All for a Rose (11 page)

The old man groped behind him for his daughter, an instinctive need to protect his offspring, but the girl appeared to notice the change in his manner. She tilted her head slightly, watching him steadily with only the slightest hesitation in her body language.

Encouraged, Daman gave her what he hoped was a pleasant smile, grateful that his fangs remained snugly retracted against the roof of his mouth so his expression was human rather than draconic. The girl returned the smile, albeit shyly.

They’d filled the chest with riches, as he’d instructed them. The enchanted wardrobe had been as kind to them as he’d expected and the chest not only contained gold coins and jewels, but gowns of fine silk and lace. It was enough to please even the greediest witch…

His temper leapt up at him like a leviathan coming up for air, the full weight of his rage all too ready to reappear as an image of the witch roared into his mind. Copper burst on his tongue and Daman tamped down on a fresh wave of irritation as he realized he’d bitten his tongue grinding his teeth. It was fortunate his fangs were retracted against the roof of his mouth, else he likely would have ended up with a second fork in his tongue.

He offered his guests a small bow while he got his facial expressions under control. The man clung to his daughter as though desperate to protect her from Daman. They stood silently as Daman lifted the heavy chest with ease and carried it out to the waiting carriage. It took more effort than he wanted to admit to ignore the tears shining in the woman’s eyes as her father climbed into the carriage and drove away.

She stood there, hands worrying the folds of her worn blue skirt. In all the years he’d been rescuing changelings, Daman had seen many of them cry—but never because of him. He had never once forced a changeling to leave their home, it had always been their choice.

It was still her choice,
Daman reminded himself. A small voice in his head scoffed at him.

He cleared his throat. “What is your name?”

“Maribel.” She didn’t take her eyes from the horizon where the carriage had disappeared. “And yours?”

“Daman.”

Slowly he turned back to the manor, gesturing for her to walk with him. She tore her attention from the horizon and locked it firmly on the ground as she followed obediently. At first he thought she was lost in her own wondering. He wouldn’t blame her if she were thinking of the life she’d left behind, perhaps wondering if staying had been the right choice. But something about the brittle set to her body, the utter stiffness in her neck… Realization dawned. She was trying not to gawk at him.

He stiffened. “If you want to stare, then just do it and get it over with.”

She flinched and closed her eyes for a moment. Her hand drifted to a pocket in the apron she wore over her dress and she withdrew something too small for Daman to make out. Her hand rose to her mouth and she popped something small and red onto her tongue. As she chewed, she opened her eyes, attention fixed firmly ahead.

She said nothing.

A cherry tomato? She brought food?
Daman swallowed a growl. She’d probably expected him to starve her, to be some sort of monstrous beast that would relish her suffering and inflict torment on her at every opportunity.

So, show her she’s wrong. Barking at her certainly won’t disavow her of such dismal notions.
Stewing in a broth of his own temper and frustration, he took a breath to muster an apology for his harsh tone. Before he could speak, Maribel came to an abrupt halt, her back stiff as a board. Daman reared back slightly as she whirled to face him. With a defiant flash in her eyes, she proceeded to look him over from head to toe.

For a moment, Daman didn’t know what to do, so he stood there, letting her look her fill. Maribel’s gaze took in every minute detail, starting from the ridges of his face and following every glittering scale down his neck and over his chest. She hesitated at his waist and Daman had an odd flash of gratitude that he’d thought to put on his armor. He had no real need for clothing in this form, especially since there was no one around to dress for. He’d only put the armor on today because he’d known he’d have visitors. And he’d expected one of them to be an enemy.

As she examined the thick coil of his tail, Daman clenched his hands into fists. Already his mind tortured him with images of the disgust that would pinch Maribel’s face at any moment, the terror that would send her running from him in tears. Like the others.

“Can I… Can I ask what you are?”

He crossed his arms, realized he looked defensive, and dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m a
naga
.”

“Oh. I’ve never heard of a…
naga
.” Maribel bit her lip, her gaze sliding down the length of his serpent-like lower half, taking in the bluish-green scales as thick and large as dinner plates. “Are you from Sanguenay?”

“I am from Barzakh, an island far off the shores of Dacia.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence fell between them, their pitiful attempt at conversation gasping its dying breath. Agitation teased the skin between his shoulder blades and he fought to shrug it off. He wanted to say something more, wanted her to say something more, but it appeared neither of them knew how to keep the conversation going.

Frustrated, he surged in the direction of the manor, leaving her to follow him into the mansion and up the stairs to a long hallway that led to her room. The space was mostly bare, the curtains having been shredded and the busts of old generals smashed long ago during the worst of Daman’s rampages. The brownies had cleared away the debris, but had never attempted to replace them.

Daman kept waiting for her to say something else, ask him more questions, but she remained silent. He tried to think of something to say, anything that would break the wretched silence, but nothing would come to him. He bit back a growl. There’d been a time when conversing had been easy for him. He’d dealt with timid changelings, earned their trust, put them at ease. But apparently it had been too long. The skill had withered away.

“This will be your room,” he said finally, having given up thinking of any other conversation.

He gestured for Maribel to enter, an annoying case of nerves making his heart beat erratically as he waited to hear what she thought. The room he’d chosen for her was pristine, untouched by him or his temper. The bed was draped with thick down comforters with the winter furs folded at the foot for nights that still dreamed of winter. The wall sconces were polished until they shone even without the sunlight. Thick curtains hung on either side of the broad windows, framing the gauzy material that muted the daylight until the heavier material was drawn.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted, a gush of praise over the room’s elegance, delight at not being held in a dungeon like a prisoner. Anything would be better than the silence that left him with only his own thoughts for company. After a few moments, she offered him a timid smile.

“It’s lovely, thank you.”

Despite her words, she didn’t meet his eyes.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Would you prefer a different room?” He flung a hand out, gesturing down the hall. “It is only you and I here, you may have your pick of any room that pleases you if this isn’t good enough.”

“Oh, no, the room is wonderful. I just…” She shoved her hand into the apron pocket again and popped another cherry tomato into her mouth. Her jaw worked as she chewed furiously, perhaps buying herself time to think. Finally she faced him. “I was just wondering why you want me here? I mean, what is it you want me to do while I’m here? Cook? Clean?”

Daman opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. “I— No. That is, I didn’t bring you here to be my servant. Brownies clean the house. I usually cook for myself.” The words fell out of his mouth of their own accord and his temper flared at how foolish he sounded. He crossed his arms and tried not to look confused.

“Brownies?”

Her voice rose with the question. Daman narrowed his eyes. She was
sidhe
, he knew she was
sidhe
. How could she not know what brownies were?

“Brownies. The fey folk?”

She blinked, another cherry tomato hovering in front of her lips. “Fey folk? You mean like fairies?”

Daman eyed the ruby-skinned fruit.
Nervous eater?
He settled down on his coils, trying to get closer to eye level with Maribel to read her face better. “Sort of. Brownies are a type of fey. They’re small, mostly harmless creatures. They love to clean and they take great pride in their work. I…did a favor for a family of them once, and they repay me by cleaning the manor.”

“Where do they stay?”

He waved a hand. “They don’t live here, and they won’t come while anyone is awake in the house. You won’t see them. They don’t like to be acknowledged for their help.” He paused. “You don’t know about the fey folk?”

Maribel shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I know to be careful where I throw out the bathwater, and I try to leave cream and honey out now and again if things are going particularly well.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Of course I know about the vampires that rule Dacia. I guess…” She shrugged again. “I suppose I’ve never run into any creatures from beyond the veil.” She stopped abruptly, eyes flicking about as if she’d said something embarrassing.

Daman slid his tail around, deliberately scraping it over the floor so that Maribel had to strain not to look down or move away. “Until me, you mean.”

She cleared her throat, still not meeting his eyes.

The way she avoided eye contact grated on his nerves, as though he were some wild animal that would attack her if she challenged him, however inadvertently. “You don’t need to be so skittish. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Now he had eye contact.

“So you’ll just continue to shout at me, is that it?”

“I’m not shouting,” he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“You’ve been yelling at me since I got here,” Maribel corrected him, her voice holding nearly as much frost as the air outside. “And I don’t appreciate it. This hasn’t been a great day for me either so the least you could do is keep a civil tongue.”

A red blush sprang to her cheeks as her last word seemed to register, but she didn’t take her eyes from his. Daman relished her discomfort, flicking his forked tongue out of his mouth just for spite. Served her right for being cross with him.

“My father said that you were very kind to him, that you fed him. I had hoped that you and I might get along.”

Daman’s amusement abruptly died at the gentle tone in her voice. Fighting with her had been easier than trying to put her at ease, a fact he didn’t want to dwell on. Resigned to the impending challenge of social niceties he hadn’t bothered with for over a year, he pulled his tail back behind him and tucked his forked tongue out of sight.

“I was the one who asked him for the rose,” Maribel continued, fingers toying with the ends of her hair. “He didn’t know anything about it. He was only trying to make me happy.”

Daman shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t quite ready to believe that the request for the magic plant had been entirely innocent. Even if Maribel didn’t intend to use it, there was no way for him to know if Corrine had manipulated her sibling into getting her the flower. Still, Maribel was his guest, and she was a changeling. Treating her poorly wouldn’t serve anyone.

“What did you want the rose for?” he asked instead.

Maribel dropped her arms to her sides. “My sister. Her health is very poor and moving from the village to a farm was hard on her. I read about the Rose of the Mist and it just seemed like the answer to everything. If I could have brewed her a potion from those petals—”

“You intended to give the Rosse of the Misst to the witch?”

Daman fisted his hands at his sides, struggling not to throw anything, destroy anything. So this
had
been the witch’s doing. Not only had she protected herself by sending her father for the rose, she’d managed to get her changeling sister to make the request. How neatly she’d managed to shelter herself from the consequences, from him.

Maribel took a trembling step back. “How did you know my sister was a…” Her eyes narrowed and she planted her feet firmly on the floor, her chin jutting out in defiance. “My sister practices some witchcraft—so do I. We aren’t evil, whatever the villagers might tell you.”

Aren’t evil.
Daman’s hands opened and closed as he struggled to grab the fraying ends of his temper. He’d taken on changelings as his people, his duty was to protect them. Not to mention this was the first time in a long time he’d allowed himself to be around another person, his chance to prove to himself that he could control his temper. He pictured his meditation flame, the candle swaying gently in a breeze. “I know
you
aren’t evil.”

Something flared in Maribel’s eyes, a heated spark of her own fury. “Are you insinuating that my sister is?”

Daman fought to hold the sneer from his face, to keep back the words that so readily sprang to his tongue. “Perhaps. What sort of magic does she practice?”

Maribel hesitated, her defiance dimming slightly. “I don’t know. My studies are separate from hers. I study plants and how they can be used to heal. I’m not sure—”

“So you don’t know if your sister is practicing black magic or not?” Daman sneered. “And yet you would give her a Rose of the Mist, increase her power?”

“She’s my sister!”

“A sister who is too ill to help on the farm,” Daman guessed. “Tell me, does she sit inside while you work all day? Does she get worse when there’s chores to be done, show strength when she wants something? Is she content to let you care for her while she lies in bed all day?”

The tic in Maribel’s jaw told Daman he’d hit his mark. Perhaps it was unsporting to use information Maribel didn’t know he had, information he’d gathered by spying on her home a year ago. But the fact remained, the witch was faking her fragile constitution, using it to make her sister treat her like a queen. He’d been right to send her away.

“What do you care? You got what you wanted. You scared an old man half to death, made him feel like a common thief for a simple mistake. He’s given up one of his own daughters out of fear of you and now my sister will have no one to care for her while he’s out in the field. The spoiled witch will have to do the work herself, perhaps end up with another hand burned beyond recognition, or another scar on her head from a nasty fall. Are you satisfied?”