Moonless (3 page)

4

From the Night’s Darkness

             
Kiren pulled the reins. His horse tugged forward impatiently, anxious to be free of Bellezza’s weight, but he held firm.

             
His assistant’s beast skidded to a halt and pranced anxiously. “What is it?”

             
He locked eyes with the younger man and frowned.

             
The lad shook his head, opening his mouth to protest the forthcoming command.

             
“You are capable.” Kiren dismounted and handed the tethers to the boy. Bellezza would be unconscious for another couple hours at least. “Take her, and go hastily.”

             
The youth nodded and his beast resumed the journey.

             
Kiren turned back toward the estate. 

5

Altered

Mother assisted Alexia into a new gown—one without the taint of death—and washed her hands and face.

Father tucked her into the bed. “Rest, Alexia. We will clear all this up in the morning.”

She nodded.

He brushed a hand over her curls, and her trembling stilled. He’d rescued her. Soon she would wake. This would be a dream, nothing but a dream.

“Well.” He shook his head, and her parents exited quietly, Father looking back once more.

She waited for consciousness to diffuse, or to finally awaken from this nightmare. Neither happened. Finally, she rose and returned to the mirror. Dark ringlets curtained piercing jade eyes and pressed pink lips. Is this what the others had seen tonight when they found her perched over the dead baron?

“Impossible,” she muttered.

The breathtaking girl scowled back at her. Movement pulled her gaze to the window reflected in the looking glass.

She squeaked.

Nothing occupied the mirror. Just . . . her. But she thought for a moment she’d seen another set of eyes reflected from outside.

***

A knock woke Alexia—curled on the covers of a strange bed in an unfamiliar chamber. Squinting against sunlight, she sat up as a key clattered into the lock.

Father entered, and halted. He blinked at her several times and straightened, his frown deepening.

She curled in on herself, self consciously.

He waved, dismissing the housekeeper and pulled the door closed behind him.

“Child.” A smile broadened his face. She wondered at this as last night tumbled back over her weary mind. He seated himself on the bed. “How are you?”

She croaked, “I am all right.”

He nodded. “I want you ready to leave as soon as possible.”

Because of last night.
She glanced at the mirror. The other her remained—not the self she recognized, but the wishful likeness.

“Baron Galedrew . . .” she whispered.

“Is gone.”

She covered her mouth. It was all real—her prophetic dream, her unexpected reflection, Bellezza, the blue-eyed murderer!

Father’s warm hand landed on her knee. “Absconded in the middle of the night, back to London. Seems our country ways are too beneath him.”

She squinted at him and shook her head. “He did not. He was murdered. I saw it!”

His brows lifted, the corners of his mouth dipping. “The stable hand verified his departure.”

Had she merely dreamed it? She twisted the blanket in her fingers and froze. Ruffles curled about her cuff. She did not own any nightwear with such frills. Her own gown must be somewhere, mottled with blood—but where? And how could Father not remember?

He squeezed her knee and rose, jaw clenching. “Your mother will help you dress, and then we are leaving.” He started toward the door.

“Father, wait!”

He turned.

“This change,” she indicated her exterior, “I—I do not understand.”

“Understand what?”

She pointed to the mirror.

His cheek twitched. “What change, Alexia?”

“I—I am beautiful.”

His lips tucked back in a grin, a boyish dimple surfacing as he glanced away. “You have always been beautiful, child.”

He placed a kiss on her head and stepped out of the room.

She gaped after him. Now she knew something was wrong.             

6

Old Friends, Old Lies

His wife, Rosalind, swept into the entry with Alexia in custody. Charles Dumont froze near the exit. The girl’s skin radiated a warmth he had not seen in ages, a glow he’d convinced himself he imagined this morning. His heart clenched.

Rupert, Abby and their father, Jonah, gasped in his periphery.

Jonah stumbled a step back. “Charles—” His eyes darted from Alexia to his friend and back. “Why not let the children say farewell?” It was not the question he wanted to voice.

Charles took a deep breath and readied himself for the assault. He nodded. “Rosalind, keep an eye on them?”

The men left their curious children behind and walked out into the driveway. On the far side of the carriage, out of sight, Jonah Vanwick poked his friend in the chest. “What is this?”

“Jonah . . .”

“You told me—you said nothing came of it!”

Charles groaned.

“Does she know?”

Charles shook his head. “And she cannot know, ever.”

“But Charles—”

He clenched a fist and lifted it. “I keep your secrets, Jonah, and you will keep mine.” He spun away from his friend, and returned to interrupt his daughter’s whispered conversation with her friends. From their shocked faces, she’d told them her story. Wonderful. That was precisely what she needed—gossip painting her as mad.

He cursed, hurling his fury toward Rosalind who stood in the corner, glaring at the girl. Her irritated stare turned on him. They were in for an interesting ride home.

7

Paper & Ink

Father kept Alexia confined to the estate, denying all social invitations. She regularly snuck into his study and thumbed through his letters, searching for a return correspondence from Baron Galedrew. Finally a letter arrived:
House vacated.
The baron had simply disappeared—no forwarding address—and only she knew why.

Some days she questioned if Bellezza had actually murdered the baron, but how could a child shove a ladle clean through a man’s chest? Alexia fought to banish those mind-consuming blue eyes from her meditations along with Bellezza’s voice, but the terrifying girl’s words remained:

 . . . another of our kind . . .
 

Whispers in the hall pulled Alexia away from
Julie or the New Heloise
.

“What is it?” she asked the maid.

“A caller, my lady, unbelievably handsome, come to speak with your father. Would that I had an excuse to sit in and look at him!”

Unbelievably
handsome? The same kind of impossible beauty the mirror showed her? Another of her
kind
?

She slipped down the hall and out the side door. If she passed the study window from outside, she might catch sight of this caller and decide if Maurine’s tastes were jaded, or if her unsettling theory held weight.

A stable boy rounded the far corner of the building, tugging the tethers of a speckled grey horse with a glistening white mane.

She gasped. “Stop!”

The lad halted as she hurried forward.

The beast’s black eyes widened. Its hooves dug into the dirt and its nostrils flared.

She stopped. There could be no mistake. It recognized her just as she recognized it from the baron’s doorstep.

She backed away.

He
waited in her house?
He
of nightmares?
He
who kidnapped vicious children and brought death?

Dodging back into the house, she sprinted down the hall. Had he come because she remained the only living testament of his crime, or because Father had inquired about the baron’s disappearance? Would he harm Father?

The study door stood closed. She neared, shaking. Pressing cautiously against it, she expected the mahogany to burn her.

Father’s voice boomed through the wood. “No! And that is final!”

The barrier lurched. She leapt back as it swung open.

The stranger
halted before her. Boots, not stylish, but entirely practical and worn; breeches, a sturdy gray, modestly hugging a trim form; waist coat concealed by a subtly weathered coat; shirt, fitted and simple . . .  

Her jaw fell.

Ginger locks framed his clean-shaven face with a straight nose, high cheekbones, expressive brows and enigmatic blue eyes. He was a perfect paramour of twenty years, except for a jagged white scar cutting from below one eye down his cheek. A sheen of beauty hung over his whole being. He verily glowed.

Like Bellezza. Like herself!

She gasped. Sweet pollen and rustic oak tickled her nose, transporting her to a grove of wooded mystery so deep mankind would never comprehend the fullness. Those consuming eyes met hers and flickers of heat burst in her cheeks, spreading across the back of her neck. His pupils widened, nearly eclipsing the night sky. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to fall into the blackness of his gaze.

A grunt from the den brought her back to the hall.

The stranger bowed, movements excruciatingly slow, eyes never leaving her face. His lips parted as if he might speak, but with a dark glance toward the study, his mouth sealed in a grim line. The corners of his eyes crinkled, pain glinting in his hypnotic stare. He nodded and stepped around her.

A breath of fresh-cut tinder and summer blooms pulled her eyelids closed, like the farewell kiss of a faerie nightmare.

She blinked back dizziness and sucked in air, lifting her arms to steady her wobbling knees. No man should have that kind of influence on the opposite sex. It was . . . unholy.

Alexia
whirled around, uncertain if she yearned to see his incredible eyes reaching for hers, or to simply verify he was not a specter.

The hall was empty.

She jogged to the grand entry, but he’d utterly disappeared.

She must be a lunatic! He’d come here to kill her or Father or worse, and she dared bask in the afterglow of his influence? Still, like a forbidden wine, part of her ached to drink in more of his presence, to discover the sound of his voice, to know why he looked on her so sadly, to comprehend the mystery behind his misdeeds and learn the story behind his scar.

“Give him leave of audience. Bah!” The sound of tearing paper ruptured from the study and Father stormed away.

Leave of audience? With her? Was that all the alluring trespasser had desired?

She blushed. No, certainly he sought to speak with someone of influence, someone Father knew within their well-bred society.

She wandered into the study, absorbing the emptiness
his
wake had left and imagining a hint of his aroma lingered. Her heart thumped at the thought of those astonishing eyes, wide enough to encompass the entire heavens!

She stopped. What was wrong with her? Obsessing over a murderer!

Shreds of off-white parchment lay strewn about the heavy oak table and leather couches. She bent to decipher them. Father’s heavy footfalls rumbled over the floorboards, nearing. She scooped the scraps into her skirts and hurried away. The broken words would be deciphered at a discrete hour—as they were certainly heralds of her demise.

8

Disturbing Dreams

Dinner.

No mention had yet been made of the caller.

Alexia cleared her throat. “I heard we had a visitor.”

Father’s frown hardened. “No.” He wiped his mouth and set the napkin aside. “We had an intruder.”

“The stranger from Baron Galedrew’s banquet?”

Mother set her spoon down.

Father’s face reddened and he speared a carrot. “We do not associate with such filth.”

“Is he? Tell me, Father.”

He set his fork coolly aside. “No more, Alexia.” His lowered brow warned her against the subject, and he watched her a long moment before returning to his meal.

She bit her lip. How much more could she squeeze out of him without sparking his wrath? “Baron Galedrew seemed positively frightened of him.”

“Alexia!”

“But Father—”

“Silence!” He leapt up, chair smashing to the floor. “If you learn nothing else from me, you will learn your place in this world!” He shook wildly.

Mother quietly stood and exited the room. Alexia bowed her head.

What brought on the impassioned episode? Who was this man? Why did Father rage and Mother quake at the mere suggestion of him? More importantly, how did they know him?

At the meal’s conclusion, she stepped into the drawing room and found Mother staring out the window. Her skin was like ivory, drawn of its usual warmth, her hands tucked and still in her lap.

“Mother?” Cold gray eyes fell on Alexia. “I hoped you might tell me—”

“Do not!” the noble woman hissed. “How dare you disobey your father, beastly child. Go. I will not see your proud face more tonight.”

Stung, Alexia withdrew to her chambers.

***

A candle burned as she chewed her lip.

Her parents knew him. She couldn’t help melting into the memory of his magnetic stare, the yearning to abandon all and throw herself at him. Even knowing it was wrong to crave the presence of a murderer, every cell pulsed with the need to find him again and prove he was not the monster her conscience screamed he was.

Alexia piled the shredded parchment onto her bureau and spent an hour under the torture of candlelight, pasting the scraps back together. At length it read:

House of Stark, Northbend, Wilhamshire.

An address.

She blinked.

An address?

He’d come to kill her, or worse, and he’d given Father his home address?

She tucked the card under her nose and inhaled, imagining she found herself on Northbend, perhaps even bumping into him. He’d ask her name, and she’d willingly give it. He’d show her his modest home, invite her to dinner and proceed to dismantle the amassing curiosities—

Then he’d kill her and feed her to the delectable little Bellezza!

An address?

She put the card down. Perhaps the residence belonged to an undertaker, one he had suggested Father use after he found her ladled through the heart.

She climbed into bed, reviewing her exceptionally dull existence—the unpopular extremes of this sheltered life. Why should
he
come to her?

Her parents never flaunted her about like other children, and although fashion dictated women not be educated, Father had no sons. He gave her every advantage this life publicly allowed, and some not. Tutors—of both genders and multiple disciplines. She’d studied with so many through the years. Of course Father didn’t think she’d marry, even with the prospect of an inheritance. He wanted her prepared for the worst eventualities—becoming an old maid and a governess to her aunt’s future children, or a companion for a wealthy widow.

She groaned. Why couldn’t she stay a child? The summer she had turned ten, that had been a good year. Beautiful blossoms, horseback lessons, picnics in the yard with Aunt Sarah . . .

It was also the year her parents became pious about a church some hour away. She hadn’t understood their zeal, but they had attended and were determined that she should get some wholesome scathing out of the sermons.

She remembered that last Sunday, dozing in the balmy church, and what followed:

The rush of wind tugged at her hair. She sprinted toward the road, heart thundering, needing escape, knowing the futility of her effort. She froze. Terrible red eyes circled her, burrowing into her from the wooded shadows of twilight . . .

She had jolted awake. Occupied pews staggered toward the pulpit, filled to their limit. She glanced up at the preacher—who stared directly at her. The center of his pupils blazed in ravenous crimson.

She screamed and fought to escape. Embarrassed, Father set her free and sent Sarah after. Alexia couldn’t have explained the fear, nor would Father have listened. They never returned to that church—though she certainly had his pride to blame.

Why did incidents like that haunt you until your dying day, resurrecting every so often to inspire the guilt and stupidity of a mistake?