by Bonnie Dee
“This is your palace?” Gwyneth asked as he put his hand to the knob and pushed open the iron-wrought door.
He glanced at her, checking her face for scorn, but neither her face nor voice betrayed what she might be thinking.
She followed him into the foyer, looking around at the carpet on the floor, the paintings on the walls, all lit by the crystals glowing in the wall sconces. He was proud that all the furnishings and decorations in his home were manufactured here in Elohim. None were scavenged at night from the world above as used to be the custom for obtaining luxuries.
Normally, Ragnorak would remove his cloak and gloves on his return from a foray into the topsiders’ land, but he found himself nervous, not ready to expose his face to Gwyneth’s stare. He paused for a moment in the hallway, then marched forward again.
“I’ll show you to your room so you may rest,” he said shortly.
Silent now, Gwyneth followed him up the staircase to the second level and to the room he had prepared for the baby—and for her. He’d commissioned it to be decorated all in blue, the color of her eyes. The child’s cradle was made of gold, its soft bedding and coverlet woven from silk manufactured right here in the underworld. There was also a golden bed, which he would’ve assigned to a wet nurse if Gwyneth had not come along with him. A wardrobe, chest of drawers, washstand and mirror completed the room’s furnishings. Likely not as elaborate as what she’d grown accustomed to, but overall he felt the room had a pleasing air.
Again he found himself looking for her reaction. He wanted her to be content here. But all he saw in Gwyneth’s face was dismay and worry. Her brow was drawn, and she rubbed the sleeping baby’s back with a nervous rhythm that betrayed her anxiety.
“Is the room not satisfactory?” He kept his tone cool, despite the stab of disappointment that shot through him.
“There are no windows. No outside light. We’re deep underground.” She stared back at him with a challenging gaze as if she could see into his eyes. “Brea can’t survive down here, and neither can I.”
She spoke to him as if he were a fool for not recognizing that obvious fact, and her easy dismissal of his world and everything he had prepared for her cut like a steel blade. Hurt feelings were a weak, human emotion—not something he had the time or patience for.
“I’m afraid you have little choice in the matter. The deal’s been made. You’re here now, and here you’ll stay. You’ll be well provided for and you will survive just fine.”
With that he withdrew from the room before he snapped and started yelling. He closed the door behind him, breathing hard as he reined in his temper. Wild emotions rolled through him like a rock slide: anger, worry, doubt, dismay, excitement, desire. He’d planned so carefully for this day but hadn’t really considered exactly how he’d deal with Gwyneth once he got her here. Or the child, for that matter.
The idea which had seemed peerless and perfect when it first dawned on him now seemed impossible and ridiculous. What was he doing? He couldn’t keep the woman and child like birds in a gilded cage. And if he did, he certainly couldn’t expect her to grow to love him. By doing this, he’d become no better than his ancestors who’d always stolen what they wanted from the people above, earning a reputation of evil and the name “demon”, “devil” or “goblin”—all with negative connotations.
But he hadn’t been able to figure out any other way to win Gwyneth or the baby he so desperately needed to be his heir. It was too late now. As he’d told her, the deal was done.
Chapter Seven
Gwyneth stared at the cold, iron door that sealed her into the rocky chamber—her bedroom. And evidently he’d known she would come with Brea. He’d intended it all along, or he wouldn’t have had an adult-sized bed set up in the room along with the cradle. What was his motivation? What did he want with her?
Light as she was, the child in her arms was growing heavy. Gwyneth’s arms ached from carrying Brea’s sleeping weight, but she didn’t want to put the baby down, to separate from her for even a moment in this dark, horrible prison.
She paced the room from wall to windowless wall, measuring the distance. Beneath her feet, a deep-piled carpet woven in swirls of blue and gold covered the stone floor. She paused by the cradle, actually a very pretty thing with its golden filigree vines and leaves. She traced a finger over the pattern and stroked the silken coverlet, but she wasn’t ready to put Brea down in it.
Instead, she crossed to the bed, a counterpart to the smaller one with the same elaborate framework of leafy vines and a matching coverlet. She sank onto the foot of the bed and laid Brea beside her on the mattress.
“What have I done to us, baby?” she murmured. “What does he intend to do to us?”
And even now, despite her fear, despair and anger at being tricked and trapped, Gwyneth could not prevent the stab of desire that shot through her as she guessed what some of his intentions for her might be.
She fell back onto the bed, arms spread wide, and gazed at the stone ceiling. The weight of thousands of tons of earth above her pressed against her chest, making her breathing short. She felt crushed by the mere idea of how deeply buried she and Brea were. How could she escape? How could she get them back to the world of air and light?
Gwyneth must have slept because her consciousness spun back to the surface from a dark dream of frightening black beasts chasing her through winding corridors. Brea had rolled against her and was wiggling and whimpering and reaching out with her tiny hands.
Against all her husband’s and attendants’ objections that it wasn’t queenly, Gwyneth had insisted on breastfeeding her child herself. Now milk was leaking from her breasts through her chemise and dampening the bodice of her dress. She sat and unlaced the front of her dress and undergarment, freeing her breast. She scooped Brea from the bed and held her close. The infant’s little rosebud mouth latched on to her engorged nipple with a hard, toothless bite and tugged.
Gwyneth gazed into her daughter’s wide blue eyes, unfocused in pleasure as she sucked hard and drank her fill. Her mind resumed scurrying the maze of thoughts that hedged her in on every side. Why did Svartan want Brea? What was his motivation in seeking Gwyneth out and helping her, only to take her child? Was this place really hell and its denizens demons? Was Svartan the Devil himself? And most importantly, how could she and Brea escape?
Perhaps it would be best to appear to capitulate rather than fight him. If he believed she’d accepted her fate, he might guard her less closely and then… Then what? Even if she could find her way back to the cavern from whence they came, how could she open the breach between the two worlds?
Hopelessness flooded her, and a tear dripped from her cheek onto Brea’s forehead, making the baby blink. Gwyneth impatiently brushed the wetness from her face. Giving in to tears would do her no good.
Brea pulled away from her breast, a trickle of milk bubbling from her mouth. She reached a hand full of wiggling fingers toward her mother’s face, and Gwyneth bent to capture the tiny digits in her mouth. She let them go with a loud smacking sound that Brea found fascinating. The baby’s eyes crinkled in delight, and she let out a burble of laughter.
Gwyneth lifted her daughter to her shoulder and patted her back until she’d forced a few bubbles out, then switched sides. Her other breast was hard and aching, the nipple tender. She grimaced when Brea took hold, but soon the pain eased as her milk went down.
“All right, what next, little girl?” she asked her child. “Will we be brave and make the best of our new home? Maybe Mama can sweet talk mean Mr. Devil Man into seeing reason and letting us go free.”
Maybe she could do more than that. Maybe she could seduce him with her body, offer herself in exchange for Brea’s freedom? After all, she still had a little leverage. Her capitulating to him sexually had not been part of the deal. If he wanted her, he would have to win her. Perhaps she could lead him step by step into a new deal, making him desire her so much he had no choice but to pay any price to have her.
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There was a perfunctory rap on the door and then it opened. A pale, white-haired woman wearing a black gown and white apron stood in the doorway. She stared at Gwyneth for only a moment before bowing.
“Madame, His Highness requests your presence for dinner. I am to escort you to the dining room.” She lifted her head and glanced at Brea, still nursing at her mother’s breast. “If you wish to change, there is a wardrobe full of gowns. I will help you and dress your hair, if you wish. And I will care for your child while you dine.”
The last thing Gwyneth wanted to do was surrender her daughter into the care of a complete stranger—especially such an odd-looking one. But she’d moved past the notion that these creatures—or people—whatever they were, would gobble up Brea or hurt her in any way. Whatever Svartan had in mind for her daughter, it was greater than that.
And so she laid down Brea, who had fallen into contented sleep on her breast, in the golden cradle and let the pale woman show her the gowns hanging in the wardrobe. She reached for one at random, intent only on removing her own wet and uncomfortable clothing that would soon begin to smell of sour milk. Then she paused. Though the fabric between her fingers was a luxuriously fine silk, it was of a dull brown color and the cut was staid and unflattering. If she was to appear desirable enough to Svartan to tempt him to another deal, she needed something rather more alluring.
Letting go of the brown dress, she instead picked up a delightful golden yellow creation with a low-cut bodice. She hoped it would remind him of their nights together spinning gold out of straw.
The pale woman nodded as though satisfied and lifted her hand to unlace Gwyneth’s damp gown.
At once, Gwyneth pulled away. “I can manage,” she said coldly. Again the woman inclined her head impassively and stood back. While Gwyneth stripped off her old clothing and redressed in fresh, clean linen and the golden silk gown, the other woman walked to the cradle and gazed down at the baby.
Gwyneth watched her warily.
“What beautiful skin she has,” the woman said warmly. “So delicate and rosy and golden…like yours.”
As the woman smiled at the sleeping baby, Gwyneth realized she wasn’t as old as she’d first believed. In fact, she couldn’t have been many years older than Gwyneth. It was just the white hair which misled her. But all the people down here seemed to look like that. No doubt Svartan did, too.
“I have a little one of my own,” the woman confided. “She’s just over a year now.” She looked up suddenly and caught Gwyneth’s unguarded gaze upon her. The woman had pale, almost colorless eyes that made it very hard to judge their expression. “He won’t hurt your baby, you know. None of us would do such a thing.”
Gwyneth was conscious of massive relief. Not so much at the pale woman’s comforting words—which merely confirmed what she already believed—but at the confession of having her own child. It made the woman and her people seem less like demons, and this whole world considerably less terrifying.
She pulled the laces of her dress tight and tied them with a neat bow. “What does he want with my baby?”
But it seemed the woman was finished with confidences. Her pale gaze fell away. “He’ll explain it to you himself. Nothing bad for her or for you. Shall I help you with your hair?”
“It’s done,” Gwyneth said, dragging the brush through it several times. Taking her at her word, the woman walked to the door, opened it and called out someone’s name. Gwyneth twisted her hair into a knot at the top of her head and held it with a long pin. She glanced at her daughter. “She’s fed and shouldn’t wake now until I return. Unless she needs changing…”
“I’ll cope,” said the woman dryly. “This is Karnak, who will take you to the king.”
A lean, willowy man in bright red velvet, with long, white hair, bowed to her. Gwyneth inclined her head. It struck her that if she was unlikely to make friends in this world, at least she didn’t need any more enemies.
“May I know your name?” she asked the woman.
“Agnet. I’m the king’s housekeeper.”
“Thank you for looking after Br…”
“Hush, don’t speak her name,” Agnet exclaimed. “You barely know me. I will gladly care for the baby until you return. Go!”
Unsure whether or not the housekeeper was laughing at her, she elected for dignity and sailed along the passage before the opulent Karnak. He fell into step beside her.
“The king will dine alone with you tonight,” he said. “But I hope to have the pleasure of better acquaintance with you tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she said faintly, for she had difficulty dragging her attention from his stunningly bright apparel. Becoming aware of silence, she glanced up and found his pale, almost white eyes glinting at her.
“You’re admiring my suit. Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“Gorgeous is the exact word I was looking for.”
Karnak grinned. “I’ve got an orange one, too. I keep trying to interest Svartan in something a bit brighter, but he will go for those somber blacks. See if you can’t make him more…”
“Gorgeous?” she suggested, and Karnak laughed. He didn’t seem remotely like a demon. “What do you do?” she asked curiously.
“I organize and arrange,” Karnak said grandly.
“Social gatherings?” Gwyneth hazarded.
“N-no. Matters of government—ventilation, food, light, drainage, meetings of the tribunal.”
Surprised, Gwyneth looked at him more closely. His frivolous clothing and conversation hadn’t led her to suspect him of anything terribly serious, let alone worthy. And some twinkle in his strange, light eyes told her he knew it. Intelligence gleamed there, too, and in the high, proud forehead. Had her observations become too superficial in her months as queen?
But then, had she ever looked below the surface? Wasn’t that how she’d been fooled by the demon, by Svartan, in the first place?
“I also have the honor,” Karnak said, “to count myself among the king’s friends.”
Was it a boast or a warning? Or just simply information? Though unlikely, perhaps, she inclined to the last.
“And here we are.” With a flourish, he threw open a door on his left and bowed for her to go in.
Gwyneth’s heart was drumming. She felt as if she was taking her life in her hands, entering here alone with the demon. Part of her wanted to stay with the amusing and likable Karnak. But if she was ever to get out of here, if she was to save Brea from a life of darkness underground, she had to speak to Svartan.
Taking a deep breath, she sailed into the room as regally as she knew how.
Svartan stood by a huge, dark-stone fireplace, his back to her as he gazed into the leaping flames. His elbow rested on the beautifully carved mantle piece. He didn’t wear his hood or his cloak, but she would have known him anywhere just from his all-black garb and by his stance, straight and still, poised and proud.
But his hair wasn’t white like everyone else’s. It was raven black and smooth, just curling over his collar. While she was still getting over the surprise of that, he turned.
Chapter Eight
Gwyneth’s hand crept to her throat. She almost forgot to breathe.
Oh, yes, this was her demon. Raven hair and white skin, stretched taut over the fine, sculpted bones of his grim face. There was nothing remotely colorless about this powerful being. Instead, there was something dramatic about the contrast of light and darkness, something undeniably handsome about the hard, proud, arrogant face.
He bowed very slightly and walked toward her.
Panic rose like a tide. Oh, dear God, no wonder he was king. No one would dare to disobey this man, this demon… How could she even imagine tricking him into releasing Brea and her? Sheer power radiated from every inch of him, every confident, graceful movement of his tall, lean body. Unmasked, there were no obvious chinks in his armor. There was no faintest softness to give her hope.
As he came to a halt in front of her and peremptorily held
out his hand, she realized what fascinated her about his fierce, compelling eyes. Not white or even pale gray. They were shiny black obsidian, as deep and fathomless as the night sky.
With a gasp of loss, she swallowed down her longing—for the overworld, for him, she no longer knew which—and forced herself to lay her hand in his. His fingers, long and thin and white, closed around it, surprisingly warm. She shuddered as memory washed over her of those same hands touching her in her most intimate places, inducing mind-numbing pleasures that she’d never known since. His gaze never left her face. She felt as if he pierced her soul, as if this was the most momentous instant of her life. And yet, when he spoke in his deep, almost sepulchral voice, his words were soothingly mundane.
“You must be hungry. Please, sit. Eat.”
Trying to pull herself together, Gwyneth became aware at last of her surroundings, which had been completely overwhelmed by the vibrant presence of her host. Though not as large or as regal as Midas’s dining halls, this was a fair-sized and comfortable room. Paintings on feasting themes hung on the white-painted walls. A long table, which could have seated twenty people, was set for two at one end: one at the head of the table, the other to the right. A cozy, friendly dinner, with several steaming dishes already laid out. Gwyneth recognized the smells of fish and poultry, onions, herbs and vegetables. As everything was here, it was overlaid by the same smoky, earthy scent she associated with Svartan, preventing her from picking out, until now, the mouth-watering food smells.
She let herself be conducted to the table, where Svartan held the chair on the right for her to sit before he took his own seat at the head of the table. It was all done without words or touching, which was a relief to her. She didn’t think she could bear the slightest physical contact. The anger and fear she felt toward him were still too confused with memory of her previous shameful surrender to his sexual advances, with everything he’d made her feel and enjoy.