The Deepest Well

by Juliette Cross

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Her dinner tray came with an alabaster figurine standing in the middle—a beautiful work of art of a woman riding astride a lovely horse. Katherine studied it carefully in her hands, realizing the facial features of the woman were too marked to be anyone but her.

  “Did your master give you this?” she asked Laurie.

  The servant nodded and went about drawing her bath. It took her five trips, leaving and returning with pots of warm water. Since she sifted through the castle walls to wherever the water was heated, the process took no time at all. After her last pail was poured, Katherine stepped into the steaming tub.

  “Has he asked how I am doing? Or whether I’m even still alive?”

  The demon girl, or whatever creature she was, said nothing, of course, but went about her business in silence.

  Katherine took the figurine into the bath with her, turning it over and over, tracing the lovely lines of the horse and noting the exquisite habit the rider wore, not dissimilar to the one she owned.

  That night, Katherine fell asleep staring at the figurine on her bedside table and dreamed of galloping through a wintry forest, the evergreens blanketed in downy snow. The wind cut gloriously against her cheeks, filling her lungs to bursting with cold air. She felt wonderfully alive and strong and beautiful.

  She awoke suddenly. In the dark. Alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Another day. Katherine pushed away the platter Laurie had brought for her, untouched. She had no appetite, her heart aching, wishing she were truly the girl on the horse, able to ride far, far away. Curling into a ball on the hearth rug, she fell asleep, then dreamed of being a young girl again, sitting in a summer field, picking at clover while her father’s tenants worked rows of wheat on the land. She awoke to find a soft pink quilt draped over her, smelling of sunshine and earth and wheat. She wept again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  One day, having picked at the beef stew and baked bread and drained the large glass of wine, having let the warm custard go cold, she was lying stretched out on the velvet sofa when Damas walked in, as casually as ever. She popped into a sitting position with the book in her lap, watching him cross the room in a cavalier manner. Her pulse raced at the sight of him, dressed in formal evening wear, looking dapper and rakish as always. He was truly handsome in a cold, porcelain sort of way. Katherine’s thoughts were usually preoccupied with a warm, auburn-haired gentleman.

  His expression showed her he wasn’t pleased with what he saw. “Good evening, Katherine.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “You do not look well. Are you eating?”

  “Sometimes,” she replied, noting her voice was scratchy from disuse.

  He sat next to her on the sofa, leaving two feet between them, his body angled toward her. “I wish you would eat. Your cheeks have lost color.”

  She wanted to pick up the book in her lap and throw it at his head as she had done before, but she knew he would leave and not return for an eon, like before. He’d taught her well the consequences of bad behavior. She needed someone to talk to or she’d go mad. Even him.

  “I’m depressed,” she said in a stoic, unfeeling manner.

  “I see that. I do not wish it.” His voice rolled against her skin, a soft caress of compassion. He was sincere, and it made her hurt even more.

  “Then let me go.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and glanced down at his clasped hands. “I cannot.”

  She wanted to scream and rage against him, but the penalty would be more isolation. And damn her if she didn’t long for human, or even demon, conversation. She bit her bottom lip, tasting the salty tang of blood.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “The Castle of Otranto.”

  Damas smiled and reclined against the sofa, one arm draped over the back, his hand falling too close to Katherine for her liking. She inched away.

  “I suppose I am the evil prince and you are the lovely Isabella, plotting to escape his Gothic castle?” His smile shouldn’t affect her so. A flutter of joy filled her belly to speak to someone, to hear the voice of another, even his.

  “There is no escape for me. Except in my dreams.”

  “And what do you dream of?”

  “The world outside that I can no longer see.”

  He made no reply.

  “Will I ever see it again?”

  “That depends on you.” He tapped his index finger on the sofa back. “For now, it is not wise.” He stood and straightened his coat. “I can see that I’ve disturbed you coming so soon. I’ll leave you now.”

  “So soon? So soon! I’ve been alone for forever. Laurie won’t speak to me. I’m confined to these four walls with no one to talk to, and my mind is”—she pushed her palms to either side of her head, feeling a headache coming on, her chain rattling—“my mind is breaking from this tortured loneliness.”

  “Perhaps I’ve left you too long.” He stepped forward. “Stand up.”

  His voice was gentle, but she feared him still.

  “Please,” he added with a disarming expression.

  She stood, and he gently gripped her forearms. He observed her wrists, one still cuffed, both of them chafed and scarred from the restraints.

  “Would you like me to make the pain go away? Here?” He stroked a thumb along her wrists above the scars. “And there?” He gestured to her head.

  She longed to say no and reject his offering, like a scrap to his dog, but the misery of her life filled her to the brim—the aching loneliness, the desperate longing, the pain and bitterness in her heart. She needed him, even if she were nothing more than a pet. Still holding on to her pride, she would not beg. She gave one stiff nod of her head.

  “Good.” He smiled. With a wave of his hand, the cuff disappeared from her wrist. She breathed a sigh of relief to be free of the bonds. “Stay still.”

  She did. He slid his hands up and wrapped both wrists, chanting in that foreign tongue like before. The constant stinging pain that had become so normal to her vanished at his bidding. The red chafing disappeared, the scars shrinking to a ring of thin white lines.

  “Now for your head.”

  He combed his fingers into her unbound hair at the temples, caging her skull in his hands. The sensation was divine. Katherine’s eyes slipped closed. His whispering voice and the magic emitted from his palms lulled her into a dreamy state, a delightful enchantment. Whatever spell he worked on her, she felt lighter and less burdened. He loosened his hold, pulling one hand away, leaving the other, threaded into her hair, his palm against her cheekbone. She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her with obvious longing. Her pulse quickened.

  She edged backward a step, then another, till his hand fell away, breaking the tension crackling between them. For a brief second, she knew how his lips would feel on hers. The thought of his hands on her body sent a sweet tingle along her skin. The sudden, hard betrayal of letting him touch her, of what she considered for even a moment, threatened to send her into a darker abyss than before. She would not be his lover. Could not.

  “How long have I been here?” she asked, her intuition telling her this desperation and madness did not arise from a mere week or two.

  “I thought you needed your privacy, to come to terms with your new life.”

  “How long, Damas?”

  It was the first time she’d used his name. His mouth tilted up on one side into a half smile.

  “Ten years.”

  Katherine flinched. “Ten years! That’s impossible.”

  “It is not. Time slips by differently in this realm. It does not feel as long, but the human world has turned over ten years during your absence.”

  In reality, it had felt long. But ten years? Her knees buckled and her legs gave way. She sat where she had stood on the
carpet and stared at the fire that blazed with that ethereal white flame.

  Damas knelt on one knee beside her, coaxing in a low, soft voice, “I understand that this comes as a shock to you, but know that your life doesn’t have to be this way.” He motioned toward the chain snaking in a line on the carpet. “You have a choice. I could show you things you’ve never seen before. Beautiful things. If you’d only let me.”

  She hadn’t shed a tear. Ten years and not one sign of George. He had forgotten her. Given her up. She swallowed the lump in her throat and inhaled a deep breath, fixing her gaze on the fire once again.

  “Why is the flame that color?”

  He smiled. “The elements aren’t the same here as they are on earth. Everything is created with our power.”

  “Demon magic,” she clarified.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  She couldn’t help but confess her thoughts. “The light is beautiful.”

  “It is,” he said. “But not half as beautiful as you are, Katherine.”

  She snapped her gaze back to him, afraid he would use this as an invitation. Instead, he rose to leave. He glanced down at the chain on its stake. With a wave of his hand, the iron melted into a swirl of black smoke and dissipated into the air.

  “I will not bind you. Unless you try to run again.”

  “I won’t,” she promised, and she meant it. There was no point. There was nowhere to run to.

  “Good.” With a swift bow, he said, “Good night.”

  Before he reached the door, she called out, a sudden fear gripping her again. “Will you visit tomorrow?”

  He turned at the door, a bright smile lighting his face. “Yes. I will.”

  As he closed the door quietly behind him, Katherine wondered what sort of life she could have in a place like this. And for how long? George wasn’t coming for her. She had no love for the prince, but he filled the gaping hole inside her, the chasm begging for the kind company of someone, anyone. The company of a demon prince was better than going mad in the darkness…alone.

  Or so she thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  He returned every day. He sat and talked with her, even dined with her, having brought in a small table set elegantly for two rather than having her serving tray delivered as usual.

  She didn’t ask how many years had passed anymore. She didn’t want to know.

  One evening, he didn’t come for dinner. Laurie offered her no explanation. She entered and began pouring her bath in the corner as always. Katherine brought a tall candelabrum on a stand near the bath so she could continue reading her most recent obsession, Dante’s The Divine Comedy. She found its placement in her library ironic and couldn’t stop the compulsion to read it with avidity.

  While she soaked in her after-dinner bath, reading, Laurie sitting on her stool, mute as always, Damas walked into the room. Katherine froze, watching him pick up a chair from their dining table and set it beside the tub. He wore riding attire with a black leather coat, a style she’d not seen before.

  She set the book aside and crossed her arms over her breasts, lowering her body farther under the water till it reached right below her chin. “Is there a reason you’ve decided to barge into my chamber while I’m obviously preoccupied with something I’d rather keep private?”

  “I apologize for disturbing you, but I wanted to see you.”

  “You missed dinner.”

  His boyish expression made her stomach flip over. “Did you miss me?”

  “I didn’t say that. But if you’d wanted to see me, you might’ve made it for dinner, which has become our appointed time.”

  “I have something I want to show you, something I’ve been working on for you. So hurry with your bath, and we can go.”

  She sat up a little straighter, the water line dropping on her breasts. His gaze roamed, sending her back into the water. “Where?”

  “I’m not telling you. Hurry and get dressed. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  He left through the door, and Katherine wondered why he always walked here and there. He could easily sift anywhere, but he didn’t. He chose to walk.

  When she went behind the dressing screen, there was no dress waiting for her but a pair of black trousers, a dark vest and a blue velvet riding jacket.

  “Laurie, these are men’s clothes. I can’t wear these.”

  Laurie lifted the jacket from the rack and showed it to her. The clothes were tailored to Katherine’s measurements.

  Perplexed, she put the clothes on over a corset shorter than she’d worn before. The styles were certainly changing if women were permitted to wear these. It was a strange sensation to wear pants that hugged her legs. She found it preferable to a dress, actually.

  When she met him at the foot of the staircase she had not come down since her imprisonment—for she hadn’t forgotten she was indeed a prisoner here—she found him gazing at the overlarge oil painting on the wall.

  “Are women really wearing this now?”

  “Most women, no,” he answered, watching her descend the staircase. “But a few in France are becoming adventurous.”

  “France. Of course.” She stopped two steps from the bottom, able to look down on him. Glancing at the painting, she asked, “And do you employ artists here in Hell?”

  “No.” His gaze fell on the picture again, the beautiful angels falling from ethereal heights. “I hired an artist during the Renaissance to paint this for me.”

  She laughed. “During the Renaissance. By an artist of the age, I’m sure.”

  “Definitely. I’m an aficionado of beautiful things, and I want only the best.”

  She refused to read anything further into his reply. “Your artist was a Renaissance painter, wasn’t he?” She’d always thought the lines of the prince’s face resembled those sculpted by Michelangelo.

  “You may have heard of one of their protégés. Raphael.”

  Katherine’s jaw dropped. “Raphael painted this? For you?”

  “He did. A fine job too, especially as he was still an up-and-coming artist at the time. But I’d seen his talent. Still”—he leaned forward and examined one particular spot closely—“you can see he’s made a few mistakes here in his brushwork.”

  She stepped down to take a closer look. “It’s absolutely stunning. Though the subject is quite sad.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  He stole a glance at her. “Of course I do. But I don’t regret it.”

  He spoke of the Fall. She found herself mesmerized by the fact that she stood next to one of the angels who fell from heaven, cast out for his rebellion.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why did we do it? Or, why don’t I regret it?”

  “The first.”

  “Because we were not loved. We’d been replaced by humans. I saw that you were reading Dante Alighieri’s version of events. That man must’ve had the ear of a demon to write his Divine Comedy.”

  “Why? Was he right? Is the book accurate of how—I mean, the way things are? Were?”

  “No, not hardly. Most of the work is fanciful, but there are threads of truth that cut to the heart of it all. He got some things right, and I believe he was sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Your cause? To defy God? What kind of cause is that?”

  His eyes burned bright when he observed her. “Defiance wasn’t our goal. We wanted the love promised to us. But that was bestowed upon the human race. Frail, pitiful creatures who preferred to destroy themselves rather than flourish in the paradise created for them. So yes, we were cast out. Separated from our kin. Doomed to live in a cold world.” He raised his arms, gesturing to the world around him. “We lost our wings, but we kept our power. Though many hearts accepted the dark, letting it fester inside of them and make
them into new creatures, I kept hope that all wasn’t lost. That we could still have a life worth living. Even here.”

  He stepped back from the painting with a deep inhalation, closing his eyes, before exhaling again and settling his expression into the serene façade she knew so well.

  “Come, Katherine. I have something to show you.”

  He didn’t reach for her, but walked toward the large outer door. With a swift glance at the dark-haired angel in the painting, frozen with sorrow on his face as he fell into the abyss, she turned and followed the fallen angel himself.

  As soon as she’d descended the stone steps, the purple-hued mist parted and a creature snuffed the air to her left. She turned to dart back inside, but Damas was at her side, taking her hand.

  “It’s all right. Come and meet her.”

  With her heart hammering in her throat, she let him pull her closer until she was able to see the glow of ice-blue eyes. Expecting one of his dragons, she was surprised to see instead a large black horse—a beautiful, sleek one.

  “Oh my.” Katherine eased closer, holding out one palm.

  “Her name is Athena.”

  Her glossy coat glistened, her mane and tail flowing into silky locks.

  “She’s so beautiful.” As Katherine patted the mare’s neck, she realized the horse was saddled and bridled.

  “She’s yours,” he said.

  “You—you made her for me.” Katherine stated this as a fact, not a question. There was no doubt the beast was created from the essence of Damas, using the same power with which he’d created his dragons.

  “Yes.” He stood on the other side of Athena, soothing her with gentle strokes. “I want you to be happy here,” he said, his tone sincere. “Come on. Let’s take her for a ride.”

  “What? Both of us?”

  He circled around to her side.

  “I can’t let you run around here by yourself. I’m making arrangements to extend my guards and wards well beyond the castle. But for now, I must go with you. For your safety.”

  She stared at his outstretched hand.