by P. J. Fox
Rowena nodded sagely, as though this all made sense. “My father bathes with a scented rag,” she said.
“Very sensible,” Rudolph approved.
TWENTY-TWO
“I should go back,” Isla said.
Rudolph and Rowena had left the orchard in search of greener pastures, literally and figuratively, and Isla had seated herself in the back of an old, broken-down applecart that slouched forlornly between two gnarled trees. All of the elements together made quite a romantic bower, if Rudolph had only had a little bit more imagination.
The duke sat next to her, pose relaxed, pipe in hand. A thin curl of smoke drifted upward. Isla got the sense that she was all but superfluous and wondered what he’d be doing if she weren’t there. Probably the exact same thing—either that, or he’d be off conducting some sort of ritual human sacrifice. She wondered again if Cariad could truly be right.
“Your sister,” he said mildly, ignoring her earlier comment, “clings to rather romantic notions of virtue.”
“Pragmatic notions,” Isla corrected. More than one man had pledged marriage in order to…secure a woman’s affections. And then, after the deed was done, reneged on the contract. Lack of virtue was more than sufficient grounds and once that particular wall had been breached, who was to say that he’d been the first?
Tristan laughed again. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “You’re fortunate, living here in the country.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ve never been to the capital.”
“No,” Isla said, confirming his statement. “Never been out of Ewesdale.” Which she resented admitting to this far more sophisticated man, who’d not only been all over the kingdom but all over the world. His travels to the East were the stuff of ballads, and discussed widely all over Morven. His theories about the natural world, his belief that churches and medical colleges should be separate entities, even his suggestion once that a male physician committed no sin by laying hands on his female patient made for wild gossip and speculation. That the duke was a heretic was undisputed, as was the fact that the church couldn’t touch him, because he was too powerful. But if Piers ever lost the throne….
“The streets are close together, some only a few paces wide. Many never see the light of day, because the houses and shops that line them touch overhead. Some do so on purpose, the rooms linked by connecting passages or sometimes one large gallery that overlooks the street and which windows provide entertainment for the women inside while they sew. Some, however, have failed over time to the point where they topple into one another and poise there, extended over the street, leaning on each other for support until such time as they inevitably collapse and kill everyone below.
“Even in winter, the stench is unbearable. In summer, those with the means leave altogether or risk plague—or worse. The streets run with urine and feces to the point where the gutters overflow. The broader, more well-traveled streets look like your Enzie Brook: a turbid stream of opaque brown water populated by frogs and other, mercifully less identifiable creatures.”
“Oh,” Isla said, trying not to gag.
“Butchers slaughter animals in the streets, leaving the unusable bits on the ground along with the blood.”
“You make it sound so charming,” she managed.
He smiled, then, a faint ghost of a thing but there—and then gone just as quickly, as though it had never been. She found his expressions curiously hard to interpret. Most of the time, they were unreadable. Even when he smiled, she wasn’t quite sure what the action signified.
He wasn’t, she conceded to herself, a bad looking man. Most women would—and did, judging by the servants’ reactions—consider him handsome. Beautiful, even. The problem was that looking at him was like looking at a glacier: part of its beauty lay in its utter indifference. A glacier was so much bigger, and more impressive, than a mere human being. And like the snow on the mountaintops and the black, skeletal outlines of the pine trees, Tristan’s beauty had an inhuman quality to it. The glacier didn’t care if a man died on its slopes. He was just so cold….
His black eyes regarded her with interest. “You look like the child from the story, Bronwen.” Bronwen, whose name meant white. Rowena had said the same thing and in both cases the comparison made Isla uncomfortable. She felt most comfortable when no one noticed her at all.
“The prince was a necrophiliac.” Her tone was caustic, to cover her discomfiture. And besides, he was. Why women found that particular story romantic, Isla had no idea. Poor Bronwen lay dead, on her bier, when the prince rode up. And then fell instantly in love with her corpse! And spirited it off! That she happened to come back to life may have been, in the end, a disappointment to him.
“And I,” Tristan pointed out, “am a necromancer.”
Isla felt a thrill of fear. What was he telling her? She wrapped her arms about her knees, wishing more than anything to be elsewhere. To be inside, in front of a roaring fire and people, other people. She was suddenly, horribly aware of how alone out here she truly was. No one would hear her scream and, even if they did, no one could possibly come quickly enough.
“I…” she trailed off. I want to go home, she thought miserably.
“It was your father who proffered Rowena,” he said, surprising her. After his last statement, she’d been preparing for him to rend her into shreds. Or worse. But instead he kept talking and smoking his pipe. “Imagining her, no doubt, to be the more desirable of the two on offer. But you are…more my taste.”
Isla licked her lips slightly. Taste? What…kind of taste?
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said. He’d said as much before and then, as now, Isla thought that he was mocking her. She wasn’t beautiful. “It’s true,” he repeated, as if reading her thoughts—which he hadn’t, of course, such things were impossible. “I have my pick of beautiful women, I know the difference. Strangely enough, they flock to me. Nothing draws a woman on like indifference,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction that Rowena had taken. So Tristan, too, suspected Rudolph of being somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.
“I’ve experienced enough indifference to last me a lifetime,” Isla said coldly.
She hated how miniscule, how unimportant, how confused he made her feel. Since meeting him she’d told herself repeatedly that this time she’d guard her tongue, that this time she wouldn’t let her true opinions slip. And yet, every time, she found herself too overcome with thoughts and feelings she didn’t understand to hold back. He made her so angry and so frightened and so—oh! She didn’t even know. All she knew was that she hated him with a passion, this, this creature that was currently leaning against the rotted wood and regarding her languidly through half-closed eyes.
She could well believe, seeing him now, that he was a demon. Although part of her still knew, of course, that demons didn’t exist—no more than werewolves existed. Isla was a rational woman, the product of a rational world. And she was furious. Really and truly furious.
Which was why, in retrospect, she guessed that she made her mistake.
“Speaking of inappropriate relationships,” she added, the acidic bite to her words belying their light tone, “you’re awfully well preserved for fourteen decades.”
She’d expected—she didn’t know what she’d expected, but not the reaction she got.
He moved like lightning, his clawed hand fastening on her throat as he knocked her back into the bed of the cart. She gasped as he knocked the breath out of her, her mouth opening and closing like that of a landed fish. His eyes glinted in the almost moonless night, like embers at the bottom of a fire. Banked, but with the potential to explode into total destruction.
She swallowed carefully. He hadn’t cut off her air, but only just.
“So,” he hissed, “I see we have been learning new things.”
His eyes locked on hers. She tried to turn her head, to look away, but couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all. She felt her will drain from her, the muscles of he
r jaw going slack as she lost herself in those twin pools of night. Some vague part of her cried out, but she paid it no attention. She had the sensation of having forgotten something important and then that, too, was gone. She laid there, slack and boneless, one clawed hand still around her throat and the other cradling the back of her head. She felt a strange lassitude in her limbs, almost a tingling sensation, that was both unpleasant and pleasant at the same time.
Her last coherent thought was that she was going to die now, but she found that she wasn’t quite able to summon up the despair she no doubt should have felt. Because she couldn’t feel anything at all—or figure out why she should want to, for that matter. He began to speak again, then, and she noticed abstractedly that his canines were sharper than she’d first thought.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
And she did.
About researching his lineage, about going to see Cariad and asking her for help. About trying to weasel out of the contract, now that she’d willingly entered into it. She talked and talked, unwilling to share this much information but unable to stop herself. This, some small, still-sentient part of her reflected, was what the gourd must feel like when it was hollowed out with a steel scoop.
“And what do you intend to do with this knowledge?” he asked in his odd, rasping tone.
“Find out if demons really exist,” she whispered.
“And?”
“And I want there to be more to the world.”
Since she could remember, Isla had longed for adventure—for something. The world around her was so boring, so devoid of wonder. She used to sit in the fields, before she was old enough that she was expected to work and even after, and imagine that she could see a mysterious gateway opening up at the edge of the grove, a mysterious gateway to another world. Like the world she heard about in fairytales. A world where enchantment and excitement actually existed. Not like here, where everything smelled and the brewer wouldn’t stop shouting at her husband.
“Do you find me attractive?” he asked.
“Yes,” she faltered, “but I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid of you,” she whispered. Afraid wasn’t the right word. She’d have been worried that she’d wet herself, if she’d been capable of worrying at all. Her terror was that acute. “I just…you’re educated and sophisticated and I’ve never met anyone like you and I think your eyes are nice even though I hate you and please don’t disembowel me.”
“Are you afraid of me because I’m a demon?”
“No.” The word was barely audible. “Because you’re a man.”
He sat back, and the spell was broken. She pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning against the side of the cart. She’d never felt so nauseous, and thought she might vomit. But at that point, she felt too traumatized and…violated to care. At that point he could have said or done anything and she wouldn’t have cared. A troupe of elephants from the east could have marched through the orchard while their handlers blew trumpets and she wouldn’t have cared. She leaned her cheek against the wood. It felt cool on her overheated skin, and smelled of mold.
She’d admitted the awful truth, to him if not to herself: she did find this hateful, horrible creature attractive. But she doubted, especially after this, that she’d ever enjoy that…sort of thing with him. She found him more revolting than ever. She could still feel his hands on the back of her head, around her throat. She choked back a sob.
Gradually, she became aware of how undignified she looked. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she straightened up and tried to pull herself into some kind of order. He’d resumed his previous position. Indeed, he looked like he’d never moved at all. He must have, at some point, refilled his pipe, because smoke once again curled up into the night. He seemed both relaxed and amused, well aware of her plight but not the least bit interested in it. She wondered how much time had passed and, glancing up at the moon, saw with a bone-deep shock that she’d been here for hours—at least.
“I have business to transact further west,” he said. “I’m leaving at dawn and will be gone for several days.”
She didn’t respond. She devoutly hoped that he left and never came back.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said.
“I can get home on my own, thank you.”
“No you can’t.” There was an edge to his voice. Gracefully, he stood. He held out his hand. She stared at it. He was perfectly capable of making her do whatever he pleased, he’d proved that much tonight. As much as she didn’t want to touch him, if she had to do so then she’d rather it be under her own power. That the decision be hers.
She couldn’t shake the scummy, indescribably awful feeling of having been invaded. If she’d been pressed to describe it, she couldn’t have. There were no words in her vocabulary for what had happened. She’d been aware of what was happening, and unable to stop it, and then she hadn’t wanted to stop it. The—possession, for lack of a better term—had after a point become almost pleasant. Like sinking into a tub of warm water.
She stumbled a little, and he caught her. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped, feeling beyond hopeless. “I hate you.”
“That is irrelevant,” he replied, using his arm to support her.
“And….” She didn’t finish her thought, only wished she were elsewhere.
“Why?” he asked. This time, he seemed genuinely interested.
“Because,” she wailed, “I never thought of myself as a weak-minded person and I never thought—”
He stopped, and turned her to face him. “You’re not weak-minded,” he told her. “I wasn’t, either, when I…became what I am. The issue isn’t one of weakness, Isla, but of relative strengths. Every creature, however strong, is weak compared to something, as you correctly pointed out earlier. There is always something further up the food chain, even if that something is only the void of space.”
“I don’t…understand you,” she said. “But you are…?”
“Say it.”
“You are…a demon? I mean, not…a man?”
His face was a mask, but she thought she saw humor there. Humor as well as—something darker. Less pleasant. Haunted, even. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“And you’re not…?” She remembered, again, what Cariad had said.
Tristan, seeming to sense her thoughts, thought for a moment before responding. “I’ve been a man far longer than most men, darling, and have some practice at the art. As to how I came to inhabit my current form, it’s a sad tale.” His tone was blasé, almost dismissive. “Remind me to tell you, sometime.” And then, still gazing down at her, his eyes darkened. “I’m far older than you can conceive, but I am a man, and have a man’s needs.”
“…Needs?” She stepped back slightly, stumbled again, and he caught her.
Stars flashed before her eyes, and the field around her whirled. This had all been too much—this night, this week, this life. Isla wanted to retch, wanted to scream, wanted to escape.
She fainted.
TWENTY-THREE
Isla awoke in her own bed to find Rowena sitting on the edge of the coverlet.
Her sister’s eyes were wide. She’d obviously been there for some time, waiting for some sign that Isla was waking up. The bed’s heavy curtains were drawn back and, squinting, Isla turned her face toward the room’s single window. Strong afternoon sunlight poured in. Her cat, Mica, lay sprawled in the brightly colored patch on the tiles.
She tried to sit up, failed, and flopped back against the pillows. “What…?” And then, “the duke—”
“Oh”—Rowena made a dismissive gesture—”he left hours ago. Something about business, or some such.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I listened in at the door to father’s study, and I heard him, the duke, I mean, explain that you’d had a difficult night and should be let sleep. And of course father is in terror of refusing him anything so he agreed. You missed Father Justin’s special mass!” Rowena didn
’t like Father Justin any more than Isla did, and her supposed reproach was laced with heavy irony. “But don’t worry,” she consoled Isla, just as disingenuously, “he’s giving another one tomorrow.”
Rubbing her temples, Isla sat up. She remembered very little of the night’s events after she fainted. She couldn’t believe that she’d slept so late. That she hadn’t come back to her room until almost dawn had nothing to do with it. There must be something wrong with her, she decided, some residual effect of—of what had happened.
Thinking of it now brought a shiver, which Rowena misinterpreted. “So?” she asked.
“So what?” Isla countered, not understanding.
“Did you…sleep with him?”
“No,” Isla said, but without much conviction. What had happened had been quite a bit more intimate. Or so she imagined, given the limited experience on which she had to draw. The joining of bodies was one thing; the joining of minds quite another. She felt raped. Violated. And strangely…curious. She knew more about him, now, too. She knew that he wasn’t human, and what others interpreted as evil was merely his total lack of regard for—or interest in—their point of view. He was no more evil than a sword or a mountain lion or a mandrake root. He just was.
And she could still feel the faint impression of his hand on the back of her head, and smell his tobacco and his cologne and all the other scents that, together, she’d come to associate with him. Leather and wool and horses and the woodsy, watery scent of the outdoors.
After she’d fainted, he’d picked her up and carried her back to the manor. He hadn’t spoken and neither had she. She drifted in and out of consciousness, not so much truly fainting as too overwhelmed to function. She’d lain prone with her face pressed into his chest and he’d carried her as easily as if she’d been a small child.