Conall opened up the music box. The graceful figure of a ballerina rose into place as the lid came up, and without even a turn of a key, she began to pirouette slowly to the strains of the song Asya had but seconds ago been humming.
"Here," he said, placing the music box on her stomach, laying her hands on it. The doll's eye sleepily opened.
"Here, Asya. Listen to me. Is this it? Is this where he hid it?"
She stirred, fingers delicately closing around the box. She brushed two of them over the music box's front compartment. It had a tiny, delicate keyhole in it.
"Shyla!" Con called out. "Is there a key?"
"Here," his daughter said, appearing at his side, breathless. She had a huge book in her hands, one Conall hated the instant he saw it. An old red tome smelling of ash. He flipped it open in violent resolve and furiously skimmed the pages.
There. More than halfway through: handwritten notes and pictograms of Asya as the doll. Detailed diagrams of the procedure which had made her thus. Part science, part ugly, black magic.
And between the pages, like a bookmark, lay the smallest key Con had ever seen.
He snatched it up and tossed the book away. Without hesitation, he slid the little key into the little lock. The music box clicked; the ballerina stopped spinning.
When Con slid the compartment open, a small glass heart, interspersed with veins of silver and deepest, ruby red, rested on crimson velvet within.
Asya smiled again, but she looked terribly weak. Con cautiously, ever so cautiously, lifted the heart from its place. For a second, he found himself dumbfounded. What was he supposed to do next?
Shyla closed her hand around his. She guided it over Asya's chest—to where the biggest cracks had already started to cave in.
"It's only a nightmare, now," she whispered to Asya as she and Con closed their hands over the wound, tucking the heart into place in the hollow porcelain chest.
"It's over," she assured the doll. "It's over."
Asya's ribbons slithered, returning to life. Moving like tiny serpents, sinuous and deliberate, they wove their way back to her body.
Conall and Shyla removed their hands, scooting away from the doll as the lengths of silver silk wrapped around her. They twisted and wound themselves together, crisscrossing her white, ceramic flesh, slowly covering more and more of her. Shyla crept close to Conall, tucking herself under his arm. He sensed her shaking and gave her a squeeze. His eyes, though, remained riveted on his doll.
Soon, the ribbons covered her entire body. Every inch, each delicate finger and toe. Even her blonde hair disappeared under their satin gleam. She never stirred. Finally, the figure before them lay perfectly motionless: a silken mummy.
They waited, their heavy, anxious breathing the one sound in the room. Shyla grew tense beside Conall, clutching him tight, shivering. She didn't have to say anything. Con understood her fear...and her desperate hope.
"It'll be okay, dear heart," he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "Don't worry."
She barely nodded in answer.
"Dad?" she whispered finally. "Is...is she..."
"Your mother," he said softly. "She's your mother, Shyla. She hid you with me...to keep you safe. Everything she did...to keep you safe."
"She can't go now," Shyla choked. "She'll get up, won't she? She has to get up..."
When nothing had changed for long, long moments, and Conall found himself almost ready to give up hope, the ribbons rustled. Not like the lovely, sinuous things they'd been before: now they stirred as something moved beneath them, and one lovely hand came up from the floor to begin pulling them away.
Shyla made a strangled sound and bounded out of Con's arms to help. Her hands found the ribbons around Asya's face and began tugging them away.
Then, the most beautiful sound Conall could imagine. As Shyla helped unwrap the ballerina's cocoon, Asya sucked in a deep, full breath of air.
Soon Con was helping too, and together they unwrapped Asya from the ghostly gray shroud. Underneath, she remained pale as porcelain, but as Con's hands touched her he felt the softness of supple flesh, the warmth of life. As soon as he'd removed the last of the wraps around her head, letting blonde hair tumble free, he beheld her face and her two beautiful, mismatched eyes.
"Asya..." he breathed.
"Conall..." she replied. Her voice came soft, weary, but she sounded whole. At last.
Con kissed her, trembling in a fearful mix of awe and joy.
Chapter Twenty Two
The orange glow of the raging fire flickered in the rear-view mirror in Conall's truck. The church, burning behind them. He'd been relieved to find the black thorns receded when they emerged from the basement rooms below the old convent, yet still, he couldn't bear to leave the harrowed church standing. Not when it had been so defiled.
Shyla and Asya, wrapped in a white sheet from one of the upstairs rooms, waited for him in the front seat of the truck as he'd poured petrol around the buildings and threw down a match. When he returned, both had fallen asleep. No doubt their exhaustion had caught up. His girl curled up in Asya's lap, looking every bit the sleepy child in her mother's arms, younger than her years and clinging to Asya like a baby.
Con merely savored the sight for a long moment. He'd hardly had the chance to do more than check over both of them for injuries. Shyla, besides bruised from Fred's manhandling, had no more than the incision on her cheek, but Asya—now released from the necromancer's grasp—retained all the scars given to her over the course of her "transformation." They'd been impossible to ignore, as he and Shyla released her from the ribbons bit by bit. Raised welts of Fred's abuse. Apparently, those were not going to recede.
No matter. Con reached out to stroke her pale cheek. She's alive. As long as she's alive, we are going to be all right.
They would tell Shyla the whole story tomorrow. There would be so much more to explain, after all. The most important thing for now, though, was that her mother would come home, finally.
They were all going home.
***
Dark had fallen by the time Con caught sight of the familiar gates ahead. He rolled up to the house in stoic silence, and when he killed the engine, he gave another glance at the sleeping mother and daughter beside him. They hadn't stirred, either of them, the whole way back.
He didn't mean to disturb their sleep, as he very gently pried Shyla out of Asya's arms, and carried the girl into the house. He did the same then for his sheet-wrapped ballerina, laying her on the couch in front of the cold hearth before he set about taking Shyla to bed. When he came back down, he studied Asya for a contemplative moment—perhaps reassuring himself she still breathed. Certain she did, he turned toward the fireplace to light a fire.
When he had the blaze going and turned around, Asya sat up, sheet pulled around herself, watching him with her beautiful eyes.
"Welcome back," he said. He scooted closer to her, sitting on the floor before her and gazing up. "Lord, Asya...it's so good to finally see your face."
She brought one hand up to touch her cheek. Then, she touched his. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Shyla's upstairs, in her bed," he told her. He imagined it must have been what she meant to ask. "I, uh...you can stay here. With her, I mean. I want to—"
"Thirteen years," Asya interrupted.
Con stared, waiting for her to go on. When she didn't, he ran a hand through his hair.
"Yes. I imagine...it must be..."
"Unbelievable," she finished for him.
Asya tilted his face up to her, caressing him with her long, delicate fingers. Her arm, extending from underneath the sheet, bore several of the necromancer's marks. Conall cupped her hand in his, laying it palm up, and gently traced his other fingers along the lines left on her skin.
"I gave up hope more than a decade ago," she whispered. "I imagined no one would ever find me, and moreover, they would believe me...a monster. It didn't matter, though...as long as I could believe sh
e would be safe. Safe, in the light of day. Alive. Free from him."
"I did try," he said. "To keep her safe. For you."
Asya nodded.
"I believed, once he'd taken me, he would forget her. She'd merely been an obstacle, after all, in his attempts to have me. If I'd had any choice...I didn't want to leave my baby in a graveyard. I simply...I made a desperate, painful decision."
She met his eyes. The first glistening tears sparkled in hers, but beyond them, a depth of warmth and gratitude. When she continued, her voice became choked with emotion.
"I see now...I couldn't have trusted her to any better guardian."
Gazing up at her, Conall said nothing. Still holding her hand in one of his, he reached up to caress her with his other, stroking her cheek. He pulled her down into his arms and kissed her.
Her lips...warm, pliant under his own. Soft and the slightest bit damp. After the first kiss he had to have another, deep and full of longing, as his arms wound around her body to pull her closer.
"Conall," she whispered. "I never...I thought I would be lost forever."
"Sh," he soothed. "It's over now. You're safe with us."
When their lips met again, his tongue found hers, trading sweet caresses. He brushed his fingers through her hair, and next dropped his hand down to begin peeling away the sheet.
His first glance at her nakedness broke his heart. Her slender body, rendered in a map of the mad priest's investigation. Scars down the center of her chest...her abdomen...her arms and legs. The one feature Frederick had spared had been her face, but even now, the hints of her cracked mask left little white lines down her cheek.
She saw him looking and glanced away. He drew her back and kissed the site of the scars. He traced the tiny memories with light, gentle kisses, following those with a tender nuzzle.
Standing then, Con scooped her into his arms. She opened her mouth to speak, but he stole another taste of her lips to silence her. Wordlessly, he carried her to the stairs, then up into the darkness of his bedroom.
Laying her down, he paused only to remove his own dirty clothing. He lay beside her, running the backs of his knuckles down the center of her chest.
"My beautiful ballerina," he murmured. She arched subtly to his touch, and he bowed his head to kiss each of her pretty pink nipples. Leaning over her, he cupped her breasts in his hands, running his thumbs over the peaks. She had small breasts, but they were perfect to him; he could cover them with his palms and feel her heartbeat under his touch. Her glorious, wonderful heartbeat. Pressing her breasts together, he ran his tongue over each, capped them with a kiss again, and began to slide farther down her body.
"Conall..." she breathed.
Everywhere he found one of her scars, he kissed her. She no longer tasted like ice and snow; now each time he pressed his lips to her, he savored the hint of salt and heat of her lovely, rosy skin.
When his kisses found the subtle swell of her mons, Asya gasped. God, it sounded so beautiful, her true voice at last. Con stroked his fingers along her inner thighs, parting them so he could behold the sight of her pussy spread before him.
"You're beautiful," he repeated before planting a soft kiss on the pink bud of her clitoris. Asya let out a long, pleasured sigh.
"You taste so good," he whispered. "I dreamt of having you...like this..."
"They weren't dreams, my love," she replied. "From the moment I saw what you had done for me...for my baby..."
Her little red tongue peeked out and swept over her lips. The hunger in her gaze—perfect.
"Oh, Conall," she moaned, undulating to his touch. "I wished so desperately to thank you...to tell you...how much you...aaah..."
Her words died out into a drawn-out sound of pleasure as Conall ran his tongue in a flourish over her tight, glistening clitoris.
"Conall," she gasped. "My lonely gravekeeper..."
Tears made her voice quaver, and she struggled to speak.
"My wonderful...brave man..."
"I want you," he said. "Lie on your side, Asya...I want to have you. Right now."
She obeyed, sliding her legs up and then raising the left into the air, extended in graceful pointe. He raised himself over her slowly, planting more soft, hungry kisses along her thigh. His hands caressed her lean, muscular leg, and he straightened to press himself firmly against her hot, sweet pussy.
"Yes," he groaned as he guided his cock up and down the slick wetness of her folds. She moved with him, welcoming his erection with lush arousal, anointing his shaft with her need. He stroked the tawny silk of hair upon her pussy, petting her with adoring affection, and slid his fingers down her folds.
"Wet," he whispered. Reaching down to touch her face, he stroked her lips with his thumb, and then parted them to let her suck on it. At the same time he felt her pussy tighten and she rolled her hips to him.
"Oh, Conall," she groaned. She dragged her tongue along his thumb as though she licked his cockhead, and she gave a long, desperate suck.
"Please...please, I need you. God, I need you inside of me..."
Taking hold of her upraised leg and resting it against his chest, Conall slid his rigid cock into her, taking her inch by inch, uttering a gratified moan as he claimed her. She let out a heavy breath and opened herself to accept him even deeper; her hands curled into fists in the sheets and she began to move, making soft sounds like joyful little whimpers as his cock slid in and out of her.
"Yes," she whispered desperately. "Yes, yes, please..."
He gritted his teeth as he worked her a little harder. He felt almost a part of her now, an integral measure to her fulfillment, his whole body a vessel to pump hot pleasure into the yearning depths of hers. His ballerina wasn't a slattern and a whore, but he could sense in the movement of her body she was wanton for him, supplicant and craving his seed, deep inside of her. The way her pussy tightened around him, she desired it dearly, begged him to pour every drop into her until it ran from her beautiful pink entrance down over her thighs. Asya wanted him, and she reveled in his need for her, and they were one in a passionate, primal union.
"Harder," she gasped, and he thrust deep, almost vengeful in a swell of ecstasy. Oh, yes...there it was: he couldn't hold back any longer, and he growled, riding her movements, sinking deep and hard with every swell.
She cried out softly. It came out a senseless sound, the cry of a female intoxicated with pleasure. Conall tightened his grip on her leg and thrust, pumping his cock in and out of her, her wet cum drenching both their thighs.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, oh—oh, God, I—"
The last of her words died out as she came, body going tense and seizing with pleasure. She thrust her hips madly back at him and her pussy contracted around him. He obliged her. His own orgasm came in a hot rush, and he fell upon her, bracing himself with a hand on either side of her as his cock swelled and then let go in a flood. He pumped into her still-quaking pussy, filling her, giving her every last drop until it did run between them, staining the sheets below.
"Bloody, mother-loving fuck!" Conall bit out, going rigid as one last throb of orgasm shook him. As his head cleared, he became aware of a sound he'd never truly heard before: Asya was laughing.
"Hey, now," he muttered, panting hard. "And just what's so funny?"
She giggled, and he believed it might be his new favorite expression from her. Even more precious than the sound of her climax.
"I..." she said, and she actually blushed. "I like your...foul-mouthed enthusiasm."
"I'm a soldier," he snapped, playful, and he withdrew from her to settle beside her, taking her in his arms.
"I like soldiers," she said. "I like...brave men."
"Will you stay, Asya?" he asked. "Please. Let us make a whole family. You and me, and Shyla."
She sighed, a gentle, pleasant reply.
"We'll leave the Knoll," he continued. "Take you and Shy away from these terrible memories. I'd like to start over with you. Maybe...where I grew up. Back in Scotland
. In Clydebank, if you'll have it."
"Conall," she said, smiling. "Tomorrow. With Shyla. We can discuss everything then."
"But you will stay?" he whispered. "Stay with me. Be with me."
She gazed at him, those mismatched eyes serene. She stroked his cheek and pressed her lips tenderly to his.
"Yes," she said. "I will, love. I will be with you."
She tucked herself in close, and Conall held her, relishing her warmth, listening to her breathe.
"We will all be...together."
He nodded in wordless agreement, and rested his head beside hers.
They lay quietly in the dark, and after some time her breathing turned soft and even. Conall smiled as he shut his eyes too, inhaling the scent of her.
His angel...his Cemetery Doll.
Finally come home.
Thank You For Reading
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About the Author
The story of His Cemetery Doll has been waiting to be told since Brantwijn Serrah first began jotting things down in her school notebooks instead of doing her homework. Conall Mackay and his lady ghost have existed for Brantwijn, in some form or another, longer than almost any other characters she's collected. This tale of a haunted graveyard and imprisoned beauty is, in Brantwijn's opinion, a wonderful way to finally bring them to life.
When she isn't visiting the worlds of immortals, demons, dragons and goblins, Brantwijn fills her time with artistic endeavors: sketching, painting, customizing My Little Ponies and sewing plushies for friends. She can't handle coffee unless there's enough cream and sugar to make it a milkshake, but try and sweeten her tea and she will never forgive you. She moonlights as a futon for four lazy cats, loves tabletop role-play games, and can spend hours watching Futurama, Claymore or Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she writes or draws.
His Cemetery Doll Page 17