Ghosts in the Snow

by Tamara S Jones

  One eyebrow rose and he grinned. "AH right." He kissed her, holding her close, and whispered against her lips, "May I caress your breasts, my love, just for a moment?"

  Trembling but not afraid, she nodded, whispering her answer into his mouth. "Just for a moment, yes."

  She felt the warmth of his hand through her dress and they sighed one breath as he gently explored her.

  Something outside crashed, and Bostra yelped in surprise. Risley pulled his hand away and lifted his head, listening. Another crash slammed against the wall and Nella gasped. Angry voices filled the air, calling for blood, their ire punctuated by destruction and noise. He left her, covering her before he ran to the locked door. "What is it?" he called over the din. "Bostra?"

  The door burst open without warning, knocking him back to skid on his backside across the floor. Furious people fell upon him with a vengeance, screeching and clawing and trying to rip him limb from limb.

  "No!" Nella screamed. She flew from the divan, tripping over the blanket, and she struggled to stand. She had not yet regained her footing when a lady hit her across the face with a broken bit of board. She fell again, gasping and spitting blood, and she reached for Risley's struggling arm. "Don't go!" she wailed, crawling forward. "Don't take him from me."

  Their hands locked, his flailing from beneath the pummeling assault, hers shuddering from the board's staggering blows on her back, and she collapsed, falling face first to the floor.

  As if her grip had held him there, he slipped away, gone with the screaming mob, and the lady stood over her, sneering. "This is all your fault, bitch," she snarled, slamming the board against Nella's head.

  Risley disappeared from Nella's sight and everything fell black.

  * * *

  Dien, Lars, and Otlee ran well ahead, while Dubric struggled to keep up. The ghosts tugged at him, making him stumble in his fatigue and pain, but he remained near enough to see his men try in vain to halt the riotous spread.

  Destruction and madness surged through the halls and charged up the main stairs. Dubric gasped and grunted, following the noise toward his suite. A screaming woman fell down the stairs with her right arm cut off and spurting blood. He let her fall. Staggering, he dragged his aching body to the third floor, only to witness the crowd surging back toward him.

  "Hang him, hang him!" they chanted, knocking Dubric aside as they passed. He glimpsed Risley in the midst of the crowd, carried limp and battered. He saw Bostra fighting at the rear of the crazed group with his forehead split open. Bostra struggled to reach Risley, but the crowd heaved him back again and again like a bad potato. Dien, Lars, and Otlee were nowhere to be seen.

  The ghosts laughed and Elli threw Rianne's severed arm into the frenzy. Dragging Risley with them, the crowd thundered down the stairs, growing ever louder with each passing moment.

  Dubric staggered to his feet, using the wall as leverage, and he tottered for a moment before taking a step toward the retreating crowd. Where is Nella? he thought, his vision darkening for a moment. Surely she would follow Risley…

  He stopped. The rioters knew Risley was in his suite. Someone had told them. The killer knew Risley had been released, and the killer had written of politics, hinting he knew about the threat from Haenpar.

  "But no one knew Bostra was here," he said aloud in the empty hallway. "None but us four, Risley, and Nella." He tried to remember the faces of the patrons of the Dancing Sheep, but, dammit, Bostra had remained covered, he never showed his face. No one knew, not a single soul outside his little circle. Even the note had been delivered sealed.

  He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out the rumpled bit of parchment, wincing at the flecks of green wax that crumbled, falling to dust his boots. Green wax. Faldorrahn-green. Not Haenparan-blue.

  All his ghosts stopped their cavorting to stare at him.

  Beckwith had delivered the note from Bostra. Beckwith, the herald, always ready with a stub of wax to seal—or reseal—a message. He read the note; he knew where to find Risley. Small things, things Dubric had not noticed at the time, suddenly came back to him. Beckwith had heard him argue with Risley the day the package arrived, and had heard Risley's exact phraseology. He could have known what to put in the letter to sound like Risley. Beckwith's wife held the key to the china cabinet and he had free access to Brushgar's papers. Dubric shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Risley had denied that he had been given a razor, but Dubric had believed Beckwith's account of the delivery. What if it had been Beckwith who was lying? He hated Risley. Dubric suddenly remembered Lars's report of the scuffle between the two men. Beckwith had had the opportunity to kill Meiks and Nansy, yet had neatly eliminated himself as a suspect with the presence of a head wound, one just like Nella's. But the wound had been in back while Nansy was attacked from the front.

  Why did I not see the connections before? How could I have been so blind? Beckwith's own wife testified about him desiring young, pretty women, but I dismissed the connection, seeing only his foppish demeanor and mincing attitudes.

  His throat went dry as he thought of the common thread that had led him to Risley. Nella. She cleaned for the Beckwiths; he had often seen the herald tittering over her, wanting her to scrub doilies and polish trinkets or asking about Risley… "No!" Dubric howled, staggering toward his suite. "Nella!"

  No more ghosts, he pleaded with himself. Please get there in time, so there will be no more ghosts.

  * * *

  Nella blinked away the black haze of pain and tried to raise her throbbing head. She tasted blood, and spat, which made her head swim alarmingly, but she grimaced and opened her eyes anyway. J have to get to Risley, she thought, struggling to get her legs beneath her. I have to save him.

  Someone else was in the room with her; she could sense them, hear their breathing and a low delighted chuckle. A man.

  "Dubric?" she asked, crawling forward, still unable to see clearly. The world shimmied and spun, flapping like a flag in a strong wind.

  "Not Dubric," the voice rasped. A terrifyingly familiar metallic click filled her ears. "Are you ripe yet, little girl? Have I let you marinate long enough? Are you ready for me?"

  Squealing, she scuttled away, slamming against the divan and trying desperately to see, to make sense of the wavering view.

  No one was there. The room settled to a slow ripple and she rubbed her eyes. The chairs, the bookshelves, the etched glass lamp shattered on the floor. Curtains brightened by a daytime sky. The same room she had spent the last few bells in. Cluttered, ransacked, and perhaps broken, but the same room, and she was alone in it. And yet she wasn't.

  "Are you going to answer me, little girl?" he asked, closer this time.

  She drew her feet beneath her hips and pressed herself against the divan. "Where are you? Who are you?" She smelled blood, but saw nothing, nothing but the room.

  "What's this?" the voice said, and someone grasped her arm and wrenched her to her feet. The bracelet spun on her wrist, turned by his scalding touch. "What a lovely little trinket."

  "Risley made it for me," she said, her voice faltering.

  He hit her across the mouth and sent her reeling onto the divan. "We shall not speak of him again, little girl. It has taken me many days and much planning, but your Lord Romlin is finally dead."

  Cold stinking metal slid across her throat and she shied away. "Why?" she whispered, shoving her voice through her trembling throat. "Why blame all this on him? Why do this to me?"

  The thing she could not see hissed and said, "The moment I saw you I wanted you for my own, but Risley already had your heart in his hand when he brought you here. You couldn't see, could you? How I longed for the briefest words, the most innocent touch. All you saw, all you wanted, was that beast who would tire of you and toss you aside like last week's moldy soup. He didn't deserve you, and any man who would leave his rooms open and unlocked was just begging to take the blame for my cleansing."

  His blade traced meandering patterns across her throa
t. "I could remove two obstacles at once, give Dubric a handy and plausible suspect and free you for the taking, all the while preparing myself for our union.

  "They were no more than a pox upon the land, with their tainted flesh and lewd ways. But you! Perfect, pristine, and lovely. Risley didn't deserve you."

  He laughed and pulled her upright, sitting her on the divan while keeping the blade at her throat. "But I do. I want you. I love you. I made myself virginal again, just for you!"

  Her chest heaved and she clenched her fists against the divan cushions. "You killed those innocent women!"

  "They were not 'innocent'!" he snarled, the blade moving downward to slice the flesh along her collarbone. "They were vile and filthy whores. All but the last, but I needed her gift to make me ready for you. Can't you see? And you and I, we are meant to be together."

  She whimpered, scrunching her eyes closed. "No, please. Don't hurt me."

  Lander Beckwith appeared from nowhere, pulling back the hood of his cloak and easing from the empty air like a wraith. Nella screamed, trying to scramble away from the apparition, but she had nowhere to go. Wildly, she searched the room, looking for something to use as a weapon against him, and she noticed Risley's sword leaning in the corner, right where he'd left it. Struggling to control her terror, she swallowed and returned her attention to the ghostly image of Beckwith.

  "Shh, my darling. I'm not going to harm you." He knelt before her, grinning and becoming solid as he completely pulled back his hood. Blood smeared his teeth and chin, and had dried upon his hands, turning the edges of his fingernails nearly black. She saw a bit of dark meat between two of his teeth and her stomach roiled. He leered at her and traced the blunt edge of his razor up her thigh. "I've aged you to perfection and you're mine now."

  She stifled a scream and stared at him, panting and struggling to remain calm as the razor dragged across her belly.

  He pulled the blade away, slowly, and she saw layers upon layers of dried and blackened blood on the blade and the handle, coating but not obscuring Risley's gilded name. The razor looked and smelled like death and damnation. "That's my girl," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you, not if you cooperate."

  "That's… that's Risley's."

  He laughed, licking his lips. " 'Risley's'? Goodness, no. He never knew about it, never missed it. It fit my purpose so well and gave me a bit of well-deserved finery. I must admit that I was surprised when Dubric discovered its disappearance, though. The old bastard was smarter than I thought, but not smart enough, was he? He looked right at me yet never saw the truth. No one suspects a lowly messenger, especially one so clean."

  She stared at him, her heart thudding a staccato of terror, but she said nothing.

  He showed her the razor, closed it and put it away, his eyes never leaving hers. "See? I've put it away. Stand up."

  She shook her head, but he grabbed her by the throat and pulled her off the divan. "Never, ever disagree with me. Do you understand?"

  She tried to speak but could get no more than a squawk past his grip.

  "So pretty, so fine, so mine," he laughed, looking into her eyes. "I've waited a long time to touch you, but at last my plans have reached fruition." He grinned and kissed her, the taste of death filling her mouth as his lips burned against hers. She froze, mewling, and the pressure at her throat faded away.

  She fell back, onto the divan, and sucked painful gasps of air through her throat. "How could you have… have killed all those people?" she asked, spitting away the rotting taste in her mouth. "You were always such a nice man. I trusted you! We all trusted you! You have a family, for Goddess's sake!"

  He laughed, yanking her to her feet again. "Power belongs to those who take it, not to the meek. I am meek no more." He wiped the smear of blood from her collarbone and licked his finger clean. "You, my darling, are luscious enough to eat. Let's have us another kiss, shall we? And then we'll see what other tasty treats our love can find."

  She took a step back, her hands balling into fists. "Never. I'll never love you, you filthy, disgusting beast!"

  Snarling, he tossed her on the bed and lunged for her. "Mouthy little bitch! And here, after all that I've done, you dare to question me? We're perfect for each other, both of us clean and pure, both of us at the precipice of our destiny. You'll be begging for more before we're through, you'll see. You'll be so happy that you're mine."

  Slamming her onto the mattress despite her struggles, he kissed her, his mouth and breath reeking of death. She fought, biting and kicking, until she felt the hated blade against her throat again, then she fell still.

  "That arrogant bastard did teach you to like it rough. I should have known he'd steal my prize away." Foamy spittle collected at the corners of his mouth as he clawed up her skirt. "I should have killed him when I had the chance."

  "We never!" she screamed. "He's never touched me. Please!"

  He shoved her knees apart, pinning her to the bed with his weight on her hips and the razor at her throat, and he grinned, kissing her again. "Then I get the first taste, after all."

  Her eyes widened as a shining sword appeared beneath his jaw. "Get off her," Dubric said, "before I save the executioner the trouble of removing your head."

  Beckwith laughed and rolled slowly backward until his weight rested on his knees instead of her hips. "Will you?" he asked.

  "Are you all right, Miss Nella?" Dubric asked.

  Nodding, she scrambled away and pressed herself into the far corner.

  "Get up. Slowly," he said to Beckwith, glancing at the blood spattering Beckwith's face and hands. "Drop the razor on the floor. Now."

  "Certainly," Beckwith said, then moved in a sudden lurch, swinging his arm beneath Dubric's sword.

  Dubric yelped, stumbling back, and Beckwith grinned. He rose from the bed and stood. "My Lord Castellan," he said, moving toward Dubric and reaching for the hood of his cloak, "I do believe you're bleeding."

  And then he disappeared.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lars fought near the temple hall, shoving a kitchen lackey face first against the wall. "I said that's enough!" Blood flowed freely down his right arm and he wrenched the offending knife out of the boy's hands. Behind him, an archer named Almund tussled with a pair of scullery maids screaming filthy insults.

  "I ain't scared a you," the boy yelped, struggling.

  "You ought to be," Lars snapped, pulling the boy off the wall and slamming him into it again. He glanced around. The worst of the riot had moved away, but remnants of anger still brewed in the halls. Men, women, and children ran to and fro, most just trying to get away, but a few continued to cause trouble. One, a leather worker named Earst, swung a flaming torch like a club. Helplessly, Lars watched him light a fleeing privy maid afire.

  Earst looked Lars's way, his eyes glowing red in the reflected light of the torch. "I'm gonna see you burn, page," he snarled.

  Lars turned, instinctively yanking the lackey in front of him, and the boy's filthy, grease-spattered tunic burst into flames. The boy screamed and Lars shoved him away as Earst pulled the torch back for another swing. Lars threw the lackey's knife and it embedded in Earst's upper chest.

  Earst yanked the knife free and snarled, "You'll pay for that."

  Lars stumbled back and pulled his sword, but Earst slumped to the floor like a burst sack of flour as his right arm and shoulder separated from the rest of him.

  Bacstair the Baker stood there, bloody sword clenched in his blood-spattered hands. "Where's my son?" he asked, stepping over the body. "Where's my Otlee?"

  Lars tilted his head toward the temple and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder as he desperately patted out the lackey's fire. "Sounding the alarm."

  Bacstair nodded and ran past, slamming the sword into whoever or whatever got in his way. Almund clonked the two scullery maids together and both finally fell limp. Near the north-hall entrance, Dien flipped a nobleman headfirst against the wall, then shoved aside a caterwauling seamstress.


  The lackey's fire out, Lars clenched his sword in his hands and ran forward to help Dien and the archers. He smelled smoke and hoped it was just the privy maid or the lackey.

  Where's Dubric? Where's my father? he thought, pressing through the chaos.

  "Lars! Behind you," he heard Otlee scream.

  Even as he elbowed away a screeching window maid, Lars turned, sword in hand, shallowly slicing open the belly of a weaver wielding a pair of brass candlesticks. Before the weaver slumped to the floor, he turned the sword and clubbed the maid's head with it. She dutifully fell at his feet and he stepped over her without a second thought.

  Just ahead of him, Dien struggled with four swineherders. Lars hamstrung one and grabbed another by the collar, yanking him aside, toward Bacstair and Otlee.

  Dien snarled and ducked, flipping one over his back as he reached for the next.

  "You all right, pup?" Dien asked, drawing a breath before knocking a swineherder against the wall hard enough to crack his skull.

  "I'll live," Lars said. The throbbing pain in his shoulder had all but disappeared, but so had much of the strength in that arm. His blasted sword arm. He stepped over the man on the floor and a swineherder howled as Bacstair cleaved off his hand.

  Perfume tickled Lars's nose and he sneezed. It seemed so close, like a great aunt suffocating him in a hug, but he stood in a pocket of relative quiet. Something cool grasped his free hand and started to lead him forward. He felt like he was fading into the welcoming chill, like stepping into a pool of cloudy water, and he saw a hazy shape of a woman, a lady, beckoning him to hurry. Bluish and nearly transparent, she looked to him with great sadness and riveting urgency.

  One of Dubric's ghosts? Goddess, how can I see her? How can I feel her? Who is she? What does she want with me?

  "Lars!" Dien said, shaking him. The big man held his face and peered into his eyes while madness careened around them. "You get bashed on the head? That arm wound worse than it looks?"

  Startled, Lars blinked as the haziness surrounding him vanished, but he still felt the gentle pull on his left hand. "No, I'm fine, really."