by L. C. Son
“Well, it’s good to see you too,” he replies still smiling. His steely gray eyes search my face and I wait to see him do what most men do but he does not. Not once do his eyes fall to my cleavage and the thought alone puzzles me.
Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive.
Just that thought alone worries me, and I feel like I’m back in front of Decaux Marchand all over again. I have no desire to be rejected again.
“Actually, my lady, I came to bring you this,” he says handing me my leather folio. “Oliver was still holding it for you when you left. I met up with your driver and we found you here.”
Looking out of the window, I am surprised to find Austin standing outside with the carriage. While I’m not sure how either of them found me so fast, I am more than pleased to see my way out of this more than uncomfortable situation.
“Oh, thank you!” I quickly reply, snatching the folio from his hand and tossing it over my shoulder. “Um, thanks—um—I—I should go.”
No sooner than the words leave my lips, I race out of the bakery as the parting sounds of both Master St. John and the bakery attendant trail behind me. Almost knowing my mood, Austin flings the carriage door open and steps aside, giving me the space I so obviously require.
Moving with speed akin to Mercury, Austin has us back at the estate in what seems like mere minutes. I had little time to ponder the events of the day as both embarrassment and kindling rage held their sway over me.
My thoughts are still erratic as I rush back inside the mansion and even Greta allows the necessary space between us as I make my tearful way back to my suite.
Once I’m inside my room, I whirl around the room a few times, parading like a bull stampede. As if hearing how the locals still regard my family wasn’t enough, my encounter with Elias troubles me on every level.
I try to recall Dalcour’s reasoning for sparing his life, but my memory of his words is faint. I can think of no true reason such a trespass be made allowable.
Pulling the pins out of my bun, I shake my hair free to my shoulders as a loud scream churns through me. I don’t feel like myself. I feel out of sorts.
Holding onto my chest of drawers, I look in the mirror, heaving a loud sigh as I bang my hands along the wooden frame of the chest. Looking at my reflection, I gaze into my eyes and work hard to stifle my ire.
Calm down Chartreuse. Repeating, I whisper the words to myself, shutting my eyes in hopes I can quiet the screaming of my heart’s cry.
Opening my eyes once more, I am startled at the harrowing phantoms gazing back at me. Frightened, I step back, quickly closing my eyes and reopening them in one blink, hopeful the images before me are only in my mind.
But I am wrong.
“Had your chance, you did not take. Now with time your heart will break. Bound not sired, will seal your fate, if this form to new you do not make.” Their haunting chant rattles my room with a ghastly wind that stirs around me, sending chilling tingles up my spine.
Confused, I shout back, “What is the meaning of all this? Speak plainly!” I furiously demand. This time I am not the same woman who cowered before them on the cold concrete floor some nights ago.
The wind blows around the room again, and I keep a tight hold on the wooden chest as I do my best to keep my sights fixed on the Changelings in the mirror before me.
“Plainly we will speak, but not so again. Listen well, or thy shall surely meet your end,” the gangly creatures echo in unison.
One Changeling moves closer in the mirror. As it does, I see a face, reminiscent of a woman, break through its shadowy veil.
“What have you done to me? What do you want?” I yell.
A dark smile stretches her face, revealing black lips with only a hollowed inside to match. “All we have done, precious one, is given you the power you so desperately seek to protect yourself. Yet, when opportunity presents itself, you did not do what was in your power to perform.”
“You mean kill Elias Peyroux? Is that what you want from me? Why? How does it benefit you?” I bite back, less fearful than I know I should be.
“We need nothing from you, nor does his death benefit us. It is what you wanted. It is what you always wanted!”
“Lies!” I shout back. “I knew nothing of Elias Peyroux until the day you first showed him to me. I could have gone my entire life without ever hearing that name. But you did this! You drove murder into my mind to kill that man!”
“Whatever murder lingers in your mind was there long before we ever laid sight to your cause,” she answers in a surprisingly soft tone. “Still, it matters not,” she continues, and her voice darkens. “You shall never take life from Elias as it was taken from you.”
“If I wanted to kill him, I would.” I state, the resolve in my response is certain.
“Not so, my precious one. Your Lord Marchand took that choice from you the day he bound his words to your steps.”
As she speaks, the other Changeling waves her hand and images of me with Dalcour on the night of my siring form before me. “Nor shall he or his kin ever receive such a punishment by your hand—swear it to me!” I watch in both confusion and horror as I yield to Dalcour’s decree.
“Ah! Now she sees. Now she knows. Altrinion compulsion, her heart now woes.” The phantom cackles in glee.
“Yes, precious one, with his bond, your young lord sealed your doom. Now you are trapped. Bound to never take from he who took from you. Perhaps somehow you may still avenge yourself from your fate.”
“How can I? I knew nothing of Altrinion compulsion. Dalcour tricked me!”
“Deceived? Perhaps. You should have asked.” Laughing, both Changelings converge back to one being.
“And I should have asked you the same!” I snap. “What witchery have you also doomed my soul?”
The ghastly wind rips once more through my room and the mirrored view before me darkens. Shrilling sounds like a thousand voices echo in my ears and I look in the mirror only to see my own soulless, black eyes staring back at me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
What have I done?
My disconsolate heart lies dormant at my feet. Knowing I alone have brought such calamity upon myself is my own undoing. Whether it be due to my fear of powerlessness or revenge, I alone made dealings in the dark that cannot be undone.
Once more, the Changelings repeat the same enchanted words that have haunted my heart since that night. And for the first time the meaning of it all makes sense. Through the shrouded and murky view of the Changelings in my mirror, I discovered the depravations of my dealings with their kind.
Firstly, my doom. From the moment I ingested their filth, I have only thirty days to complete my turning. If I fail to complete my turning—if Dalcour does not return in time—I shall meet my end in death. “Bound not sired, will seal your fate, if this form to new you do not make.” The binding of the Changelings to human form, only lasts for a short while. Since I am mortal, their dark power would wholly consume me beyond the brink of death.
Second, I learned of Altrinion compulsion. “The bonding sires and sirens must groom but binding hearts will seal your doom.” As my sire, Dalcour can compel me to his submission. Whatever he wills, so it shall be. As such, he has commanded no harm shall come to a Peyroux by my hand. In this, I will never have my revenge against the one whose betrayal brought about my sister’s demise. However, there is some consolation. Once I am turned and the power of the Changeling take rule, I will no longer be subject to his control. While it doesn’t help in my quest against Elias Peyroux, it does assuage my angst a little.
Third, I am bound by Changeling rule never to harm women. “Maiden kind you may subdue, yet only for measure of mortal feud.” Apparently, it’s open season on men. The phantoms gave no room for questions, but from what I can gather, they find the male species deplorable. I suppose I can relate.
And finally, while their riddled musings still stir more questions in my mind than
answers, I know one thing is certain. I shall be no mere Scourge or vampire. I will be something more.
And now I know the truth.
Or at least the truth as they describe it.
My truth, on the other hand, is that I have indeed dug a deeper hole for myself than I thought capable.
So yes, my heart is disconsolate.
Hollow and void.
Not even thoughts of my precious sister Chalmette stir the longings of my heart as it has before. Hanging my feet off my bed, I sit and stare at the darkness surrounding me, fearful of what more ominous outcomes await me. If Dalcour should delay his arrival by even a day, death shall be the victor. If he should complete my transition, I know not what vile thing I shall become by the Changeling’s hand. And if there should be an in between of the matter, it has yet to be revealed to me. For I surely doubt there is yet a mediatory home for the dark quandary that is my soul.
A thin sliver of the sun’s light beams beneath the dark curtains, making a straight line to the door. Lifting my head slowly, I realize I’ve sat on this corner of the bed for hours. After crying myself asleep, I only managed an hour or two of sleep once the tormenting cackle of the Changelings faded from my view.
Even then, slumber was no comfort. Frightful images of the phantoms, a dark nether world, and flickers of death and pain served me nothing but a cocktail of nightmares, forcing me out from under the covers, holding tight to wooden post at my bed’s end.
As much as I hate to admit it, Mother was right. My dealings with Dalcour will likely lead to the same outcome as Calida; or worse.
A loud chime rings aloud in my room as the clock strikes noon, and for the first time I realize how much time has passed.
Looking around the room, tears flood my eyes once more, and I am surprised I have anything left to cry. I gaze over my shoulder to the large armoire and wonder if I could stuff a few clothes in a duffle and make my way out of the mansion without notice.
Greta hasn’t come to my door to alert me for breakfast. Or she has, and in my misery, I didn’t hear her. Either way, it stands to reason I may be able to escape. If I could but find somewhere to evade the evitability of facing Dalcour or encountering the Changelings once more, I would be happy. Perhaps, I could flee to behold my sister’s perfect face one last time, before taking my repose away from the leading strings held by Dalcour and the Changelings.
I need to get out of here!
Pushing myself up and away from the bed, I circle about the room in one frantic motion, tossing whatever I can find into a small duffle. Racing into the adjacent bath, I clean myself, hopeful to excise my puffy eyes and tear-worn face. I scrub everything my eyes can see and brush my hair to one side. I don’t even have energy to gather it in pins.
Staring in the mirror, I am thankful for the lingering effects of the siring. The supernatural sheen along my skin and flawlessness of my perfection help to douse the real sadness brewing within me. Anything that will keep anyone from spying the brokenness of my soul is helpful.
Tossing on a dark blue frock and light black cape, I trust this ensemble will help me remain elusive as I travel about. I have no desire to gain attention or suspicion.
Quietly, I crack open the door of my suite and listen. I am thankful I hear no one on my level nor do I detect the aroma of Greta making food in the kitchen.
Maybe she is off today, I think to myself, hopeful.
It doesn’t matter. I need to leave this place.
I take light steps down the stairs, careful not to make a sound. Looking over my shoulder, I gaze back upstairs and down through the hallway and see no one. Taking a deep breath, I sigh, saddened this is now my only recourse. I smile as I stare around the mansion, thankful for even the brevity of relief I had away from the saloon.
Even more, my heart rejoices knowing my precious Chalmette found some semblance of happiness with her beloved. And while I don’t wish to sully their honeymoon, I only need to put my eyes to her face once more. After that, I can fall into whatever dark slumber awaits me at the Changeling’s behest.
Exhaling, I open the mansion door as quietly as I can, careful not to move the bell string, alerting the house to my departure. Before I have a moment to take in the early afternoon’s air, I am surprised to find Master St. John standing with Greta on the lawn.
“Good day, Madame Chartreuse,” Greta says with a sweet smile. Her dancing eyes flit over her shoulder toward Master St. John as he stands with a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. She nods gracefully, with her hands clasped at her waist and exits toward the south lawn.
“Thank you for your aid Greta,” Master St. John calls to her as she rounds the corner of the mansion. Surprise fills me as I notice another carriage in front of the gate, and I see Austin and another attendant chatting next to their respective horses. “Well, Madame Chartreuse, you seem to have caught me a bit off guard. I hadn’t finished setting up everything,” he adds.
“Master St. John?” I question, uncertainty welling within me.
“Sebastian, please. Master St. John is so formal, and I am certainly a master to no man or woman for that matter,” he says with a wide smile that expands the entirety of his face.
“Okay, Sebastian it is,” I begin, still unsure what is happening. “But I suppose I don’t understand—what’s going on here?”
Extending his hand to lead me down the steps, he smiles and the sheen between his mustache and lips call to me in ways that are both unexpectant and entreating. “Well, I suppose that is what I meant when I said you caught me off guard. I had hoped to have everything ready for you out on the terrace before you arrived. But seeing you now, I’m thankful to have the chance to escort you myself. That is, if you are fine with the idea,” he says, looping his arm with mine and pulling me close to his side.
Leading us down the marble stone path along the side of the mansion as he speaks, I am shocked to see a small table arranged on the terrace with an assortment of cheese, wine, pastry, and smoked meats.
“Sebastian, what is all of this?” I ask.
“First, these are for you,” he smiles, handing me the small bouquet. “Greta helped me pick them from the garden.”
“Thank you,” I answer, taking a small whiff of the bouquet’s floral scent. “But why?”
“Wow, not much for surprises, eh?” He asks with a raised brow as his smile shifts to the corner of his mouth in the sexiest way possible. Parting my lips to protest, he tugs my hand gently, leading us closer to the table. Pulling a small white metal chair from the table, he takes the bouquet from me and puts in a glass vase Greta places in front of my table setting.
“I’ll take this from you madame,” Greta quietly says in my ear, pulling the duffle from under my arm. She winks at me as she walks away, sauntering back into the kitchen.
Walking to the opposite side of me, Sebastian pulls out his chair and sits down. Taking a linen napkin from the table, he folds it over his lap and smiles back at me. “Yes, well, my apologies for catching you off guard, but when you didn’t show at the museum this morning, I got worried. Especially after how everything ended yesterday.”
“Oh,” I mumble. The museum totally slipped my mind. And after everything I experienced last night, I haven’t given much thought to what happened with Henrik and Thaddeus.
“Listen, I really want to apologize for both Henrik and Thaddeus. Their actions are more than regrettable.”
“Please, Sebastian, believe me when I say, their actions are quite forgettable,” I mutter, circling my fingers along the large stone white plate before me.
“I truly hope so.” Sebastian’s steely gray eyes lock with mine and everything in me freezes in place. A small wind blows and his curly hair waves to one side and he smiles, strumming his hand through his hair, taming it back in place. He looks almost boyish as he does and a small smile creeps through my otherwise gloomy state.
There is a lightness to his presence I have never known.
Whether it be men from the saloon, or the ones I’ve known in this supernatural world, I have only ever been privy to the uptight, crude, or overly dutiful. He is an enigma to me. Something new entirely.
Still smiling, he reaches across the table and grabs a small basket of three bottles of wine. “Besides, I had hoped you and I could discuss wine selections and cheese pairings for the baskets. Oliver seemed to think you knew a great deal about wines.”
“Oh, I am so sorry Master—I mean Sebastian, I forgot I was supposed to meet Oliver this morning. It’s just been so—”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Chartreuse—I can call you Chartreuse, right?” He adds with a sexy smirk.
“Why—um—well—of course.”
“Good, I’d rather there not be formalities between us, Chartreuse,” he begins, his stare deepening into mine. “And to be fair, you were never going to be working on this with Oliver anyway. My family owns the wine press. So you were stuck with this old face at any rate. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you, my lady,” he states in a more controlled and lush tone, his gaze still set sharp.
“No, not at all,” I reply, my tone husky.
“Perfect,” he says, moving his hands across the table far enough that his fingertips touch my own, halting my circling pattern. “But first, I need to share two things with you.” He pulls a small white box from behind the basket and puts it on the plate in front of me. “Open it,” he directs me, pulling off the small yarn string holding the box closed.
I do as he instructs, and my eyes widen with surprise at the reveal of the contents. Two croissants and four biscuits. My order from the bakery yesterday. Looking up at him, I gasp. “Sebastian!”
Reaching across the table, he takes my hand in his and squeezes it as the familiar boyish grin covers his face. “Well, first my lady, an apology.”
“An apology?” I tilt my head, curious. I’ve never known apologies to fare well for me.
“Yes, an apology. This is a new and fresh box. I ate the croissants and made quite a mess of the biscuits you got yesterday. So, I thought it only proper to bring you a fresh box. The apology and the amends of the fresh box are the first things.”