The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (55 page)

She pulled back, putting a hand to her forehead as she fought to regain her bearings. Seeing her reaction, Tristan’s eyes flashed. He said nothing, however, only offered her his hand. After a moment of hesitation, she took it. She had trouble standing, because the world was still spinning around her. She didn’t know how to process what she’d just seen.

She tried to take a step and stumbled. Tristan reached out and caught her, and she shook her head slightly.

“I see,” he said. His voice held no emotion.

“Please,” she protested, “give me a minute.” She braced herself against his arm, willing the ground beneath her to stop moving. She was developing what she recognized as the first symptoms of a blinding headache. “I just saw the man I’m going to marry eat someone. And my maid, at that. I need…time to adjust.”

“So you’re not leaving.”

“Well, I mean, I’d like to leave eventually. I’d like to go home and lie down and then….” Isla was babbling. “I’d like to leave this accursed moor. You keep promising me that we’re going to get married but I feel like I’ve been here for a thousand years and I’m slowly losing my mind. It’s not that I’m bored—I can’t say that I’m bored, I’m too busy to be bored—but now that I know I’m leaving I feel like that moment can’t come soon enough and—”

He crushed her to him. She squeaked in surprised protest and then relaxed against his chest. She could see Alice, over his arm. She wished, very much, that she couldn’t. But, in a sense, the fact that her remains were no longer recognizable as those of a human was a good thing. Already, spots of underbrush rustled as creatures came to investigate. By morning, her bones would likely be picked clean. And if they were ever found, whoever did so would likely conclude that she’d been savaged by a wild boar or perhaps a mountain lion. People vanished into the woods all the time, never to return. Some by choice, and some not. The world was a dangerous place. Isla turned her head.

A long moment passed and then, pushing back slightly, she looked up at Tristan.

His face was all shadows and planes, in the moonlight. He looked mysterious, and he looked dangerous. He
was
dangerous. She gazed into his eyes, searching. Despite what he’d done, he was as immaculate as ever. His clothing showed no sign of a struggle, and not one single strand of his short hair was in disarray. He should be drenched in blood and gore and who knew what else. He must have used magic, she realized with a shiver, to clean himself or at least give the appearance that he had. And then, she’d never thought about it before, but she had no inkling of his true appearance: how much of it was truthful and how much was illusion. The body he inhabited was, after all, over a hundred years old.

Or indeed, what
he
, the spirit inside the host, was made of.

A single drop of blood glistened at the corner of his mouth, as full and round as an unshed tear. In the moonlight, it appeared black. She reached up and, with the ball of her thumb, wiped it away. He parted his lips slightly as she pressed her thumb against his mouth. His tongue slid against her skin. The moment was at once intimate, erotic and, at the same time, strangely terrifying. Isla’s heart hammered in her chest. Slowly, she withdrew her hand.

“That was your chance,” he told her quietly. “I was only ever going to give you one.” And maybe not even one, was the unspoken thought. She could see the possession in his eyes. “But you’re never going to escape me now.” His words were half promise, half threat.

“Yes,” was all she said.

“A long time ago,” he said slowly, “something happened. With someone else. A woman.” He made a slight, dismissive gesture, the barest movement. “She is, of course, unimportant now. But her example was…instructive to me. I never intended to involve myself with another woman—”

“But you’ve been married,” Isla protested. She couldn’t fathom why, now of all times, she’d brought the subject up. She was still in shock, still reeling from what she’d seen. He acknowledged the point with a nod, but made no move to explain what he’d meant. He didn’t have to. His marriages had been marriages of convenience, as Isla well knew. The women in his life, and there had been many over the years, had meant nothing. They’d meant a few moments of pleasure, a distraction, nothing more. The women he’d married, he’d done so for either political or financial gain. Or both.

“But if I did,” he finished softly, “I promised myself that I’d give her the chance…I never gave her predecessor.”

“If she didn’t accept you,” Isla said firmly, “then she didn’t deserve you.”

“And you?” he asked.

Isla thought the answer to that question was self-evident; she was still there. But she considered it, regardless. What could she tell Tristan, that he would understand? Theirs wasn’t a typical relationship, based on shared feelings. There was attraction and, she thought, something stronger than mere feelings. There was an acknowledgment of their need for one another. Love might fade but friendship, and need, were forever.

And she did love him, of course. She loved him, she told herself, enough for both of them. In her most hopeful moments, like this one, she almost believed that he felt something, too. She’d seen his internal struggle, between doing the right thing and giving himself what he wanted. A man who felt nothing couldn’t have done that…could he?

That was
her
need: to believe that he felt something. That he wanted her, too, as much as she wanted him. That, and to know that he’d take care of her, and keep her safe. She’d been the strong one for too long, and she wasn’t naturally suited to the role. It was a lonely one, and alienating. No one asked the strong one if she needed anything, or if she was alright. They just demanded, throwing their own needs in her face until she finally collapsed under a pile of their accumulated weight. Life with Tristan promised…. She didn’t know. Something else. She’d never had someone to love, someone to rely on, and she loved him more than words could express. Even if he felt nothing, that he was here was enough. She’d learn…she’d learn to deal with the rest. Somehow.

What was his need? What could a demon possibly want with a human being? She’d put a great deal of thought into this question. He was old, and possessed of extraordinary wisdom, and powerful beyond her ability to fathom. He could force people to his will, without them even knowing what was happening. He was different…and in that, he was alone. Alone in a way that only she, perhaps, could hope to understand.

To be alone for so long, to relate to no one had to be…grueling. Was it really so strange that he might want a partner? Someone who accepted him for who and what he truly was? Because, while he wasn’t human, he’d chosen to live a human man’s life. He’d been interested enough in human beings to possess one’s body and he’d insinuated himself into Piers’ life. He could have simply vanished, pursuing his pleasures all over the world. But he hadn’t. He’d traveled, yes. But he’d come home, and stayed.

She’d long suspected that there was some intermingling between his essence and that of his host. He’d made comments before, about what Tristan would have done. And he seemed to genuinely care for Piers, and for his family’s wellbeing as a whole. Living as long as he had, too, it seemed natural that he’d develop at least
some
of the feelings of his fellow beings. Or learned to mimic them so well as made no difference.

“I love you,” she said. “For who and what you are.”

“Do you.” He brushed an errant strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

“Lions hunt,” she said in a small voice. “And wolves. And I eat meat.” And then she laughed. “And besides, I never liked Alice!” She couldn’t believe her own ears, that she’d say such a terrible thing. She was an evil, unfeeling woman. But it was true. “She had designs on you.”

He laughed out loud. “And you disapprove?” He sounded half charmed, and half surprised.

“I do!” she protested. With this unexpectedly lighthearted interchange, something of normality crept back into the night. He’d just eaten a woman, whose corpse lay mere feet from them in the leaves, and here they were laughing.

There was a smile in his eyes, if not on his face. She knew him well enough to know that he was pleased. And that whatever bond had existed between them, as strong as it might have been, after tonight would be much stronger. They’d made it through an ordeal together, him as much as her. And having faced the fact that, after her own fashion, she was just as much a murderer as he, she felt more tied to him than ever. She truly, truly had no place in the world except at his side. Who else would accept her now?

She didn’t care, of course. She loved him. She and he, they were alike.

He kissed her.

H
er lips sought his, hungrily, as her fingers worked the laces of his tunic. The fine cotton strings, weighted at the ends with small wooden beads, were slippery under her fevered touch. He’d unlaced the front of her gown and she sat on his lap, her legs astride him as his hand slid over her naked breast. His other hand rested on the swell of her hip, just below her slender waist. Behind her, the fire crackled. Its heat warmed her exposed back.

They were in his room, the room he’d appropriated for his own when he’d come to visit. These were Enzie Hall’s finest guest chambers, tastefully if sparsely appointed and seldom used. Enzie Hall received few visitors, these days. But Tristan had made it his own, his servants unpacking the things he’d brought with him from Darkling Reach and arranging them about the room. A fine eastern rug graced the room’s sole table, its blues and reds woven into a fantastical geometric design. Heavily embroidered curtains framed the bed and Isla had no doubt that, behind them, equally fine linens made a warm nest. She shivered slightly, wondering if she was about to see them.

He pulled her to him, roughly, his hand between her shoulder blades as he kissed her. His other hand slid up the back of her neck, his fingers twisting in her hair. She’d never let a man see this much of her before, and wasn’t even entirely sure how she’d done so tonight.

Her breast rubbed against the material of his shirt, causing her nipple to harden painfully. She gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth on hers. He’d kissed her in the woods and she’d kissed him back and then somehow they’d been here, in this room, with no thought for either her reputation or his. He’d poured her a cup of wine and himself one, too. It had been different wine than her father served, one more luxury brought from Darkling Reach. She’d drunk it, a full textured ruby liquid that had tasted vaguely of dirt. Neither of them had spoken. And then he’d just been
there
, holding her. Kissing her. Possessing her. She’d yielded easily, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

In truth she’d needed the distraction and, at the same time, needed the affirmation that she’d done the right thing. That what she’d given up that night—her conscience, her very humanity—had been a worthy sacrifice and worth the gain. That she wasn’t lost. In Tristan, in pressing her body to his and giving herself to him, there was the promise of a different morality. Of a world that welcomed her, and wanted her, for who and what she was. Of an escape from the void that, she realized now, had possessed her far longer than even she had known. So she was losing herself in a different void: of his needs and hers, of his touch.

If there was no return from this night, if she was lost, then it was alright: so long as she was with him. She didn’t want or need her humanity if her humanity was what had made her so miserable for so long. She’d been used, and abused, by almost everyone she’d trusted; all in the name of
humanity
.

His hand found her breast, cupping the warm flesh. His touch was like lightening running through her veins, heating her and making her heart beat faster.

Night held the land fast and a wind had come up, buffeting the walls enough to force air whistling through the chinks in the stone, but Tristan’s room was an oasis. Wrought iron stands ringed the couch on which they sat, each holding a fat pillar candle. The vast, near-empty space was alive with warm, flickering light and the fire cast dancing shadows on the floor. Whoever had laid it had strewn fragrant herbs in among the great pine logs: silver king, lavender and yarrow. The smell was heavenly and Tristan’s warm, drugging touch made her feel as though she were disappearing into the mix of sensations that even now threatened to overwhelm her. She stroked her fingers through his hair.

He was warm now. His skin, as cold as marble when she’d touched him earlier, was as full of life as any other man’s. She’d wondered at the change, before, and at what could even
cause
such a change. And now, after tonight, she knew. He felt alive, because he’d fed. He’d taken another’s life, filling his veins with its essence. When that life faded, when that animating force had all but been used up, he’d feed again. Sometimes, she was sure, he fed for pleasure; as did any man. Or beast.

She pulled back slightly, resting her forehead on his, her fingers tracing the hard planes of his face. She smiled slightly. She was about to speak and, much later, she’d wonder what would have happened if she had. How things might have been different. For both of them. Because at exactly that moment, the door opened.