Crimson Bound

by Rosamund Hodge

  “Yes,” she said, because she knew it would hurt him. “I told you I was still a bloodbound. What did you expect?”

  “Well, then go ahead. Kill me whenever you want.” His voice was quietly contemptuous. “It’s the only thing you know how to do. Kill to please the forestborn and kill to please the King and kill for your beloved d’Anjou.”

  “At least I’ve never pretended otherwise,” she snapped.

  “Oh yes.” His mouth curved in a thin, ferocious smile. “Your sad little lost soul that you can’t stop talking about. Forgive me if I feel more pity for the people you killed.”

  It felt like there were fishhooks sliding under her ribs. “I never asked for your pity.”

  “Oh no, of course not. That would make you less special, wouldn’t it, if you were just another sinner needing pity. No, you have to be the daughter of the devil himself before you’re satisfied. You cry and you cry about your lost innocence, but the truth is, you love being this way. You love believing that you’re damned because then you can do anything you want. Because you’re too much of a coward to face what you’ve done and live with it.”

  She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him, and for a moment she imagined pressing the blade home, imagined the blood spurting everywhere, slippery and then sticky between her fingers. It was so real, she could almost taste it. And she could taste the black despair sliding down her throat afterward.

  She knew that if she killed him, the next thing she would do was turn the sword on herself.

  Her heart pounded with longing for destruction, with terror that she wanted it so much.

  She lowered the blade. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

  “Don’t say another word.” She grabbed his wrist. “If you want to live a moment longer, don’t say another word.”

  He must have believed her. Because he didn’t say anything as she dragged him away.

  She took him back to Erec. By then the uprising had already been put down: it wasn’t a true rebellion, just an attempt to snatch Armand out of the Château. Half the soldiers involved had already fled; the rest were dead or captured.

  Erec babbled something smug and smiled at Armand. Rachelle didn’t listen. She just shoved Armand at Erec and said, “Lock him up.” The words scraped at her throat.

  “I’ll put him somewhere safe,” said Erec. “We’ll discuss this in my study.”

  Rachelle turned and fled back to her rooms. She had to check, in case Armand had been lying about that too, but she already knew what she would find.

  Joyeuse was gone.

  Her only hope of stopping the Devourer. Everyone’s only hope. It was all gone, because she had been stupid enough to trust Armand.

  “Rachelle? What happened?”

  Amélie stood in the doorway, eyes wide. An hour ago, she had been drinking hot chocolate with Rachelle and Armand, and suddenly Rachelle wanted to weep.

  “There was trouble,” she said, and took a step toward her. “Are you—”

  Amélie flinched and took a quick little gasping breath. She didn’t move to hug Rachelle the way she always did, she didn’t ask if she was all right.

  And then Rachelle realized: Amélie was terrified. Of her.

  Finally, after three years, Amélie had woken up and realized what sort of monster she had decided to call a friend.

  Rachelle’s shoulders slumped. “Go,” she said. “Just get out, now.” She closed her eyes. “Go back to your mother and stay safe. It’s only going to get worse.”

  She heard Amélie draw a little shuddering breath. She heard her footsteps run out of the room. But she didn’t open her eyes until she was gone, because she couldn’t bear to watch.

  Then she left and started walking in the direction of Erec’s study. Her skin felt too small for her body, like it was stretched tight over her skeleton and every joint scraped against it as she moved. She wanted to claw herself apart right now, limb from limb and bone from broken bone, until there was nothing left.

  Forgive me if I feel more pity for the people you killed.

  Even while he’d kissed her, he’d despised her. Exactly the way she’d always deserved to be despised.

  I’ve killed a few, she thought viciously, but he’s killed us all. I’ll let him see the Devourer rise, and then I’ll kill him.

  She had the right to hate him for stealing Joyeuse. It wasn’t any comfort.

  In Erec’s study, opulence pressed down like the weight of a mountain. The walls were papered in gold and red, hung with gilt-framed paintings of naked, allegorical women. The vast cherrywood desk was carved with a multitude of curlicues. Flowering marble columns held up the mantelpiece over the fireplace.

  Rachelle paced back and forth. She wanted to stop thinking of Armand, but she kept remembering the soft sound of his breathing, her hands winding yarn around his fingers, his mouth against hers. If she hadn’t loved him, she could forgive him. If he hadn’t been right about her, she could forgive him. But she had and he was and now she couldn’t seem to stop remembering his words to her over and over, feeling sicker each time.

  Finally Erec strode into the room. “Well, I think we’ve put them all away,” he said. “It was a very little plot. To be honest, I’d expected more of our dear saint.”

  “What are we doing with him?” asked Rachelle.

  “Annoying as it is—if we can stop the news getting out that he was involved, we’ll probably keep him the same way as before, because he’s just so useful. And unfortunately, nobody has yet implicated the Bishop.”

  “I can’t guard him again,” she said.

  Erec stepped closer. His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Oh, my dear lady,” he said. “Did you start to trust him?”

  “No,” Rachelle snapped.

  Start was such a short, small word for all the trust she’d given him. She hadn’t realized how much she’d trusted him until now—now when he hated her, when the memories of him were stuck beneath her skin like needles and poison.

  “You can’t blame me,” Erec went on reasonably. “I didn’t tell you to be so kind to him.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m only saying—”

  Rachelle grabbed the back of his head and kissed him, as savagely as her forestborn had once kissed her.

  Erec kissed her back, and then at last the memories fled away. It was like fighting—not because of how fiercely he was kissing her, but because the world narrowed down to a single white-hot moment where she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember, could only feel and react. When he finally released her, she staggered back a step.

  And the memories were there again. She could still see Armand looking at her. It wasn’t enough.

  “Eloquent, but hardly informative. What are you trying to tell me? Is something wrong?” He raised an eyebrow, unruffled as ever.

  Rachelle’s heart was pounding. Her body was a clanging discord of hate and grief and raw desire. She’d told herself again and again that she had too much pride to give in to Erec. But what was the use of pride? She was just the king’s mad dog, kept on a leash until she grew dangerous enough to kill. She was just the scraps from the Devourer’s table, useful for killing him but never beloved.

  Too much of a coward to face what you’ve done.

  It was true. She still liked to believe there was something honorable about her. There wasn’t. She didn’t deserve to have anything good.

  If there was something good in her, she would tear it up right now.

  “What’s wrong,” she said, her voice low but clear, “is that I’m wearing clothes and you’ve stopped kissing me.”

  She really must have surprised him, because he was silent a moment before he laughed and said, “Love me or hate me, you’re never subtle. But you can’t expect me to stop and start at your demand.” He traced her cheek with a fingertip. “Maybe I don’t feel like enjoying you now.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Rachelle. “You are desperate for me.” Her fingers wrapped around his.
“You belong to me, just like I belong to you.”

  His mouth curved upward. The next moment he pinned her to the wall; Rachelle’s body shivered with something not quite fear, not quite desire.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You belong to me, and I don’t let go of what’s mine. But I still want to hear you say the words.” He leaned down till their noses were almost touching. “Tell me what you want, my lady.”

  She could feel his breath against her face. He was so close, and she was so tired of pretending there was anything right about her.

  “I will take your damned ruby,” she said. “But I won’t beg. And if you want me, you can stop talking and make me stop thinking. Or I leave now.”

  For a single, jagged instant, she thought he might refuse. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or hope that pounded through her heart.

  Then he grinned. “I will hold you to that, my lady,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Erec kept his word. He stopped talking, and she stopped thinking.

  But later—much later, when they lay tangled in his bed—Rachelle stared out at the darkness and couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop thinking. She could feel Erec’s breath against the back of her neck, his arm around her waist. His skin against hers. It didn’t seem real, and yet she could remember everything they had done with perfect clarity.

  She had resisted him for so long. She realized now that she had thought she would somehow stop existing if she finally gave in. Certainly her mother had always given her that impression when talking about girls who lost their virtue.

  But Rachelle should have known better. She was bloodbound, after all, and being bloodbound meant knowing how easily I could never turned into Yes, I will.

  Once upon a time, she would have sworn that she’d rather die than make a covenant with the forestborn, because if she did such an evil thing, she wouldn’t be herself anymore. Then she had discovered that her true self was quite willing to do any evil thing so long as she could live.

  She had, all along, been a girl who was willing to sleep with Erec d’Anjou. It had just taken her three years to admit it. And admitting it hadn’t allowed her to escape anything, because she could still remember Armand, and her eyes stung with useless, helpless tears as she remembered.

  WHEN VOLUND HAD FINISHED THE SWORDS, HE laid them in Zisa’s hands, and they took the form of needles. Back Zisa went to Old Mother Hunger, with the needles pinned in her skirt. There she found that Tyr’s cage was gone.

  “O my mother,” she said, “where is the creature I once called brother? Is he not still meant for the offering?”

  Old Mother Hunger laughed. The noise was like a storm of moths. “Surely you do not miss him,” she said.

  “What is any human to me but prey?” said Zisa. “But it is my duty to feed him.”

  “It is your duty to become one of us,” said Old Mother Hunger, and marked her with the black star. “Bring me the hearts of your father and mother. Do so, and you will live to see your brother-that-was when you bring him to the offering.”

  So Zisa returned to her icy black lake, and saw her tribe bow down and worship her. But not her father: he stood tall and proud, ocher streaked across his face and gold in his hair, as he said, “I welcome you, child of mine.”

  “Father,” she replied, “why did you offer us? Why do you serve the forestborn?”

  “It is the way of the world,” he said, “that the glorious rule the weak, and take what they like.”

  “That is true,” said Zisa. “And now I am glorious.”

  Before he took another breath, she sliced his head from his shoulders.

  The people trembled and were silent. But Zisa’s mother rose to her feet. Quietly she asked, “Does Tyr still remember his name?”

  “No, my mother-that-was,” said Zisa. “Now come to my side.”

  And her mother came to her.

  “He will remember it again,” Zisa whispered in her mother’s ear.

  “Then I can die in peace,” said her mother, and Zisa raised the sword to her neck.

  Zisa cut out the hearts of her mother and father and put them in a silver chest, and back she went to the only family she had left.

  “Now cook a soup and eat it with me,” said Old Mother Hunger.

  I tell you, there was nothing she would not do for her brother.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  She woke up when Erec pinched her cheek. “Good morning, my lady.”

  She batted his hand away and started to sit up. Then she realized that Erec’s servants were crowding into the room, and she was naked under the blankets. She dived back down even as Erec got up.

  “Getting up?” he asked.

  “No,” she growled.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, ignoring the men who were pulling his shirt on over his head, “my valets know how to help a lady put her clothes back on.”

  “No,” said Rachelle. “Send them away.”

  “You aren’t planning to wear clothes today? My, that will cause talk.”

  How could he be saying these things in front of everybody? But he was Erec d’Anjou: he wouldn’t hesitate to say anything in front of anybody, especially when “anybody” was the servants whose names he probably didn’t even remember.

  “I am not going to display myself in front of your servants,” she said.

  He slanted an ironic gaze over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown modest overnight.”

  There was nothing she could say that he wouldn’t make to sound even more foolish, so she curled up under the blankets and waited until he was done dressing and the servants had gone before she got up and dressed herself.

  Erec still watched her, but she couldn’t very well complain. She’d chosen this, hadn’t she? She had said she belonged to him. What right did she have to resent him?

  “Well?” he asked her as she laced up her shirt. “Was I worth the wait?”

  “No,” snapped Rachelle, because contradicting him was a habit that would take more than one night to break.

  “Then you shouldn’t have waited so long.”

  She threw a boot at his head. He caught it easily, and leaned forward to kiss her.

  Afterward, he hung the ruby pendant around her neck. The stone was as big as her thumbnail, a faceted, glittering teardrop that hung just below the mark on her throat.

  “Now all the world can see you’re mine,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re already planning how to show me off.”

  “Surely you don’t want me to hide you away.” Erec’s hand had rested on her shoulder; now he slid it up to cup the side of her neck. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture and she couldn’t help relaxing a little.

  She’d always hated the thought of being his prize on display. And yet now that it had happened . . . it was comforting to know that somebody was not ashamed of her.

  “But we can hold the grand display later,” Erec went on. “I have prisoners to question and you have . . .”

  “Nobody to guard anymore,” said Rachelle.

  Erec was silent, and she raised her eyebrows. “Or do I?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “We’re not going to reveal what he did just yet.”

  Because if people knew he had turned against the King, they might support him. She remembered the way Armand had looked at her last night, and she felt cold and hollow.

  She would have to face that loathing again. After she left Erec, as she wended her way back through the Château to her quarters, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She had to make Armand tell her where he had put Joyeuse. So she would have to face him again, and he would rake her with another one of his disdainful glances, and she felt absolutely sure that it would take him only one look at her to know what she’d done.

  He had never thought any better of her. Why should she care?

&n
bsp; She spent the day hunting for Joyeuse along every possible path from Armand’s rooms to where she had captured him. She found nothing, and she began to wonder if Armand had managed to dump it down a well. Or if he’d gotten someone to smuggle it out of the Château for him.

  The thought made her want to beat her head against the wall. She had been so close, and if only she hadn’t trusted him—

  He would have to tell her what he did with it, she decided. She would have to make him talk.

  That meant getting Erec to let her see him, and that meant keeping him happy. So when Erec told her that the King wanted to dine tête-à-tête with them that evening, she obediently went back to her room to dress.

  Sévigné helped her with both the clothes and cosmetics. It was no comfort now to sit still with someone painting beauty onto her face. With Amélie, it had meant that she was loved. Now it just felt like pretending.

  Amélie was gone from the Château. Rachelle had tried to avoid thinking of her all day, but now she couldn’t escape the memories: Amélie’s frightened eyes, the way she had flinched. And now she could understand what she hadn’t then: that Amélie was probably terrified because her friend had turned up gripping a sword and spattered with blood. Of course she’d been scared. And Rachelle had thrown her away because of it.

  At least she’d be with her mother when Endless Night fell. It was probably for the best.

  Erec turned up at her door just as Sévigné finished painting her. He kissed Rachelle’s fingers and said, “It’s a most enchanting illusion. You look almost like a lady.”

  “Almost?”

  Rachelle had seen herself in the mirror: skin rendered flawless by powder, the glistening red lips, the precise triangle of blush on her cheeks. Her dress was pale blue silk embroidered with roses; there were little silk roses in her hair and a tiny black velvet patch shaped like a rose on her cheek. She looked so much like a lady, she could hardly recognize herself.

  “Perhaps only because I know you,” he said. “Beneath the silk and lace, you are still a forest creature.”