The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (47 page)

“I suppose,” Rowena said, changing tack, “that you should do whatever you must to keep his interest.
Rudolph
is interested in me for more than my…physical charms.”

Isla sincerely doubted that, at this point, but kept a straight face. Instead, she tried to reason with her sister. “Rowena, there’s nothing wrong with men and women showing affection for one another. After all, I mean, what do you think happens after people get married?”

Rowena’s laugh was like tinkling bells, and full of a condescension that she made no effort to hide. “A
lady
never engages in such things, unless absolutely required to for the purposes of procreation.” Here, Rowena was all but quoting verbatim the teachings of the church. Teachings that, in Isla’s opinion, well-adjusted women ignored. She was shocked to hear Rowena, of all people, express such sentiments—Rowena, who’d always been such fun. “No
true gentleman
would want a woman who disported herself like a tavern slut.” She sniffed. “Then again, His Grace seems to prefer tavern sluts.”

“Do you not find Rudolph…attractive?” Isla ventured.

“Of course I do. What woman wouldn’t? I merely wish to preserve my virtue in his eyes. And,” she added primly, “my own.”

“So I have no virtue,” Isla said flatly.

“Only you know that.” Rowena’s lips curled in a small, smug smile. She’d made her mind up about Isla’s virtue, alright.

Isla was getting sick of this conversation. “Thank you, Rowena,” she said tightly, “for your support. But if it’s all the same to you, I
do
need fresh air.”

She needed it now more than ever; these days, even a few minutes with her once-sweet natured sister made her feel sick. Ignoring Rowena’s protests that she couldn’t leave, Rowena wasn’t done yet, she turned on her heel and stalked out. She was sick of Rowena and, more, she was angry with her. Isla had done this
for her
, had sacrificed herself so Rowena could marry the man of her dreams. Rowena had looked up to her, depended on her for the past sixteen years—so why now did it feel like Rowena begrudged her even the littlest bit of happiness that might come of it all? Did Rowena genuinely
want
her to be miserable?

Isla, afraid of what the answer might be, tried desperately to think of something else.

Her slippered feet moved silently on the tiles as she crossed the broad main hall and, passing the entrance to the women’s gallery, descended the main staircase. The hall below was empty as well, everyone having retired, if not to bed and sleep, then at least to their rooms to relax. She glanced into the great hall, where a few people were already passed out on the benches that ringed the fireplaces. Wrapped up in their own cloaks, some snoring softly, they looked comfortable. Content. When winter came on in earnest, much of the manor’s livestock would join them in the great hall and the stench would be even worse than usual. Isla wondered if she’d still be here. She hoped not.

Bypassing the main door, she instead eased open the smaller side door at the end of the hall. The wind had died down, with the passing of the rain, and the air wasn’t too cold. Isla’s heart thudded in her chest; she wondered what would happen and wondered, again, what Tristan had meant by a choice. Did he mean—to be like him? Was that even possible? And if it was, did she
want
to change?

She’d said she wanted to be with him forever and she did, but she knew too that he was different; that he felt nothing of what she did and that what emotions he had were so alien to her that they might as well not exist. He didn’t love; he craved. He didn’t want; he needed. And as much as Isla feared her own mortality, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to live without the very things that made her human.

She hesitated on the last step, her thoughts racing. She must have stood there for a long time. Later, she’d never be sure. And then she drew a deep, shuddering breath, let it out, and jumped down onto the dew-damp grass. Her slippers soaked through almost immediately, but she barely noticed. She took one step, and then another, and then she disappeared into the night and was gone.

S
he crept up to the grotto. Briefly, she’d felt free. Exultant with the joy of being outside on her own and one with the night. Now, though, she felt her hesitancy return. What was she doing? A small voice inside her warned her to go back, before it was too late. To heed Rowena’s counsel; to question whether this thing, whatever it was, was truly what she wanted. And yet, as compelling as these thoughts were, and as afraid as she was that this was all folly, and a terrible mistake, Isla couldn’t help herself. She felt herself drawn on, no,
compelled
. She wanted Tristan. Needed him. And the truth was, whatever hold he had over her, she’d given it to him willingly.

The honeysuckle and roses tugged at her cloak and, once or twice, scratched her skin. She winced, hissing in pain as a particularly large thorn scored her cheek. A second later, she felt the wetness of blood. She touched her fingertips to her skin and they came away black in the moonlight, a pale glow cast by a waning crescent.

She felt like she was alone. She couldn’t sense any other presence, not even that of the small animals that crept around at night. No owls hooted; no wind rustled through the leaves on the trees, or made the ones on the ground dance. She felt like she’d crept into a crypt.

And then she was inside the grotto. The air smelled of stone and lichen and had a damp, mineral quality that even more forcefully reminded her of venturing down into a crypt. She had once, as a child, and been scolded for her folly. The door could have closed behind her; she could have been trapped there forever, with no one knowing where she’d gone, until she perished from thirst. That had been like this…and just as exciting. Isla hadn’t given up her explorations, only learned to be more careful.

She straightened up, brushing an errant rose petal out of her hair. Tristan was on the far side, as motionless as the stone arch that framed him. He stood with his back to her, the outline of his tall, broad-shouldered form almost lost in the darkness. Something pulled her eyes to him; otherwise, she would never have seen him.

She waited. He turned. Neither of them said a word. He’d wanted her and now she was here. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, half in exhilaration and half in fear of what might happen next. She struggled to remain calm, breathing in and out in slow, measured beats.

“Hello,” she said, sounding inane in her own ears.

Standing there, waiting, she felt a bit like a sacrifice. Waiting to be laid on the altar. Except what altar this was, she didn’t know.

“There’s an old folk tale in the North, about the moon.” He spoke softly, almost hypnotically. “About how she fell in love with a mortal man, a traveler, and came to earth to be with him. Their time together was sweet but, as the nights passed, other travelers were lured from their paths by bog sprites and perished; they had no moon to guide them. So ultimately,” he continued, approaching her, “she made a devil’s bargain: giving up her soul that she might spend one single night of each month on earth, with him. She waxes and wanes as she grows closer to the earth and, then, after that one night, farther away.”

“What happened?” Isla asked.

“He left her for a mortal woman.”

“That’s terrible!” Isla protested.

“It’s just a story.” Tristan made a dismissive gesture.

“It’s a terrible story.” She shivered.

“You’re cold?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she admitted. He, apparently, never got cold. She wondered sometimes if he wore his cloak for show.

He watched her now, head cocked slightly to the side, as if her all too human problems fascinated him. Which perhaps they did. For all that he was a man of the world, he was also, after his own fashion, new to it. Things that most men took for granted, like the weather, fascinated him. She’d caught him watching the rain, watching the fire dance in the grate, with an intense concentration, an almost, she might have called it a sense of wonder. For all that he viewed the world with a jaundiced eye, he was also truly
in
it. And that was part of what she loved about him.

Tristan raised his hand slightly and, in a graceful and somehow delicate gesture, turned his wrist and closed his long, thin fingers in on his palm. He looked as though he were grasping something. A second later, his hand began to glow a reddish color as soft light spilled out from the chinks around his knuckles. Isla narrowed her eyes against the sudden brightness, as small as it was; the moon was almost gone and she’d barely been able to pick out her surroundings as she’d slipped through the garden. Even now, Tristan was nothing but shades of black against the night.

Turning his palm up, he opened his fingers to reveal a small sphere. It glowed a yellow-white and reminded Isla of a marsh light, except less fell. Isla had seen the so-called
devil lights
, all highlanders had. But those lights had an unwholesome, greenish cast that reminded her of grave mold. They floated over the moors, appearing and disappearing seemingly at will, and had lured more than one curious child to an awful, lonely death in the sucking muck that spawned them. By the time anyone realized what had happened, it was almost always too late. Many of the bodies were never recovered.

The sphere floated upward, growing larger, until it dissolved in a shower of what looked like fireflies. The air around them began to warm and a faint radiance lingered, a light that shone from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Isla could see a little better now, although the grotto remained dark. She stared about her in wonder.

“It’s not all human sacrifice,” Tristan said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I have something for you.” He produced a small velvet pouch.

She accepted the gift. Her small, delicate fingers made short work of the ribbon bow and a line of cool beads spilled out into her palm. They were perfectly matched and carved from some beautiful stone the color of new grass. Gold flecks winked from deep within their depths. A pendant carved from the same stone hung from a gold bale. It was oval in shape, and reflected the faint light like a mist-shrouded pond. The green matched her eyes almost exactly, she realized: stunning, vibrant, without a hint of blue.

“This is lovely,” she breathed. She’d never even imagined, let alone seen, its like.

“The stone has…protective qualities. It’s been used for centuries to both heal its wearers and guard them against certain…forces.” What forces, he didn’t explain, but she felt a brief thrill of worry all the same. And then it was gone, lost to her racing heart and the sheer amazement that he’d given her such a beautiful gift.
Another
beautiful gift. The faint scent of her perfume clung to the air: attar of roses. “And I think the color suits you,” he added casually, almost as an afterthought. She turned the necklace over in her palm, admiring how the beads almost seemed lit from within. Each end of the necklace terminated not in a clasp but in a long ribbon tie, itself tipped with another bead of the same stone.

“Help me to put it on?” she asked shyly.

He took the necklace out of her palm and turned her very gently around. She let him move her about, finding his willingness to do so strangely erotic. The beads felt cold as they touched her neck, but warmed quickly against her skin. She lifted her fingertips to her neck, grazing the pendant, and rested them on his. For a long minute, neither of them moved.

She turned, still holding his hands in hers. She turned them over, examining them in the low light. Delicately, she traced her fingertip down his forefinger and along the curve of his long, clawed nail. The one thing about him that obviously wasn’t human. She pressed her palm against his; his skin felt warm tonight, again. In fact, the marble-like flesh seemed to almost throb with energy. The air around them had held its warmth, too; but for the drifts of leaves at their feet, this might have been some midsummer tryst.

“Why?” she asked, still examining his claws. “When you’re so….”

“Human?” He smiled slightly. “I was like this before, if not…so much so. Long before he succumbed,” he told her, “my host had begun to change. To become, with each casting, less human and more demon.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. After a moment, he continued. “All necromancers bear the mark of their craft. A different mark, depending on the man—or woman—and his particular areas of, ah,
investigation
.” He spoke in that same measured, cultured, faintly rasping tone that he always did, as calmly as if he’d been talking about a picnic. “But one cannot delve into the dark arts, or stare too long into the face of death without being changed. This,” he held up his hand, “is the mark of my true nature.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“Look long enough into the void,” he warned her, “and the void looks back.”

“But you’re….” She shook her head slightly. “I refuse to believe that you’re bad. You’re not.”

“And I cherish you for thinking so,” he said. “But I am,” he added gently.

“You’re not,” she insisted.

“What you see….” He made a small, offhanded gesture.