Ghosts in the Snow (12 page)

She wanted to say "yes"—
oh, yes
!—but the debt chewed at her mind, as did the trouble she would face if anyone saw them. Instead of answering, she could only stammer. Helgith would have her hide for being seen with him two nights in a row, and the girls, especially the privy maids, would be even more horrid.

He smiled and held his hand out for her. "It's all right, Nella," he said. "I won't buy a thing. I promise. Not even a pie. I want to be sure you're safe."

"People will talk. And I've caused you enough trouble."

He stepped closer, close enough for her to breathe in the essence of him, close enough for him to pull her into his arms, and still he held his hand out for her. "They're only words, nothing more. And you've never caused me a bit of trouble. I promise."

She didn't know what to say, what to do. She was torn between her yearning for him and the crushing understanding of her position in life, even though he had tried to convince her that her status didn't matter. She was no one, he was everything, but he stood before her with his hand extended and his face glimmering in the candlelight. "Risley," she whispered, afraid to say more. She wanted to fall into his arms, wanted to run away in shame, but more than anything else she wanted to look into his eyes.

He smiled and took her hand, raising her fingertips to his lips before placing them on his arm. "Let's get you home."

She nodded, her eyes locked on his, and somehow her feet stayed beneath her. They had taken only a few steps when she glanced back to the candle cabinet. "Thank you for the wonderful service, Friar—"

The candle cabinet stood open, half of the candles put away, but Friar Bonne was nowhere to be seen. Far to her right she heard the rectory door close.

"Why would he leave?" she asked.

Risley chuckled beside her and his fingers stroked her hand on his arm. "I think he wanted to give us some privacy."

She blushed and shook her head. "I… I'm not sure privacy would be a good idea."

He stopped and turned to look at her. They stood in murky darkness near the middle of the temple, far beyond the light of the single lamp illuminating the altar. He lifted her hand, taking it within his own. "Why? Are you still afraid of me?" he asked, his voice soft and worried. "Because I'm a noble?"

She had been terrified of all nobles when she had met Risley. She had feared and hated him and the life he had been born into. But, Goddess, that seemed a lifetime ago. Her life in Pyrinn was like a memory of a bad dream. "No, of course not," she said, her eyes rising to search his in the dim light. She squeezed the warm strength of his hand. "I'm not good enough for you, is all."

He smiled then and leaned close, their foreheads touching. "You let me worry about that. All right?" His eyes looked deep into hers and his hand returned to her face; his fingers felt warm against the line of her jaw. "None of that matters to me. It never has."

She nodded, reluctant to pull her eyes away.

He watched her for a moment more and brought her hand to his lips again. "I can't stop thinking about you. I pray each day to get a glimpse of you, to hear your laughter in the crowd, to be brave enough to touch your cheek."

His fingers glided along the fragile bones of her face and she sighed, closing her eyes at the flickers of delight his touch gave her. She whispered his name and turned her face toward his palm, into the delicious scent of his skin.

"Can you forget the debt, Nella? Please?" His voice cracked and she opened her eyes. "I gave my word to you, to my Grandda, that I would wait."

"Until the debt was done, until I was free," she whispered.

His voice grew trembling and urgent. "Yes, but I don't know if I can. I can't get you out of my mind. I need to hold you, touch you,
kiss
you. Please, it's only money. It means nothing to me, but you mean everything. Please."

"I can't. I
have
to pay. Your grandfather ordered me to. If you won't take money, that only leaves flesh or death."

He shook his head and pulled away from her. "No. I won't. Not those. Not
either
of those."

"I'm not afraid. You wouldn't have to rape me."

He shook his head and his hands flashed out, away from him, as if cutting the idea in half. He paced along the aisle. "No, Nella. It's wrong."

"Where I come from it's the law, wrong or not," she said, her voice small in the dark. "We could finish the debt, tonight, and it would be gone. And tomorrow I'd be free.
We'd
be free."

He stopped and looked at her, his face full of burden, worry, and helpless shining need. "Do you have any idea how wonderful that sounds? To take you to my suite and make love with you again and again? To feel your skin against mine? To sleep curled beside you?" He raked his hands through his hair and shook his head. "Dammit, Nella, do you have any idea?"

She nodded, her hands clasped before her and her heart beating so loud she could hear it. "Yes."

He stepped toward her. "Cancel the debt."

"I can't. If I cancel it, if I lay with you without calling the debt, I have to
die
." She bit her lip and watched him, her hands shaking. "Please, I'll do whatever you say, but I don't want to die. I'm so close. Please. Just a little longer."

He shook his head and stared at the floor, his hands clenching into fists. "So help me, next time I see Lord Egeslic at Council I'm going to beat the life out of him," he snarled.

He sounded so serious, so angry, but she found the idea of Risley pummeling Lord Egeslic hysterical. A laugh broke free, then another, and she stumbled to a pew as she tried to control the giggles.

He gasped and started laughing, reaching for her before she could sit. He found her hand and pulled her close, into his arms, and held her while their half crazed laughter bubbled free.

"I would, you know," he said, his voice soft as he struggled to control it. "I'd beat the bastard to a pulp for what he did to your family, for what he's still doing to you."

"I know you would," she replied, her giggles subsiding. Her hair hung to her waist, and his fingers gliding through it felt like heaven. She snuggled against his chest, breathed him in, and smiled. She always felt safe with Risley, safer than she could ever remember.

He held her close for a time, his hands on her back, his lips brushing against her brow, and she leaned in his arms to look at him, into his eyes.

His hands slid from her back, up her arms, his touch gentle and warm, and he looked deep into her as if searching for an answer to a question he was afraid to ask. She moistened her lips, holding his eyes with her own.

"I'd better get you home," he said. He kissed her fingers and led her from the temple.

* * *

Dubric decided to patrol the grounds and the castle from midnight until dawn. Every time they passed someone, Bacstair fumbled awkwardly for the sword at his hip, staring as if he expected to see a knife at any moment. Although Bacstair's mild paranoia did not bother him, Dubric was astounded to see so many people, a score or more, wandering the courtyard. Folks went to the privies or the well, sat on the steps and smoked, or even wandered aimlessly. He wondered if they were trying to help catch the killer, cause trouble, or if they suffered from an odd combination of insanity and stupidity. A killer stalked the courtyard. Surely everyone realized that?

He noted the name of every person he met, man or woman, and worried he would waste the next day questioning a pile of fools. After four bell, while he and Bacstair searched the row of servant privies on the north side of the castle, the ghost of a blonde girl in a laundry uniform flickered before his eyes. She fell forward and howled a silent wail, slipping out of the dark from beside Bacstair. Her eyes bulged with horror and she seemed to stumble. Helpless, he watched her throat slash open in a rush of blood, drenching her as if she had bathed in it, and spattering his cloak and trousers. The other ghosts moved aside to make room.

Dubric continued his search, trying to ignore the added responsibility tugging at him. Less than half a bell later, Flavin the stable master hollered for him. Bacstair jumped.

Flavin galumphed through the mud with far less grace than any of his horses. "We found one, sir! By the wall."

"By the Goddess!" Bacstair gasped, his face pale in the lantern light as a privy door slammed on his fingers. He snatched the fingers back, popped them into his mouth, and mumbled around them, "Are you sure?"

"Where is she?" Dubric refused to look at Bacstair for fear he would either laugh or curse.

Flavin's arms flailed as he gestured toward the vast area behind him. "Southeast corner, sir. Near the wells."

They ran to the southeast corner of the courtyard and Dubric saw Lars kneeling beside the body with his sword in hand. There had been no snow that night. A fingernail moon peeked from behind clouds and the courtyard was dense with dark shadows. The stink of damp mud and blood floated unmistakably on the cold air.

"He almost decapitated. her, sir," Lars said as he stood. Behind him, a wide, black splatter stained the stone wall.

Dubric and the others slid to a halt in the muck. The girl lay faceup, her head at an impossible angle, and her dead eyes reflecting the moonlight. A stub of a blonde braid sprouted beside one ear and her intestines slumped beside her, oozing and dark, like snakes trying to crawl into the mud. She wore bleach-speckled shoes but no other clothes, only a shroud of blood covering her from her throat to her knees.

"Who is she?" Dubric asked as he knelt beside her. Flavin and Bacstair kept a wide-eyed distance, both drawing the mark of the Goddess on their chests, a circle within a circle. Dubric turned his head away. He hated Malanna's symbol almost as much as he hated the ghosts.
Damn wife-killing whore Goddess
! He closed his eyes and willed the anger away. Lack of sleep made him prone to resentful musings and he had no time for such indulgences.

"Not sure," Lars said, "but did you notice her shoes?"

Dubric nodded, even though the uniform her ghost wore proclaimed her job as brightly as the bleach stains. "Laundry worker?"

"That was my guess," Lars said. He stretched and looked at the courtyard. No one else was near, but folks were coming. "You two stay together the whole time?"

Bacstair nodded and Dubric asked Flavin, "How about the two of you?"

"Yessir," Flavin said. "We never left each other's sight, not till we found her." Lars nodded his confirmation.

Dubric glanced up from her body and looked around the courtyard; he heard people yelling as they ran toward him.
It is the middle of the night, for King's sake! Why are folks up and about at this hour
?

"Why don't you do your damned job and catch the bastard?" a harpy screeched as if from the depths of the seven hells. Twinges danced down Dubric's spine at the voice. The three men and the page turned to look.

A pair of floor maids ran through the dark, with broken mop handles clutched in their hands and the sharp, snapped ends pointed at Dubric. With curly red hair that seemed black in the moonlight, they were the same height, similar-featured, and both were furious. He had never seen Allin and Gaelin Mugain angry before—he had always regarded the sisters as nice, pleasant girls—and he fumbled for a moment.

Then he stood, his knees creaking. "We are doing all we—"

"Bull piss," Allin, the shy one, said. "You're doing nothing!"

The small crowd assembling behind them growled their agreement.

Dubric held his hands before him, hoping to calm their anger. "I suggest you all go back inside. It is dangerous to be—"

"It wouldn't be dangerous if you did your damned job!" a man's voice hollered from somewhere in the mob.

"Have you people lost all sense?" Bacstair said. "You could get killed out here!"

"Shut your yap," Allin said. "Dubric needs to pull his head outta his ass before we—"

Dubric didn't hear the rest of her rant, losing it to the icy weight in his head. The ghost of an egg maid appeared before him, with blood streaming from her belly and throat. Beside him, Flavin mumbled a retort, and he did not hear that, either. King be damned, he hated ghosts, and the wretched things just kept coming! Every girl thus far had been found where she worked, in one way or another, long after the killer had gone. But if he hurried, for King's sake, if he
hurried
, got to the coops in time…

He looked at Lars. Young, fast, smart, eager Lars. He could look, he could listen. Find out who the bastard was, for King's sake. "Son-of-a-whore," he snarled and grabbed Lars's arm, leaving Flavin and Bacstair to deal with the unruly mob.

"Sir?" Lars looked at Dubric in surprise, as Dubric yanked him away from the crowd.

Despite his heartbeat slamming in his ears, and the doubt surging through him, he leaned in close and whispered in Lars's ear. "Listen to me, and do not ask any questions, all right?"

Lars nodded.

"I am going to tell you to go to the castle and get Dien, but instead I want you to go to the coops."

Lars's eyes narrowed, confusion still written on his face.

"When you get there, I want you to look for 'ghost stuff.' Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if you find
anything
, hide and stay put until I find you. No matter what, stay safe. If you do not find anything, come back. Either way, pull your sword before you get there. For King's sake,
listen
, and use your ears not your eyes. And do not, under any circumstances, do anything stupid."

Lars nodded one last time and they turned toward the loud group of eight angry citizens. Gaelin screeched an obscenity at Flavin, who seemed unable to comprehend the insult. Bacstair screamed at a short, half-drunk man while the rest of the mob encouraged a fight. Tempers had flared, and everyone had forgotten the dead girl.
What in the King's name was going on
?

Dubric shook his head and barked, "Lars, get to the castle, and find Dien." Lars ran toward the castle, but the mob barely noticed. If he had told Lars to stand on his head and moo, no one would have cared. He muttered to himself as he jotted a list of names in his book.