By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (32 page)

         “No,” Mendric pressed.  “The last several
months it
has
picked up.  People feeling shadows and pure, unadulterated
fear from no apparent source...horrible mutilations.”

         “What?” Selric asked with increasing
apprehension.  “Vampire?  Werewolf?”

         “Something like that, but darker.  It
leaves little or no trace and some deaths have been from great
strength...people cut clear in half in some cases.  Alistair tells me that they
are allowed to tell no one about any of it, and the elders are on the verge of
resigning their positions so that they can warn the populace.  But they’ve been
warned that if they tell, they will be executed for treason.”

         “How did you find out?”

         “Alistair was drinking and, you know,
we’ve been friends, good friends, since before he worked at
Sellore’s...since...well, you know.  I’ve never seen him drunk before.  I tell
you, he was shaken.  He actually shuddered when he described some of the
deaths.  He was in The War and we saw more death than most:  magical explosions
and giants ripping people apart, even a dragon.  He should not be upset about
some simple murders.  He’s worn down from hopelessness, I suspect.”

         “Or cracked, I think is more likely,”
scoffed Selric.

         “Just try to be a little more careful.  The
whole city seems to be growing darker.  People
do
notice their friends’
disappearances and deaths.  They’re talking and fear is spreading.  Can’t you
feel it?  The whole city is affected.  It’s like something is sapping energy
from the very stones.  Even the lamps seem dimmer.”  Selric stopped and looked
around the familiar street he had passed a thousand times and it did look
different to him, but he attributed the dark air and seemingly growing shadows
to the fact he had just returned from the wild.  “The King has to do something
about it and soon.”  Selric’s mind went back to Sonya, his friend who had been
murdered in her bed while he was away, and her death sounded just like these
others.  Perhaps this dark intruder was more than the Gronga.

         He made love to her.  Cinder was on her
hands and knees as he moved behind her, his hands holding her hips in place. 
He moved faster and faster, increasingly vicious.  He seemed to grow, and even
to her, one who found pain exciting, it hurt.  But when she tried to pull away,
he wrapped an arm under her belly and locked Cinder’s tender buttocks against
his stomach.  She dug painfully at his arm, but found no leeway.  He was a
large figure, draped in shadow and looming over her.  With his other hand, he
grabbed a handful of her hair to keep her in place, like a horse guided by
black, silken reins, and his strength forced her head back as he pulled
viciously.  She glanced against the pressure, felt the arm beneath her release,
and saw it bring a blade forward.

         Cinder scrambled but could not escape his
grasp.  She felt the cold steel touch her burning neck and she screamed,
opening her eyes to see the kind face of Danson Garnet looking back at her. 
She was cold and wet.

         “What’s the matter, Cinder?” he asked,
hugging her sopping, trembling frame.  She finally breathed:  one long, slow
inhale.

         “I had a terrible dream,” she said,
clinging to him.  He held her for several minutes before he spoke.

          “I have to go,” Danson said softly.

         “No!” Cinder screamed, then relaxed,
obviously trying to control immense distress.  “No, not yet.  Please stay.” 
She ran her hands over him nervously.

         “I told my wife I was gambling tonight. 
Most places are closed now.  I’ve got to go.”

         “No.  I want you to love me,” she said. 
She really did not, but she could not be alone, not yet. 

         Danson looked at Cinder in disbelief.  “I
don’t think you do,” he said, understanding her need, “but I’ll lie with you.” 
And he did.  Soon her trembling stopped and her breathing relaxed and she dozed
off to sleep.  Danson rose and left quietly, and Cinder woke again without any
memory of the nightmare.

         The stone slab ground slowly open and the
Fiend slid inside, shutting the portal behind It and dropping the battered
woman on the dirt floor.  Victoria wiggled within her bonds.  It bent over her
and cut her free and she tried to crawl, scampering into the corner and sitting
with her back to it, her arms folded before her.  She looked across the room: 
there behind this shadow of a creature was a shimmering, yet gloomy, man. 
Bixby Goreman, once traitorous silversmith, now haunted apparition, studied her
trembling body.  He, like the Fiend, felt her fear.

         Victoria looked around and spied, right
above her, two dangling manacles.  With a gasp she crawled away again.  Neither
monster tried to stop her, and she reached the ladder with short-lived relief. 
Quickly she darted up, but as she lifted the trapdoor at the top of the ladder,
she was seized by two tremendous hands from below.  She screamed as the door
banged back down into place and she was hurled across the room and against the
wall.  Victoria couldn’t help but let out a pain-filled moan as she hit with
enough force to knock out her breath and bash her senses.  As she shook her
head clear, she noticed that her tattered pants lay nearby and she picked them
up, hugging them to her as she began to sob with hopeless, encroaching fear. 
But Victoria soon regained her composure, biting back her tears and bolting
this time to the door through which she had been brought.  She dropped her
pants as she used her hands to try and pry the heavy door open, but she found
no leeway there. 

         She was seized from behind in a great
hug, Its hard body pressed tight behind her.  Victoria reached up behind her to
try and claw Its eyes or pull Its hair, but the Fiend spun Victoria in the air
like a helpless doll and slammed her to the floor with little effort, then
brought Its mass down atop her.  Victoria let out a painful gasp as she hit,
then another desperate cry as It fell on her.  Her face was driven into the
earth, and dirt made its way into her mouth as It pressed heavily against her,
slowly rooting her, inch by inch, across the floor.

         Bixby watched Victoria’s seemingly tiny
body writhing beneath the Fiend with no chance of freedom; like a fly in the
web of a giant spider.  She was soft, white, and beautiful, dwarfed by Its
hulking, dark and grim shape.  She gasped, sobbing in pain and unable to
relieve it in the least.  Then Victoria ceased her struggles, giving up,
resigned to her fate, her strength then gone.  As the Fiend opened her throat
with Its dagger, Bixby moved closer, feeling Victoria’s spirit ebb out of her
tortured body and her terror pass away as her trembling stopped and her blood
flowed freely onto the ground and the evil spirit slowly began to grow in might.

         The Stormweathers arrived at the party in
two carriages; the boys with their ladies in one, the older men and Violet in
the other.  “You know,” Selric said to his brother, “I wonder why Grandfather
doesn’t ask old Widow Petrovich to these things?  They dance with each other,
and I know they see one another on the side, but still they come alone.”

         “I have no idea,” Mendric replied.  “Why
don’t you ask him?” he asked, stepping down into the courtyard with a grin.

         “I think not,” said Selric, and they both
laughed.  Selric helped Fiona out of the carriage.  Long silver earrings nearly
reaching her shoulders dangled against her elegant neck, their glitter and
brilliance enhanced by the fact that her short hair did not hinder sight of
them.  Selric admired her flowing yellow gown, decorated with silver patterns
and sewn with silver thread.  She was radiant and so skilled in etiquette that,
unlike Cinder, she would be able to, through wit and deviousness, fool even the
most astute skeptic to her heritage.  Mendric’s escort was Danielle Foster: a
tall, buxom auburn-haired beauty from one of the lesser noble families who were
constantly hoping to marry a daughter up the ladder of society.  Mendric was always
accompanied by a beautiful woman, or two, from Andrelia’s best families, while
Selric sought ladies from any walk of life.

         “You
do
look wonderful,” Selric
told Fiona.  “And that neck...” he said, bending close and kissing, then softly
biting it.  Fiona smiled. 

         While Cinder was beautiful in any
clothing whatsoever, and Melissa looked best in simple things, Fiona shone
greatest in expensive finery, like a regal princess.  Her bone structure, the
way she carried herself, her charisma and overpowering personality gave her a
noble air, and she actually seemed more beautiful, as if meant for all the
finest things.  During discussions, she never faltered or uttered a faux pas. 
She never giggled, but laughed silently.  Fiona could mingle and discuss military
tactics with lords, philosophy with wise men, religion with priests, and
usually best them all, or at least leave them thinking that she had.  And Fiona
always maintained an aloofness about her, an aloofness that all nobility
admired.  Fiona was dismissive when asked her background, and her lack of pride
and absence of bragging and name-dropping led others to believe she must have been
well-born, indeed.

         The Stormweathers ventured inside, the
brothers catching up with their parents as they entered the villa.  “Now, there
is a beautiful woman,” Selric said to Fiona, motioning to his mother who walked
silently ahead of them on Andric’s arm.  She turned to talk to Lady Briganston
as she and Andric neared the stairs and stopped to chat. 

         “Yes, she certainly is,” Fiona replied
with admiration nearly as loyal as Selric’s.  Andric turned to say something to
his sons then paused as he saw Selric and Fiona staring ahead.  Both youths
smiled innocently when caught by his glance.  Andric looked down at his wife and
smiled proudly, his head high in the air as he pulled Violet nearer to him.

         Helmric was the first up the stairs and
into the glowing hearth room, ignoring the valets who waited at the door to
check invitations.  A young man, this his first party, almost stopped the
elderly lord to ask him for his paper, but another servant who had tended many
of these affairs, quickly grabbed his shoulder.  “You fool, that’s Helmric
Stormweather, one of the most respected lords in the city,” he said sternly. 
More willing to follow protocol, Andric stopped and handed his paper over, as
did his sons.  “Welcome to the party and do enjoy yourselves, Family
Stormweather,” the youngster said, bowing lowly, more respectfully.  Still
bent, his eye was caught as Violet swayed by.  Selric smacked the young man’s
head as he passed and the valet bolted back to attention, his eyes forward,
brow worried.

         When the rest of the family had made it
inside, Helmric was already over in the corner, drink in hand, with the other
older, most respected gents, talking on their subjects and not wishing to be
disturbed by the younger, less enlightened generations.

         The Stormweathers passed through the
large open double-doors, which were fully twenty feet high and fifteen feet
wide each.  In the tremendous hearth was a roaring fire built to throw off the
autumn chill which blew in the open doors.  Torches fluttered along the walls
as the breeze whipped through the large room.  They passed another set
double-doors nearly as big as the first, iron-bound and, similar to the entire
mansion, quite defensive looking.  Like the Stormweathers, the Briganstons were
a family whose heritage lay in skill-at-arms:  they had a long history of
generals and war heroes in their past.  Presently, though the family was still
represented in the city military, they had no immensely important politicians
or officers in service to the kingdom. 

         Andric led Violet to the array of small,
dainty refreshment tables which looked out of place in the sparse room
decorated mainly with battle flags and memorabilia, including a twenty foot
painting of the Briganston’s most famous forbearer, Otto Briganston, hero of
the Applegate War over one-hundred and twenty years earlier.  The Stormweather
boys, women in tow, stood in the doorway surveying the room, allowing the
guests to view them and their ladies.  Selric scanned the party for Angelique,
but did not see her immediately, so he and Mendric mingled, Selric introducing
Fiona while constantly spying for Mistress Von Yelson.

         Selric met Lady von Yelson, alone as was
usual and he introduced her to Fiona.  The noblewoman was polite but cool to
the young lady she believed to be her daughter’s rival.  There was no Lord von
Yelson.  He had drowned when his ship went down on a trading voyage eight years
earlier.  Ships were the bane of many a noble citizen, who often found a watery
death.  In Andrelia’s history several shipwrights had been executed when craft
they had built sank, resulting in the death of an influential person.  Nobles
and those with money often traveled south aboard vessels rather than face
chilling winters or bone-jarring wagon rides on the often-rutted and
occasionally bandit-ridden roads.

         The Stormweathers had been enjoying
themselves for about an hour when the brothers came back together to sit at a
table with their guests.  Soon, their father and mother sat at an adjacent
table and this is when Selric saw Angelique enter through one of the doors
which led to other parts of the villa: Angelique on the arm of Justin Briganston. 
Selric popped up as if his seat were on fire.

         “Excuse me,” he said briskly, walking
over and heading them off at the table which held the large bowl of punch made
from wine and southern fruits.  Angelique brightly smiled when she saw Selric
approach, then took his hands and kissed him, not on the cheek as she always
had, but instead on the lips.  Selric smiled.

         “Hello Selric Stormweather,” Justin said
snottily.

         “Hi,” Selric replied.  “Excuse us.”  He
led Angelique to a nearby table.  “Hello, Darling,” he said to her when they
were alone.

         “Hello, Selric.  How are you?”

         “Fine.  You look ravishing,” he said; and
she did.

         “Thank you.”  Angelique continued to
smile; enchanted by him.  Still.  But unable to control himself Selric blurted
out the question that burned inside him.

         “Why are you here with
him
?” he
asked.  A puzzled look passed Angelique’s lovely face and the look of
admiration left her.

         “You told me I needed someone who was at
home at these functions.  Justin is; and he’s sweet,” she added.  “I truly did
not mean to hurt you by it.  I thought your feud with him was over.”

         “When someone slanders you, a feud cannot
end,” Selric said.  “I’m disappointed in you.”

         “Well, I’m sorry,” Angelique said,
looking upset with Selric.  “I cannot live for you.  Remember,
you
turned
me
away.  I like Justin.  I don’t know how much yet, but I would
like to find out.”  She touched Selric’s face just as Justin Briganston moved
between them.

         “I thought you were away on some grand
adventure with your commoner friends,” he said.

         “Piss off, dandy,” Selric snapped. 
Justin stepped back in utter shock at Selric’s unexpected barbarity.

         “If I were a dandy, as you say, I would
not be with a woman, let alone having Angelique as mine,” he said in a slightly
effeminate way.

         “I’m not yours,” Angelique said quietly;
politely.  “I’m just your guest.”

         “Of course,” Justin said in a patronizing
way, kissing her cheek in an arrogant show.  “But don’t be snotty, dear, or
you’ll end up all alone, like your mother.”  Selric pushed Justin gently back
away from Angelique.

         “Why are you being like this?” she asked
Justin.  “Because you want to anger Selric?  Or did you simply invite me for
some competition?  Am I just some prize?  I thought you were sweet.”

         “Apologize!” Selric said fiercely, both
men ignoring Angelique’s protests.  Justin stepped back again, intimidated,
fear in his soft brown eyes even though he stood slightly taller than Selric
and outweighed him as well.

         “You’re so touchy, Selric.  I didn’t do
anything,” Justin insisted.

         “I said apologize, you ass!” Selric said,
stepping forward.

         “This is my house, Stormweather,” he said
loudly, getting nervous and drawing himself to his full impressive stature.  As
Selric continued forward, Justin panicked and swung half-heartedly at him. 
Selric deflected the ill-aimed blow and brought his boot up against the side of
Justin’s head, knocking him to the ground.

         Selric turned; the whole room was quiet
and all eyes were on him.  It wasn’t until that moment that he realized what he
had done, his mind blank during his jealous anger.  He knew his father and
grandfather would be furious, to say the least, and even his mother and Mendric
would be upset with his lack of respect.  Then his gaze met, what he believed
to be, the only friendly eyes in the room:  Fiona’s.  She sat smiling sweetly
and understandingly, if just a tiny bit pleased in a wicked way.  Selric
instinctively made his way there, completely forgetting about Angelique, but he
never reached Fiona.  He was quickly surrounded by a group of burly men: 
Justin’s two brothers, father, brother-in-law, and two cousins.  Before any
words were spoken, the group was broken by the other three Stormweather men,
walking side by side, tall and fierce, like kings emerging out of the mists of
time.