Shana Abe (29 page)

The chimera was growing more receptive to the menace in him, and she had to speak over its muttered warnings.

“I have told you I will not marry Warner. You are going to have to believe me, my lord. Because I am not going to wed you tomorrow.”

“Wrong,” he said. “You are. They cannot have you.”

“They will not have me! I have already told you this!”

The snake was clearer now, manifesting so easily, cunning and strong. The chimera gave up the growl for a laugh; it laughed and laughed inside her, wrapping around her ability to reason, growing bigger and bigger, encasing her hidden terror.

“Marcus Kincardine,” she said clearly. “Listen to me well. No matter what proof Warner creates, it matters not. I will not be his bride. You need not fear it.”

That one brow lifted again, arrogance and disdain. “Fear it? I don’t, my love. I know it well. You cannot be his wife. Indeed, you are already mine.”

“I am not anyone’s wife! You are not listening—”

“I’m listening. I’m listening to the call of my people. I’m listening to the dictates of an intractable legend. I am listening, my Lady Avalon, to the music of the stars, and all of them tell me the very same thing.”

No
, she wanted to say, but the word would not come out of her mouth, the chimera choked it off, and then it spoke suddenly in her head, in the voice of Hanoch:

Ye belong to the curse.…

Marcus had a smile that held no warmth at all. “Tomorrow is the day. I have no more time for niceties. We have all waited long enough. Tomorrow the curse ends.”

He meant it, she realized. It was not just the snake
putting words to its intent. These were the thoughts of the man, truly Marcus, telling her she was his wife. It was Marcus who needed her, who wanted her.

She remembered with chilling clarity that he had said the emissaries would have to kill him to take her away. She had thought it was merely his snake speaking for him, but no, all along it had been the man himself, the laird who had to claim her, for legend or passion or whatever it was that was forged in his head. The snake was only backing him now.

Without warning Marcus took her arms, pulled her into him and held her there tightly. He bowed his head down to her hair and his grip changed, grew more urgent.

“Don’t you want to marry me?” he whispered against her, beginning a blaze of kisses down her temple, her cheeks. When she turned her head away he followed and found her lips, a brutal claiming of her.

She couldn’t stop him, she didn’t even want to, but he broke away, breathing hard against her neck, still clutching her.

“Avalon,” he said, and it was almost a prayer. “Please.”

Hanoch spoke again, his words like the deathblow of a sword:

Ye will marry my son. Whatever else ye want or think is nothing compared to that.…

And the chimera grinned and sank its claws into her mind, threw her own words at her, that promise:

I will never marry him! I vow it now.…

She could not allow Hanoch to win. She had already given over so much of herself to him, but she could not bow in this.

Her fingers held on to Marcus as she leaned back and looked up into his eyes.

“I can’t marry you,” she said.

His eyes closed. She felt his pain as her own, intensified by the fact that it was given to him by her.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said, anguished. “Please understand. I can’t.”

He took a deep breath past his teeth; she felt him gather himself together. He set her carefully away from him, hands now light on her shoulders.

“All right,” he said. “I’m sorry, as well. I’m sorry it’s going to have to be this way.”

“What way?” she asked, and at last the chimera paused, grew silent in her head.

“Please go back to your room, Avalon.”

“Why?”

“I want you to stay there until tomorrow. After we are married, you will be able to move about again.”

The chimera howled at her:
Run, hide, don’t let them catch you!
The power of it surged through her body, made her hands tremble so that she had to close them into fists to hide it.

“You don’t control me,” she said, fighting the lash of panic inside her.

“Come,” he replied, as dark and meaningful as the falling night.

She looked around to both sides, the charming room now much too small, too confining. The windows were shut tight. There were too many people waiting behind the only door.

Her heart was a caged bird, the trembling in her fingers moved upward, clenching tight around her chest,
her throat. She knew it was not rational, this overwhelming fear that took her, but she was tied to it anyway.

“Avalon.”

He was waiting for her, she could see that. He was waiting for her to walk out of this room with him, to voluntarily confine herself to that little sleeping chamber, to sit and wait for fate to swallow her up whole. It was just like the pantry, when she was a child, that cramped and stifling space, utterly black, relentlessly scary, filled with whispering monsters, greedy fiends who laughed at her while she was curled up and alone, the goblin men, come back for her.…

“No.” The word slipped out on its own, falling heavy into the silence. Her feet retreated from him of their own volition, one step at a time, until she felt the cushion of the bower against the backs of her knees.

The pale light of the fog was almost gone, turning the room to watery gray, disguising his face so that she could not read it. Behind her she felt the cooler air next to the glass, a frosty touch on her shoulder blades. Darkness was waiting for her, crouched in the corners of her vision where she couldn’t quite see. Blackness, suffocating, endless blackness, pressing on her, filling her nostrils and her lungs until she couldn’t breathe—

He moved. She saw the dim shape of him shift against the lighter tones of the marble mantel, an outline of a man approaching, so much larger than she was.

“No,” she said again, but it was apprehensive now, less certain. She held her hands up in front of her, an instinctive defense.

“Don’t fight me,” he said, savage. “Don’t do it.”

“Stay away,” she warned, and her voice had a crack in it. “I won’t go back there.”

“For a day …”

 … and a night in the pantry …

“No—”

The air was too thin here, she couldn’t manage to draw enough of it into her lungs, the trembling inhibited her, made it harder to see him, to know what to do next. He spoke again, still ruthless.

“You don’t have a choice. You will do as I say. I know what is best.”

Ye’ll stay in there.…

The goblins were expecting her. She could hear them; even the chimera turned its ears to them, listening. They existed only in the blackness, they waited for her in the dark, in the pantry. Each time she was imprisoned there they were waiting with axes and knives and fire, and Ona died over and over again, scarlet blood splattered on the bark of the birch, and Avalon was next.

The man moved again, sudden and deft, a blur of dark against dark, but the chimera warned her, moved her hands for her to block him, to duck and turn around him. She struck at him and felt his arm give way to her, and her only thoughts were
escape, escape, escape!

But he seemed to know her plan, and with cruel efficiency used his other hand to capture her waist, bending in the same direction as she did, following her, closing the trap. Fear made her clumsy; the hand she had struck came back up, found her arm and bent it tight around her, immobilizing her, then he kicked his feet between hers, lifting her up so she could not get a solid stance on the ground.

“I learn from my mistakes, my dear,” he said into her ear. “You taught this trick to the children, and I was paying attention.”

She let out a cry of mingled frustration and dread; she couldn’t see who it was behind her, it could be anyone, it could be Ian or Hanoch or the goblin men, come to devour her—

Although he still held her tight, something in her captor changed, grew more attentive to her ragged breathing, the shaking that controlled her.

“Avalon?” The voice was lower, very human. It was the voice of Marcus. “What’s wrong with you?”

Caught, at his mercy, she bit down on her lip to keep inside the sob that wanted to burst out. She couldn’t bear it—she could have run away, she could have braved the wilds of the world on her own, but she couldn’t go back to that room. She couldn’t face the tiny space, the narrow window, the encroaching darkness. The waiting.

“Tell me,” he said, and it wasn’t a command now but an invitation. His hold on her loosened by gradual degrees, until she realized her feet were firmly on the carpet of flowers and his arms were not hurting her. She felt his breath, warm on her neck, somehow reassuring. “Tell me,” he said again, soft.

“I can’t go back there.” The sob was still present, a hitch in her throat.

“Where?” he asked.

“That room. I won’t go back.”

He seemed to think about this, finding her unspoken secrets, though she had not meant him to. “It bothers you? Your room?”

Lucidity settled on her despite the gloom around
them. She was being unreasonable. She was acting childish. Yet still he waited for her, unyielding, uncompromising, and the best thing she could think to offer up was: “It’s too small.” Her voice was thin and reedy.

She could feel him ponder this, could almost picture the remote look in his eyes as he unwrapped her sentence, probed it. She felt inadequate suddenly, stupid, to allow herself to fall into his snare, and now what was she to do? Just the thought of that tight, closed space brought back the sob.

“Too small,” he mused, not condemning, but very, very alert.

At some point his grip on her had loosened enough so that she could turn in his arms, and Avalon did that now, feeling the need to make him understand what she could not say, what she could not even bear to think about. His face was almost completely obscured above her now; a short twilight approached a clouded night.

“In the dark,” she said.

He didn’t misunderstand. “The room is too small and too dark for you.”

“When I was a girl,” she said, “there was a pantry in the cottage, and they used to lock me in there—” The sob bubbled up, devouring the rest of the words, and she had to clamp her lips shut to hold it back.

Everything about him changed, softened. His hands caressed her arms, his lips were velvet against her forehead.

“Shhh,” he said, and his breath warmed her. “It’s all right.”

She leaned into him without being able to stop herself;
he took her weight easily, comforting, and curiously enough this released the sob in her at last.

“Oh,” she cried, and buried her head against his shoulder.

He rocked her slowly, saying words she barely heard, because of all things she was crying now, little tears, muffled whimpers into his tartan, and she didn’t even know why she was doing it, except that it felt so good to have him hold her, and it was such a relief to be able to let him take in her sorrow.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, over and over, his hands smoothing up and down her back until the tears stopped, and all that was left of it was the dampness of his shoulder beneath her.

She felt drained, exhausted, and now when her head rested against him it was not just for comfort, but because it felt too heavy to lift.

“Truelove.” Marcus stroked her face; she felt his fingers gently wipe away the wetness on her cheeks. “You needn’t go back to that room.”

She latched on to his words, felt the tremulous fronds of hope uncoil within her. He bent down and brushed his lips against hers, light, tender. “You should have told me about this. I never would have subjected you to it had I known.”

Avalon couldn’t reply. She was too sleepy suddenly, she could barely keep her eyes open. Weariness drenched her entire body.

“Where are we going?” she managed to ask as he led her out of the room to the tactfully deserted hallway.

“To my chambers,” he said, and moved her forward.

Chapter Twelve
 

H
is was soft and as large as she remembered, with a carved oak post at each corner and some kind of heavy cloth tied back from them to create curving sweeps of muted color next to the wood.

Avalon didn’t wonder that Marcus brought her here, that he had led her to the edge of the bed and then joined her there, an arm around her shoulders. As he pulled her back onto the welcome cushioning of furs and pillows all she felt was the last of her efforts to stay awake slip away from her. It seemed perfectly natural to lay her head in the crook of his shoulder, both of them still completely dressed, her arm across his chest and her leg slightly bent over one of his.

She didn’t question any of it. Under the starlight spilling in from his windows and secure in his embrace, she gave up everything and fell asleep.

Occasionally she would drift close to awareness again, feeling the difference beside her, the warmth of a solid body holding her, the sound of another’s breath close to her ear. But none of it was worrisome; in fact, it seemed better than comforting to experience these things. It seemed like these were sensations she had been seeking in her dreams all her life.