She bit his hand.
A growl burst from him, and then she could not breathe, for he had pushed her down to the bed, his hand now clamped around her throat. She clawed at him, at his hands, struggling to draw in air, then kicked at him. He moved quickly aside, a practiced move, and Catherine wondered with horror if he had done this before.
“I will release you—slowly. You will tell me what I want to know. If you tell me, I will be generous.”
She could feel the blood pulsing in her ears, her senses fading into black, but managed to nod. He released his grip, and she coughed as she gasped for air, but he still kept her immobile with his body on top of hers.
“There is a power in the household of the de la Fers,” he said. “I have sensed it, and I desire to have it. I have heard that the blade that pierced the side of Jesus of Nazareth passed through this house, and then nothing was heard of it since. If anywhere, it is here. The power is stronger around you than anyone else here. Therefore you must have it.” He looked deep into her eyes and reached between them, pulling out the amulet. “You will tell me where it is.”
He was mad. She had no power. Neither did she know of any in her household who did. If she had had any, she would have used it to render her father and her uncle powerless.
The marquis must have caught something of her thoughts in her expression, for he smiled ironically. “What, did you think I desired to marry you because of your looks? You rate yourself too high.” His hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look at the amulet again. “You will tell me where the source of power is.”
The tendrils of darkness drew her will to the amulet again. She twisted against him to get away, but it did nothing but make his eyes half close and let out a soft breath. “Yes, I will be generous if you tell me.” He moved his hips against her. “Be still, and tell me.”
She wanted to vomit. “I . . . don’t know. I know nothing about power,” she said, struggling for control over her fear and her roiling stomach.
“Don’t lie. Your will is strong, but it will break in time. I will make sure of it.” He pulled up her nightdress and trapped her hands above her head.
“No, no, don’t, please, mon Dieu, Jesu, Marie—!”
Anger flamed in his eyes at last, and he put his hand over her mouth again. “Don’t say those things. Tell me about the power, the blade.”
The blade—was it the dagger her aunt had given her? But it was the only thing that would help her escape. She remembered she had put it under her pillow—but he had her hands trapped, she could not get it—
She got one hand loose from his at last, but it was useless, for he forced her to look at the amulet again, and her muscles went lax.
“Tell me about the blade of power.”
“I . . . have . . . no . . . blade of power.” The words came through her lips, stiff and sounding so harsh it seemed not her own voice.
The marquis stared at her for a moment, his body stilled and resting against hers. “Then there is no dagger. And yet I still sense the power strongly about you. I sensed it from your cousin, as well.”
The amulet’s influence faded enough for Catherine to close her eyes briefly in despair. It was true, then. The marquis had indeed taken her cousin Jeanette and perhaps killed her, killed her for some indefinable power neither she knew nor anyone else had told her of.
“You are mad!” she cried, gasping. “I know nothing about this power.”
He forced her to look at the amulet again. “Tell me that you have no power, mademoiselle. Tell me, and I will make this pleasurable for you.” He moved against her, touching her in her secret places, and her forced gaze into the amulet caught a red spark in its depths that seeped into her loins, enflaming them and making her press herself into him against her will.
“No!” she cried. She felt ill. She opened her mouth to tell him she knew of no power within her, but no words came forth. They were stuck in her throat—out of terror, out of pain, out of despair, she knew not what.
“So I thought. There is power in the de la Fer women, if not in the men, and I will take it now,” de Bauvin said, and thrust himself inside her.
Pain. Screams. The prickling in Catherine’s hands became sharp as knives, and she jerked as if she were newly beaten.
She could not see. Darkness enveloped her, though she fought and fought and fought the pain, the darkness, and the terror. The palms of her hands were pierced with agony, dispelling the red darkness, and she opened her eyes and saw her hands become fists, striking the man above her. Pain again as he hit her, and hands fell above her head on the pillow.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing. She was Catherine de la Fer, of an old and noble family, but she could do nothing. The place between her legs burned harshly; even moving a little brought more pain, so she did nothing . . . but keep herself from weeping. She would not do that. No, she would not give him that satisfaction, at least.
She turned her head and looked away as he worked on her . . . she felt as if she were not in her body, as if she had somehow floated away. She wished she did not have a body, not this one, not this one so full of pain.
She wished she were dead.
Pain lanced her again, the palms of her hands, her back, and now her womb. She glanced at him and looked away—the marquis’s eyes were closed and his face harsh, his amulet . . .
The amulet had ceased its hold on her. De Bauvin was not looking at her, was not asking about the power or the dagger . . .
The dagger. Slowly she moved her hand beneath the pillow, remembering her aunt’s words to kill herself rather than be the wife of de Bauvin. Her hand felt metal, then the haft of the knife that had fit her hand so well earlier. It fit well now.
The marquis had asked her about her power—she had it not then, but somehow her hand struck and struck again, hard, she knew not how many times.
He only groaned, stiffening once, then was a dead weight. She struggled under him, pushing him forcefully away, and his head struck hard against the corner of the bed table and then against the floor.
Catherine rose to her knees on the bed, the knife still in her hand. There should be screams and cries now, there should be alarms sounding. But no sound came to her ears except the snapping of the fire in the hearth and her breath coming harsh through her teeth.
There was blood. Blood on her gown, blood on the bed, blood flowing from her hands—had she cut her hands with the knife? She did not know.
All she knew was that she was not Catherine de la Fer any longer. She was not the girl who was about to be married, she was someone else whose body was different, whose soul was not the same as it was.
She looked at the dagger in her hand that did not seem to be her hand; it was a stranger’s, for it was covered in blood. The dagger dropped from the hand to the bed—see, it could not be her hand, for it was numb, and she felt nothing.
Nothing but a terrifying ache between her thighs—no, no, she would not think of that. Her back did not pain her, or the palms of her hands, and that was good.
She moved to the edge of the bed and slipped from it to the floor, stumbling on something that lay there. The guttering candlelight flickered over the floor and the body slumped against the bedside table. Blood shimmered in a pool next to it.
Nausea filled her throat and she spewed her supper on the floor.
Jesu, Marie. God help her.
Panic rose. She had to get away. She could not stay here. Her father would beat her if he found out what she had done—
An hysterical laugh cut off her thoughts. Her father’s beating would be nothing compared to what she would receive. She had killed the Marquis de Bauvin. The thought pierced her numbness, and flooded her with fear. He was an important man, with connections at the king’s court. She was nothing, less than nothing. She would be taken away, imprisoned, executed for murder.
She wanted to die, she deserved to die, but the thought of being imprisoned, of being cut off from the open air, perhaps to be beaten again
—
The stench of her vomit came to her, and she realized she was on her hands and knees on the floor, in the same way she had been on the bed when de Bauvin had forced her will to his. She forced herself to her feet, her knees shaking. No. No. She could not let herself be imprisoned in a lightless cell, and she would never be beaten again. She would not let anyone touch her.
She looked about her again. It was dark and quiet. Someone had screamed; it should have roused the servants, but she heard no voices, no running feet. She swallowed nervously—her throat hurt.
She had screamed. She shook her head dully. No, it was someone else, someone who had belonged here. She did not belong here, she was sure.
There was a bowl on the washstand near the fire, and water within. She would wash herself there, and she would leave this place.
She worked steadily, washing and cleaning, and setting the bed as neatly as she could. There was nothing she could do about the man on the floor, or the blood. She would leave it for the servants.
She had to leave. She took the dagger and washed it carefully, then put it in a velvet bag she found on the bedside table. There was something else in the bag—yes, money. A lady had given her money so that she could go away, and the lady had given her something else—ah, the dagger, a rosary, and a cross. She put her hand between her breasts and pulled up the cross in front of her eyes. It lay over a wound in the palm of her hand. She frowned. She must have cut herself somehow . . . but no matter; the wound faded, and the skin of her hand became smooth.
She tucked the cross between her breasts again.
She knew there were men’s clothes in the wardrobe next to the fireplace. Someone . . . someone named Catherine had put then there at one time when she wanted to practice fighting.
It was fitting that she put these on; she was not as she was before. She tucked the bag and the dagger in one pocket of the coat she put on, put on sturdy shoes, and left the room.
The hallway was quiet; the people who lived in this house must be asleep, she thought. She walked down the stairs and past an open door.
It was an armory. A vague remembrance of some unpleasantness came to her regarding this room, but she pushed it aside. It would be good to have some kind of protection, she thought. She remembered she had learned something about weapons.
The candles were faint in their sconces, but she could make out the various weapons on the wall. Daggers—she had one already, so needed none. But there was a fine rapier she remembered she had used once, and she took it in her hand. It felt comfortable, and strength seemed to flow into her from it. She also took a belt and a scabbard, for she could not let damage occur to such a valuable weapon. She settled the belt around her, slipping the rapier into the scabbard, and as she walked, the scabbard rested in a satisfying way against her hip.
The summer night air was cool but not overly so, and she was thankful for that. She walked to the stables. If she were to leave quickly, she would need to take a horse. She halted at the entrance for a moment, listening for movement, but there was none. She supposed the stable boys were probably sound asleep. She went inside to a stall that contained a familiar horse. It nickered at her, and she stilled, looking about her in case the noise might have wakened anyone. But nothing stirred.
She took the mare and wrestled a saddle on it. When she went astride, a sharp pain formed between her legs, and an echoing fear, but it only made her dig her heels into the horse’s sides and ride away as fast as she could from the memory.
Memory . . . Catherine forced herself to remember everything, even review once again the dream of her rape. De Bauvin had tried to take her power from her, and now he might try to take what power Blanche might have, in the same way. She knew he must be the one who had cursed her so; did not Père Doré say that one way of identifying a sorcerer was if an affliction disappeared upon touching that sorcerer? All her memories had returned when she had at last touched de Bauvin’s hand that evening she had returned home.
Catherine pressed trembling hands to her face. Jesu, Marie, what was she to do? De Bauvin wished to take some power that she had—he had thought it was in a dagger, but she did not know of any that contained power. But she did know that the supernatural had touched her and that she recovered from her wounds very quickly, more quickly than anyone else, and that she gained strength in only a few weeks once Jack had found her. It spoke of some kind of power within her, or about her, and perhaps that was what the marquis was after.
She did not know much about such power or of sorcery, but there must be some reason de Bauvin wanted to wed Blanche when she, Catherine, had disappeared. It was clear to her in the week since she had returned that the de la Fers’ financial affairs were not as stable as the fine clothes and cutlery they owned seemed to imply. Certainly the marquis was far more wealthy than the de la Fers. He could have his pick of brides, as noble as she, and more rich.
Therefore, he wanted something else the de la Fers had, and it must be the power he had spoken of. And if he was willing to wed Blanche, then it meant she, also, had it, as well. She thought of the marquis’s character and what she had heard of him from her poor aunt. He was not the sort to simply seek power only to hold it. He was someone who would use it and wield it. She remembered the conversations Jack would have with Fichet about the affairs of countries, and remembered the reason why her own King of France kept his nobles so close at court—so that he could keep his eye on them. She swallowed. Surely the marquis did not think to take the king’s power, as had the nobles during the Fronde revolt a decade ago?
Catherine forced herself to think over when she had the first manifestations of supernatural forces. She had never been aware of it growing up, nor as a young woman. It was only after she had been . . . violated. She closed her eyes and forced her body to relax, and her mind to be objective. It was only after she had been subjected to the marquis’s violence that she had found the strength to stab him and shove his body from hers onto the floor.
She swallowed. There had been much blood. Blood on the sheets, on the floor, some of it hers and some of it de Bauvin’s. The household must have known of it, for there was not one spot of it on the floor or on the bed when she returned. Someone had ordered it cleaned, but no one had mentioned the incident to her, and except for Blanche, who was at the convent at the time, everyone must have known. Including her brother.
She wondered how her father had died. She remembered now his blustering, his bullying abuse. She was glad her brother was not like that, at least not on the surface. But if her brother had known of her stabbing of de Bauvin, why then did he not tell her he knew, and why did he consent to have the marquis wed Blanche instead?
Either Adrian must know and approve of whatever de Bauvin planned to do with the power that existed in her or Blanche, or he was under de Bauvin’s arcane control. Either way, she could not mention anything to him of what she knew. She had to pretend that she still did not remember anything and find out why it was that Adrian had said nothing of the incident, and why de Bauvin still desired to marry into her family.
Catherine looked about her room, then rose from her bed and went to the window. She could hear a rooster crow in the distance—it must be the morning, though she could see no light on the horizon. Her brother had insisted they would go to Versailles to be presented to the king soon, though he had not stated exactly when.
So far, the marquis had not visited either Blanche or her for any long length of time, for which she was thankful. She wondered what he waited for, if he wanted the power that existed in her and in Blanche. He had not hesitated to try to seize it before when he—
She put away the memory for now. She had gone over it with as much objectivity as possible, and had even controlled her fear. She allowed herself to feel a bit of pride in that—she had vowed she would control her fear, and she had. Felice would be proud of her, she thought.
She wished she were back at the inn, with Felice and Fichet, and . . . and Jack.
S
he wished he had not gone, but she had as good as pushed him away. She had not wanted him to stay, thinking that she had been the source of the supernatural attacks.
Now she knew she was not. She groaned. It was just as well that Jack had not stayed; he could not love such an idiot as she was. She looked out the window again—useless. He would not come for her, although he might come back for the money her brother had promised him. She had made it clear she wished to stay at her home and that he was to go on . . . and he was at the beck and call of his king, after all. No, he would not return for her, but he might, to claim funds for his king. She could hope for that.
She found herself watching the darkness; she was not sure for what, exactly. Jack, perhaps, though she knew it was foolish. If she were to watch the night, it would be better if she looked for an intruder.
She turned back to her bed and flipped over the pillow. Her dagger was there, and her rapier beneath the bed. She was better prepared now to defend herself than she had been before. She knew how to use both a dagger and a sword.
Her expertise was something she kept hidden from her family, and of course de Bauvin. The less they knew of her training, the better. Her brother had seen her practice, but she made sure she looked clumsy at it, and had been so successful, he had laughed at her. She had grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and asked that he humor her, which he had.
She replaced the pillow and gazed out the window again. She frowned. Something moved out there, shifting back and forth in a pattern she remembered, and dread crept up from her stomach to her throat. She made herself lean forward and peered into the dark.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and her hands began to prickle with pain.
It was the demon, she was sure of it. Catherine gritted her teeth against the pain that seeped into her back, and ran to her bed, taking out her sword from under it. If it came to the house . . .
Dark Enchantment Page 20