding down the length of his serpent-like lower half, taking in the bluish-green scales as thick and large as dinner plates. “Are you from Sanguenay?”
“I am from Barzakh, an island far off the shores of Dacia.”
“Oh.”
An awkward silence fell between them, their pitiful attempt at conversation gasping its dying breath. Agitation teased the skin between his shoulder blades and he fought to shrug it off. He wanted to say something more, wanted her to say something more, but it appeared neither of them knew how to keep the conversation going.
Frustrated, he surged in the direction of the manor, leaving her to follow him into the mansion and up the stairs to a long hallway that led to her room. The space was mostly bare, the curtains having been shredded and the busts of old generals smashed long ago during the worst of Daman’s rampages. The brownies had cleared away the debris, but had never attempted to replace them.
Daman kept waiting for her to say something else, ask him more questions, but she remained silent. He tried to think of something to say, anything that would break the wretched silence, but nothing would come to him. He bit back a growl. There’d been a time when conversing had been easy for him. He’d dealt with timid changelings, earned their trust, put them at ease. But apparently it had been too long. The skill had withered away.
“This will be your room,” he said finally, having given up thinking of any other conversation.
He gestured for Maribel to enter, an annoying case of nerves making his heart beat erratically as he waited to hear what she thought. The room he’d chosen for her was pristine, untouched by him or his temper. The bed was draped with thick down comforters with the winter furs folded at the foot for nights that still dreamed of winter. The wall sconces were polished until they shone even without the sunlight. Thick curtains hung on either side of the broad windows, framing the gauzy material that muted the daylight until the heavier material was drawn.
All for a Rose Page 8