by C. L. Wilson
His mouth closed around her breast and her thighs clenched in desire. His tongue laved the sensitive bud, suckling, teasing. His dark eyes never left her face. Her shallow breaths only made his gaze more heated, his ministrations more deliberate. The pressure building between her legs swelled with every lick, every pull.
He cupped her other breast with his free hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the taut nipple. Her toes curled, her legs straining beneath him. She had never imagined being touched could feel like this. So decadent, so wanton, so . . . addictive. She would die if he stopped. She wanted more. She wanted everything. Every touch was perfection, every lick a promise of pleasures to come.
He slid his hand from her breast to her ribs. Before she could cry out her disappointment, he applied his talented mouth to the abandoned nipple and her body flooded with sensation once more.
His free hand slid down to her waist, down to her thigh, hiking up her tunic and petticoat until the thin material bunched around her hip. He cupped his fingers beneath her thigh and pulled up, bending her now-bare leg at the knee. With his tongue still teasing her nipple, he positioned himself to one side. Without his body to warm her, the night air was cool against the heat of her exposed skin.
Gently, he pressed her bent knee outward. Her thighs splayed for him. She could barely even think, from the rush of desire and anticipation. His hand coasted down her inner thigh toward the throbbing at her core. When he rubbed his knuckle against her moist heat, she nearly flew off the cushions. A pleasure more intense than any she’d ever known shot through her body like lightning. Her legs trembled.
His mouth closed around her breast as his knuckle continued its lazy pattern of delicious, torturous circles. His fingers were slick with her wetness, and the very idea of it only served to excite her further.
When she was certain her body could take no more of the pressure unfurling within her, he eased one of his strong fingers directly into the maelstrom. She gasped in ecstasy. Her hips rose to greet him. His thumb resumed its slick little circles as his index finger penetrated her deeper and deeper. Her inner muscles clamped around him, increasing her pleasure and his rhythm. A second finger joined the first. Her hips began to tilt in time with his thrusts, her breath uneven.
Something was happening, something was about to happen, something big and fast and strong and—
Waves of white-hot pleasure shot through her body, every limb galvanized. As the spasms took her, she threw her head back in rapture. His thumb and his fingers did not relent until the last of the tremors was gone, her muscles spent. The pleasure was beyond all reckoning. He was more than she could have ever dreamed.
He released her wrists, then smoothed her petticoat and tunic back down over her legs. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was fairly confident she was dead. She was certainly in heaven. She had never felt more sated in her life. More than she had imagined possible.
After he relaced her bodice, he lay back down beside her upon the cushioned dais. He pulled her into his arms. She went willingly. There was nowhere in the world she’d rather be. No one with whom she’d rather be.
She nestled her cheek against his chest. His heart beat loud beneath his tunic. Loud enough to lift some of the fog of ecstasy and remind her that she had offered nothing in reciprocation for the bliss he had shown her. Startled, she lifted her head. His eyes were not accusing, but rather contented . . . and more than a little arrogant. He knew exactly what he had given her, and was feeling very pleased with himself for having done so.
He had every right to be.
He had bestowed unimaginable pleasure upon her, and now she wished to do the same.
“Lance,” she stammered, suddenly self-conscious. A blush began to creep up her neck. “I could . . . Do you not wish to try . . .”
He grinned and pulled her back into his embrace. “I want you like crazy, princess. You can’t even imagine the triple-x goodness going through my brain. I’m kind of shocking myself right now. But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about you. I come later.”
She frowned into his tunic. She wasn’t completely sure what any of that meant, other than he’d pleasured her because he wished to, not because he sought like recompense in return.
Grief flooded her. ’Twas not fair that he be taken from her after such a short window together.
It had taken centuries to find a man such as this, and the thought of losing him so soon was more than she could bear. She clung to him, and forced herself not to cry. She would not ruin these last moments by having him think her tears were due to unhappiness with him, when in fact the opposite was true. Her eyes stung because he was perfect. And soon he would be gone.
Her throat clenched. She didn’t know how many minutes remained until the bell tolled midnight, but she intended to hold him close for every last one of them.
It would be the closest she would ever again come to feeling loved.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marigold’s eyes flew open in horror. She’d fallen asleep. She’d fallen asleep. Her heart thundered. How could she have let such a thing happen? She reached out her arm. The fire was long dead, but even without the aid of firelight, she knew what she would find.
Nothing.
She was alone on the dais. Alone in the castle. In the world. Tears pricked her eyes. Ninny. She’d meant to hold him . . . to make the most of every last second together. To tell him . . .
She jerked upright. She felt her way out of the sitting room and into the main corridor. Even without an hourglass, she could see it was long past midnight. The sky already bled with dawn. The sun would be fully risen within the hour. And she would be forced to go on living. Forever.
She opened the door to her bedchamber. Despite not having straightened a thing the day before, her bed was perfectly made. The pots, emptied. The water in the basin, fresh. The soiled tunics from the previous day spotless, and properly stored in their wardrobe.
Just as they were every morning.
Her throat swelled with anger. She slammed the door. What had she expected? That the curse would be broken? That Lance might have simply abandoned her for a more comfortable bed? She was not that naive. Hadn’t been, for a very long time.
And yet . . . she had so hoped . . .
She made her way to the kitchen. If he were here, if he were still alive, he would be in the kitchen. But he was not. The scullery was as empty as the rest of the castle. Which only left one place.
The great tree in the solar.
She hesitated before pointing her feet in that direction. Could she do it? Could she stand to see the tree with its hundreds of figurines, every one of which had once been alive, just like her? Could she stand to see one more painted puppet dangling from its boughs? This time, a black-clad adventurer with a kind heart and a wicked smile? Nay. She could not. By Zeus, she could not.
She turned down the corridor anyway.
It took every ounce of her courage to traverse the final passageway to the solar. Every single visit was as painful as the first time. Her twentieth birthday. Yule. And everyone she’d ever known, everyone she’d ever loved . . . nothing more than hollow figures upon a tree.
Heart pounding, she pushed open the wooden door.
The solar was wide and empty, save for a single evergreen on the opposite side of the chamber. From here, one could discern the presence of tiny baubles decorating the giant tree. Invisible to the naked eye was the breaking of her heart every time she espied her parents reduced to nothing more than paint and plaster. Her maids. Her friends. The troubadours. A dozen hapless adventurers who would never make the trek back home.
And now Lance.
She shoved one foot in front of the other, forcing herself across the chamber. She could not touch him. But she had to see.
When she reached the tree, she slowed to let her gaze settle upon each of the visible figurines, as was her habit. Every time she entered the solar, even if only to pay her respects to her parents, she took the time to men
tally greet each of the figurines by name, and send up a quick prayer for their souls. ’Twas the least they deserved.
The evergreen was twice as tall as Marigold herself, and its boughs stretched almost as wide. The tree hadn’t been in the castle the night of the celebrations. It had simply appeared in the solar the following morning, and been a permanent fixture ever since.
Explorers and serfs and noblemen were scattered upon the boughs in a haphazard fashion, with no relevance to age or status or to each other. Every time she entered the solar, the figures were in different locations, forcing her to hunt if she wanted a glimpse of her mother’s tiny painted face. Sometimes she had to circle three times before everyone was accounted for.
“Well met, Mama,” she whispered as she slowly circled the tree. “Good morrow, Papa . . . Milkmaids . . . Sir knight . . . Good spinner.”
When the first pass failed to reveal a third of the figures, she dropped to her knees to search the inner boughs for missing faces. There were her cousins’ wolf pups . . . Princess Heidi of Bohemia . . . Chaz of New Brunswick . . .
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Marigold screamed and collapsed backward.
“Good Lord, woman.” Lance squinted down at her. “Are you going to make that horrible noise every time we meet?”
Her heart was beating much too fast to answer.
“Love the tree,” he said, sounding impressed. “I didn’t know decking the halls was even a thing in medieval times. The decorations are amazing. What’ve you got here? A squirrel ornament? That’s a little weird, don’t you think? The others are cool, though. The court jester is great. I like all of them. They look so . . . real.” He reached toward the branches.
“Do not touch!” she managed to gasp out before he could make contact.
He nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. “No worries. My grandma gets like that, too. Won’t let anyone near her Mayan skull collection. Your ornaments are awesome, though. Seriously. Oh, look at the little king. And over there’s some kind of shepherd. And this guy’s got . . .” He trailed off. The resulting silence was damning.
Marigold closed her eyes. She knew what must come next.
“He’s got a top hat.” Lance’s voice had lost all of its easiness. Where once he spoke to her with tenderness, his every syllable was now hard with mistrust. “How could your tree have an ornament of a dude in a top hat? He looks like he walked out of a Dickens novel. And this guy . . . What is he, a gangster? He’s carrying a tommy gun. How could you possibly get your hands on an Al Capone ornament?” He spun to face her, his eyes hard. “I thought we were trapped in here. Either Amazon delivers to Castle Cavanaugh, or you lied when you said there was no way out.”
She pushed to her feet, but made no move toward him. This was obviously not the moment for a reconciliatory hug.
“We are trapped in here. So are they.” She met his eyes, but could not keep his gaze. She gestured toward the tree instead. “The ones you call medieval . . . Those are my friends and family. The servants, the revelers, the local peasants who were on the castle grounds for one reason or another when the curse was spoken.”
“And Mr. Top Hat?” He gestured at the tree. “What about him? Did he land here in his time machine just in time for the abracadabra?”
Marigold glanced away. “Baron Westinghouse arrived in 1860. He’d stumbled upon the legend during his scholarly studies, and with the ease of the modern rail system, he thought, ‘’Twouldn’t it be a lark to go on holiday at Castle Cavanaugh?’ and set about at once to see if he could.”
“But he’s an ornament,” Lance insisted, his voice rising to a panic pitch. “Why is he an ornament?”
She bowed her head. “The curse begins anew each midnight. Every morn, I awaken alone. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught within the castle at the witching hour vanishes where they stand. On the morrow, a new figurine appears upon the tree.”
He gaped at her in shock and outrage. “You thought I’d be dead?”
“I thought you’d be a figurine,” she hedged. “But you’re alive! ’Tis wonderful!”
“No thanks to you! What the hell happened? You ‘forgot’ to mention the possibility of me disappearing at midnight? Slipped your mind, did it?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t believe it a ‘possibility.’ I believed it to be fact. No one has ever survived for a second day.”
His lip curled in disgust. “You’re not helping yourself, princess. If you knew my days were numbered, why wouldn’t you speak up? You didn’t think it’d be information I might want to know?”
“I didn’t deem it necessary to know,” she admitted. “Nothing would have changed.”
He stepped away, repulsed. “Who the hell gave you the right to determine what other people should and shouldn’t know about their own lives?”
“What purpose would it serve?” Her hands shook as her voice rose. “Who are you to judge? Can you not fathom what happened whene’er I did share the happy tidings? The wretched traveler spends the last hours of his life in utter torment. Some have gone stark mad at the idea. One even killed himself well ahead of midnight in a fevered attempt to dive through the ice by any means possible. Believe you me. No man has ever been thankful for the news.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to withhold information. And now what? I’m alive until this midnight, due to a glitch in the Matrix?”
“I don’t know why you’re still alive.” She bit her lip. “I assumed no one could survive until the curse had been—”
He tore off out of the chamber and down the corridor.
She followed right on his heels.
They skidded to a stop at the threshold to the great hall. The exterior of the castle was still a solid block of ice. The door, no less impassable than before. The curse was as strong as ever.
The sun continued its rise above the horizon, bathing the crystalline roof with pinks and yellows. Rather than warm her, the sight of another sunny morning deadened her soul. The inescapability of her prison enveloped her in a disappointment so thick and so deep as to almost swallow her whole. She slumped against an interior wall, preferring the darkness of stone over the false glitter of ice.
Lance walked past her, toward the front door.
She could barely stand to look at him. Not because she would ever wish him away—the sight of him still alive was a bigger miracle than she deserved—but because she now suspected he was right. The curse held true. Whatever luck had allowed him to live through the night was unlikely to hold. Neither of them were any better off than they had been the day before.
And this time, he knew it.
He stopped short a few feet from the corner and jumped back, as if he’d espied a serpent preparing to strike.
She rushed forward. “What is it?”
“My lightsaber.”
“Your what?”
“The fire sword.” He pointed at the gray cylinder upon the ground. “It’s not broken.”
“Aye, it oughtn’t be.”
He stared at her in confusion. “Why wouldn’t it be? I broke it yesterday.”
“Exactly. Today is yesterday again.” She smiled sourly. “Happy birthday to me.”
“But what does that mean? How could yesterday not have happened? It did happen! I remember everything. I wasn’t even here this time yesterday.”
“Which is why your fire swords are operational. I told you. The castle resets at midnight. Everything within it reverts to the same condition it was at that time the day before. That’s why I haven’t aged. If I cut my hair, I wake up with long locks anew. If I accidentally injure myself, I awake with nary a wound.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, then lifted his shoulder experimentally. His eyes widened in surprise. “It’s not broken? My broken shoulder isn’t broken anymore and I didn’t even notice?”
“Sometimes ’tis hard to notice the absence of things,” she said softly. “And sometimes ’tis impossible not to miss them.�
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He spun away from her. He retrieved his leather over-tunic and his harness from the empty torch hook by the door. His frown deepened. He shoved his hand in one of the pouches and pulled out the candy bar from the day before.
“It’s another Snickers bar,” he said in consternation. “Or maybe it’s the same Snickers bar, all over again. But where are the Slim Jims? They existed at this time yesterday morning, and they’re not here.”
She considered it. “You’re certain you carried them within the castle walls?”
“Oh. No. I ate them after I climbed up the cliff. So I guess that makes sense. But what were you going to do with my stuff after I was gone? Do you have a creepy stockpile of tommy guns and assorted mens’ clothing hidden away somewhere?”
She shook her head. “Nothing has ever been left over before. Anything they are not touching at midnight disappears. ’Tis why the figurines have no overtunics or satchels. Your items would have vanished as well.”
“That’s . . . creepy.” He fished his smartphone out of his trouser pocket. “Seventy percent battery, not a hundred. I guess that’s because it would’ve lost power as I was hiking and climbing. Battery life could’ve been around seventy by the time I hit the castle battlement.” He whirled toward the door and peered through the ice in search of something out there in the unblemished snow. “Oh, great, there’s a crow perched on my grappling hook. That’s a sunny omen. Everyone knows—Wait. Shouldn’t the grappling hook have disappeared? Or magicked itself back onto my utility belt?”
She shook her head. “Outside the castle walls, life continues. There was once a nest of sparrows on the roof o’er the solar, perfectly visible through the ice. ’Tis only myself who can neither leave nor change.”
He kicked the door. “I want to be out with the crows and the sparrows. I may be facing certain death either way, what with the bounty on my head and all, but at least out there I understand the rules of the game. In here, I can’t even defend myself.”
Her mouth fell open. “You've a bounty on your head? But wherefore?”