Larissa cleared her throat. “Is your chef named Jean, owner of the Two Hares Inn?” she asked.
“Why, yes, he did run an inn before he got that bone stuck in his throat,” Misroi replied with his mouth full. “If you knew him, then you know this is good. Death hasn’t interfered with his talent. Eat.” He gestured toward her plate with his knife, then sliced off another bite.
Larissa stared mutely across the table at Misroi. He continued to eat with palpable enjoyment, not in the least discomfited by the thought that his meal had been prepared by a corpse. She put her napkin down on the table with a trembling hand and eased her chair back.
“I’m not hungry anymore.” She rose and left, heartsick.
She had almost made it to the stairs when her host seized her elbow in a hard grip. “That was rude, my dear. You haven’t been excused.”
Disgusted by him, Larissa jerked her arm away. He spun her around to face him, and an answering anger smoldered in his blue eyes. “Don’t push me, pretty dancer. You keep your life at my whim or lose it that way. Since you refuse to dine with me, perhaps you will dance.”
Seizing her hand firmly in his, he pulled her back into the main hallway, shoving open a pair of double doors at the far end. They passed the mirror that had so startled Larissa when she first entered Maison de la Détresse, and again her eyes leaped to follow the movement.
Hauling her with him, Misroi entered what remained of a glorious ballroom. The painted walls were dingy and chipped, and the harpsichord that stood like a forgotten toy in the corner looked as though it hadn’t felt the touch of a hand in decades.
“Play,” Misroi shouted, and at once a tinny melody arose from the instrument. Larissa was jerked tight against the zombie lord’s chest. His right hand seized her left in a hard grasp while his other arm snaked around her slim waist. Automatically she reached down with her right hand to lift her skirt out of the way of her feet. Larissa raised her head and met Misroi’s approving glance.
“So, you do know how to waltz.” His grasp on her relaxed somewhat. “I have not waltzed in a long time. For now, let us enjoy the music and call a temporary truce, hmm?”
The tune was sweet, and Misroi was an excellent dancer. Although Larissa never relaxed her guard, she followed his lead easily and gracefully. After a time, she asked boldly, “Is this the Dance of the Dead you were so anxious to teach me, Lord Misroi?”
The thought amused him tremendously, and he let out a laugh that echoed in the large, empty room. “Anton. No, pretty dancer, this is purely for my own enjoyment. The lessons will come later. Tonight—” he smiled down at her “—we simply dance.”
* * * * *
The next morning, as she had been instructed, Larissa met Misroi at the stables. She wore the outfit that had been left on her bed the night before—riding breeches, a blouse, boots, and a cloak. The dancer had wondered briefly as she dressed how the zombie master knew her sizes, but decided that she really didn’t wish to know.
The earth underneath her boots was wet from yesterday’s rain. The sun shone brightly, warming the thick, humid air. The unpleasant scents were stronger in the rainy weather, and Larissa wrinkled her nose as she walked along the gravel path toward the stables.
Like the house, the stables were neglected. The horses, however, seemed to be alert enough. A small roan mare was tethered to a post in the cobblestone courtyard, and a zombie servant was mechanically grooming the beast. Larissa was glad that this one, unlike the ones that had pulled the carriage, was alive.
A clopping sound caused Larissa to turn, and she saw Misroi leading a huge black stallion. The beast looked tired, as if it had recently been ridden hard and put away wet. Its great black head drooped as the beast slowly followed Misroi, the nose almost brushing the ground.
“Good morning, Larissa,” the master of Maison de la Détresse greeted his guest. “I trust you slept well?”
She managed a wan smile. In truth, she had lain awake for hours, wondering who had last been in the canopied bed and whether she would be safe from midnight intruders—living or dead. Larissa had kept a candle burning beside her bed and had been unpleasantly startled when she woke after a few fitful hours of sleep to discover that the candle had been removed.
The dancer’s dreams had been punctured with nightmares, peopled with the dead and the dying. Larissa’s drowsing mind had cast herself as the murderer. She had destroyed La Demoiselle as she had destroyed the tree in the clearing, only this time, she had thrown back her head and laughed with savage pleasure.
She answered her host’s question politely. “As well as could be expected, Lor—Anton.”
“I trust you do ride?”
“A little.” Very little, she thought to herself.
The beast was saddled and bridled, ready to go, and Misroi mounted the stallion with a smooth, easy movement. He reached down to Larissa and swung her up, onto the saddle in front of him. “Today, my dear, you shall ride more than a little. Come, Incubus!”
Without warning, he whipped the horse smartly with his riding crop, and the weary beast surprised her by leaping into a gallop.
Larissa almost lost her seat but twined her fingers into the horse’s coarse mane and hung on grimly. Incubus settled into his stride and tore down the road like the creature he was named for. Abruptly, harshly, Misroi yanked the beast’s head to the right, and Incubus leaped off the road into one of the fields. It was fallow, and the horse’s hooves sent chunks of wet mud flying.
“Feel his power, Larissa,” Misroi hissed in her ear. “All that strength, and it obeys me.”
He struck the horse again, and Incubus surged forward even faster. Froth from his jaws spattered Larissa’s cheek, and the mane was beginning to grow damp with sweat.
“It’s exciting, isn’t it, to think of all that power under your control,” Misroi continued, his voice growing tauter. He again whipped the horse with the crop. Incubus tossed his midnight head in pain.
Larissa’s breathing came in shallow gasps as she crouched low over the neck of the beast. She smelled the musk of Incubus’s sweat. She knew Misroi was pushing the stallion hard, too hard, and that the savage beating was probably drawing blood. Part of her raged at the unnecessary cruelty, but Misroi was right—the wild ride was exciting, and her own heart was pounding madly.
She gasped as a felled tree loomed ahead, directly in Incubus’s path. With a grunt, the horse gathered himself and sailed easily over the obstacle, touching lightly down and barely breaking stride. Larissa heard herself laughing, and a calm part of her mind noted it as a shrill, cruel sound.
Crack, came the sound of the riding crop. Crack. Crack.
Again Misroi jerked hard on the bit, yanking the steed’s head around and sending him off in a new direction. This time, Larissa could see that the foam on Incubus’s jaws was pink with blood and the brown eyes were rolling madly. His adrenaline-sparked stride faltered. He had no more to give his master.
Still Misroi pushed, and Larissa hung on, filled with a savage excitement mixed with horror. Crack.
Incubus uttered a low, shuddering groan as his heart exploded. The stallion dropped to his front knees, and Misroi grabbed Larissa and pulled them both clear as Incubus rolled over heavily. Larissa was shaking and gasping for breath. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, mixing with rivulets of sweat.
“You killed him!” she shrieked, staring in sick grief at the body of the black stallion. She could see slick patches of dark blood on Incubus’s flanks where the crop had struck.
Misroi, on the other hand, seemed exultant. “We killed him! You were as intoxicated with the speed and power as I was, Larissa, and you cannot tell me otherwise. Not one word of protest did you raise, nor a hint of condemnation breathe.”
Pain wrenched Larissa’s heart as guilt flooded her. Misroi was right. He flung himself to his knees beside her in the mud, and there was a feverish fire in his eyes. He grabbed her shoulders.
“You’re just like me, L
arissa. We’re kindred spirits, you and I. I thought so when I first met you, when I realized that I could teach you the Dance of the Dead. Now I’m sure of it. Look at the sort of things we can do!”
Heedless of the mud, Misroi scrambled to where Incubus lay. He seized the horse’s huge head in his hands, smoothing the wet mane back from the forehead. He pressed his cheek to the beast’s face and closed his eyes.
Incubus twitched. With a rough whinny, he jerked his head from Misroi’s grasp. He stumbled a little, but got stiffly to his feet. Misroi turned to Larissa, triumph burning in his eyes.
“You see? Nothing is lost to us! Incubus is dead, but he still runs for me. Your foolish Maiden, insisting on working with the forces of nature—bah! That is too little for us. We can be the forces of nature, of death—and undeath.”
Larissa stared at him. “You’re a monster,” she whispered.
Misroi smiled, showing white teeth. “We all are, pretty dancer. Deep down inside all of us, there’s a monster. Some spend their lives trying to fight it. They fail. Some coexist unhappily with their beast. They are miserable.” He dragged her to her feet and grabbed her shoulders. “Larissa,” he purred, “you and I celebrate it.”
Larissa placed her hands on Misroi’s chest and tried to push him away. “No, you’re wrong! I am nothing like you!”
His eyes searched hers, their fire dimming somewhat. “We shall see, pretty dancer. We shall see.”
* * * * *
As Larissa descended the stairs, she heard the harpsichord begin to play. Misroi, formally clad as he had been the night before, stepped into the dimly lit hallway, gazing up at her with predatory patience. Wordlessly he extended a hand, flicking the wrist slightly with practiced ease so that the ruffles of the cuff lay flat against the coat sleeve. He was waiting for her, ready to teach her the Dance of the Dead.
You’re just like me. Her heart lurched in her breast. What if he was right?
Forcing herself to be calm, she continued walking down the stairs with a slow and even step. A smile twitched at one corner of his mouth, and she wondered if, like a wild beast, he could scent her fear.
She placed her hand in his. “No supper before dancing?” she queried in a voice as calm as she could make it.
He shook his head. “First, dancing. Then dinner.”
The Dance of the Dead began innocuously enough. It was a waltz, sweeping and grand. Then, almost imperceptibly, the music began to change. It switched gradually from a major to a minor key and grew deeper, more menacing. The tempo increased just as subtly. At one point, Larissa glanced up into Misroi’s eyes and found that she could not look away. Fleetingly, she thought of the giant zombie snake in her dream and how it had hypnotized her. She stared into the blue depths of her tutor’s eyes, snared.
His fingers dug into her waist, even through the many layers of material. Misroi bent and placed his cheek, flushed and hot as if from a fever, against Larissa’s suddenly chilled one.
Keep dancing.
Larissa closed her eyes, unsure whether the voice was actually Misroi’s or if it simply existed inside her head. It didn’t matter. She was helpless to disobey, and, stranger still, she had no desire to. Together, zombie master and dancer whirled across the empty floor. To Larissa, it seemed as though her feet barely even brushed the ground. She began to lose track of where she was, who she was dancing with, even who she was. She yielded utterly to the rising sense of power building within her.
It was then that Larissa realized just how cold she was. She still moved swiftly and surely within the iron circle of Misroi’s arms, but she could no longer sense her limbs. A slight wisp of fear penetrated her haze of power, and she opened her eyes.
Larissa shrieked, almost stumbling. The hand clasped in Misroi’s merciless grip was little more than gray, skin-covered bone.
She was turning into a zombie.
Keep dancing! the voice thundered in her brain. She did so, willing her fear into determination, and she smiled grimly as she watched the desiccated skin of her hand plump out into living human flesh once again. Larissa glanced up at Misroi. A savage snarl twisted her sweet face.
Suddenly Misroi spun her away from him. Startled, she stumbled but recovered swiftly.
“You have passed the first test,” he approved, breathing a bit heavily from the exertion. “Now it is time for the second.”
He clapped his hands, the sound echoing like the crack of his riding crop in the large room. After a moment, almost a dozen zombies, from servants to field workers, appeared in the ballroom. Larissa stared at them, unsure what Misroi had in mind.
“They are under orders to kill you,” he said. “The Dance of the Dead, if you execute it properly, will keep them confused long enough for me to rescind the order.”
Catching her breath, Larissa panted, “But I just learned it! What if I don’t do it properly?”
Misroi shrugged. “Then, my dear, they kill you. And I have a new and pretty zombie maidservant. That is, until the rot sets in. I’ll set a place for you at dinner … in case you survive.”
For a moment, Larissa thought that this was merely another one of Misroi’s cruel jokes, but he turned and strode out of the ballroom, pulling the door closed behind him with an ominous thud. As if it were a signal, the rotting undead began to move toward Larissa with a slow, terrible purpose.
Trapped! Larissa wailed to herself, momentarily too frightened to move. Like a fly in a web … no. This fly is going to fight, the young woman resolved. She was drained from the dance and almost trembled with exhaustion, but she summoned up energy from some hidden reservoir and began to move.
She executed the first steps of the waltz, moving surely to the frantic melody the harpsichord still pounded out. Her slippered feet barely touched the floorboards, and her hands fluttered, making gestures of their own. The young woman let herself dissolve in the growing sensation of power.
Marcel had almost reached her and extended dead arms in an attempt to choke her. As the cold flesh touched her feverish skin, Larissa struck at his arms and her body twisted in protest. The zombie halted, and his arms lowered. He made no further move toward her.
Now the maidservant attempted to halt Larissa, but the white-haired dancer had tasted success and turned with almost vicious glee upon the female walking corpse. This time, the maidservant staggered back from the force of Larissa’s mental commands.
Two more of the mindless, undead things were closing in on either side. Larissa leaped, dancing with fiery frenzy and focusing her increasingly powerful will upon the animated corpses. One by one, Misroi’s creatures were stopped in their tracks, halted by confusion as to which order they should follow—that of their master, hitherto the only voice they had heard, or the new commands given them by the white-haired, flame-souled woman who danced before them.
When it was done, Larissa staggered to a stop. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her legs felt rubbery. The harpsichord had ceased playing, and Larissa, suddenly feeling faint, sank to the floor.
When she had caught her breath, she slowly got to her feet. Cool blue eyes raked the frozen forms of the zombies, then Larissa Snowmane went to join the Lord of the Dead for dinner.
TWENTY
Larissa forced her eyelids open by sheer effort of will, and fear shot through her, almost but not quite dispelling the last dregs of Misroi’s drugged wine.
The dancer was alone in the swamp. She had been lying in an awkward position, one arm and leg twisted behind her. They were numb at first and didn’t obey her as she tried to sit up. Then the limbs began to feel all too keenly as blood rushed back into them. Larissa ignored the stinging sensation, frantically searching for some familiar landmark in the pressing maze of green and brown.
There was none. Mo rotting zombie coachman, no pirogue, nothing that she knew. Panic crouched inside of her like a chained beast straining at its tethers. No, Larissa commanded it. I can get out of here.… I think.
She was still in her beautiful gree
n gown, and it hampered her movement as she attempted to stand. Her left knee put pressure on something that crinkled. Larissa jerked away at once, startled, then felt relief and surprise as she realized it was merely a folded-up piece of parchment, sealed with a dollop of red wax. Larissa picked it up, examining the seal—a large M.
Swiftly she opened it and began to read.
My very dear Miss Snowmane,
What a dreadful host you must deem me to be. You are correct I must thank you for your refreshing presence in my home recently. You were a delight to work with.
Before you lies your last test Well, at least the last one I shall be pressing upon you. The riding crop should come in handy. I know you know how to use it. I wish you the very best of luck in finding your way home, pretty dancer, though I doubt you’ll need it—you’re too much like me. We make our own luck.
Perhaps someday we shall dance together again. I will look forward to it.
—Anton Misroi
Larissa crumpled the letter savagely and threw it to the earth. It fluttered gently downward, its sharp, crinkled edges opening slowly like a flower’s petals. She saw the riding crop Misroi had mentioned, lying innocuously in the mud, its leather tip encrusted with Incubus’s blood. She shuddered, then took a deep breath to calm her frayed nerves.
Root, Larissa told herself. She lay down on the soggy earth, not caring that her gown was getting ruined. Eagerly she plunged her fingers into the wet earth, seeking information and calmness from the soil.
Unlike the sod of the Maiden’s island, this earth offered very little comfort. She sensed a sullenness here, a taint, like the underlying flavor of a piece of food just gone bad. ‘Her eyes closed, Larissa frowned. She stretched deeper, not merely asking now, but demanding compliance.
With the reluctance of a spoiled child, the land yielded. There was danger here, she sensed. She was not to trust the ground, the trees, or the creatures. The Maiden’s island was approximately a mile to the southeast. And that, Larissa felt, was all the land was going to tell her. Abruptly, disturbingly, she felt contact break off.
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