A storm had broken out through the night. The rain sliding down the windows cast slithering shadows on the wooden floor, on the painted walls of her bedroom.
Bela has been watching it for some time now, listening to the steady rhythm of the storm and to the breathing of the man sleeping beside her. Utterly unconscious.
If she's going to do it, it has to be now—when his sleep is deepest, when the rain covers up most sounds.
She turns onto her side, staring now at the naked man sleeping inches away, at the black silk of his hair near glowing blue in the silver moonlight. As though it were sucking the very life from the iridescent glow to enhance its own beauty.
Perhaps a foretelling of what her life would've been like with him in another time. In another life; where she was the daughter of some nobleman looking to marry his daughter off to the man with the most money and success.
Things could've been worse, she supposes – his depraved father had been ogling her since their arrival here. Already that had been a month ago, gods. Bela was certain he'd be the one to try and court her, but the man seemingly had enough respect for his son to let him have her.
But it didn't stop him from tracing the tip of his shoe along her ankle and calf, of placing a hand on her thigh beneath the table at dinners, or stopping her one night in the middle of the hall and standing too close for her own comfort; taking in her smell, her body.
She would owe Daniela a year of . . . whatever it is she wants for taking the old perv off her hands. The man was easy to read – he wanted a young wife to rekindle his lost youth, and to take pleasure in whatever form of domination he would have from his entitlement of age and experience.
He'd been desperate enough for a night of fun, and Daniel had been crazy enough to do it. To enjoy it.
Bela had to resist the urge to claw the man and his son apart, multiple times – at least until the right moment. Her mother had to secure their trades and funds, and finish weaving a story of death that would clear House Dimitrescu of any wrongdoing.
It's not the fear of getting caught, no. It's not wanting to deal with the hassle of their rabble – even if Mother Miranda could obliterate them with a single thought.
Bela continues to look at the man, unable to find beauty in his features despite the sharpened angles and smooth skin.
Trash painted to look like gold. Comparison to anything else would be giving too much credit.
He hadn't been gentle tonight, and she knew there will be a bruise on her forearm from where he'd gripped her too tightly. Victorious, smug, a king certain of his crown, he hadn't even noticed.
It would seem her ruse had been almost too successful. He never thought otherwise of her vapid and vain behavior, never bothered to. If he had, he might've noticed the knife she kept under her pillow, and not slept with her.
A diminutive, pathetic reprieve from this month-long hell. Of dealing with this man and his vanity. Of being away from Erika, and allowing her sister to sink her claws into her maiden.
Bela had heard about Cassandra's training with Erika in the afternoons one night during dinner, and she nearly shattered the wine glass in her hand. As if the week at Donna's hadn't been torturous enough, now she has to share Erika with her sisters.
Bela is still wondering if her mother had set this whole thing up: to get Erika out of the house and set Bela up with this stupid man-thing, meanwhile Cassandra and Daniela and Donna could all enjoy their little quality time. Then Erika comes back, sees Bela with him, and chooses to forget about her.
Bela grinds her teeth, adjusting her head to feel the pommel of the dagger.
Three words—that was all that had been written on the note Cassandra had slipped her earlier tonight; a note still tucked into the hidden pocket of her discarded dress.
Bleed the pig.
Bela slides her hand beneath the pillow as she sidles up to the unnamed suitor, nestling against him. He doesn't stir; his breathing remaining deep and steady.
It hurts to think that Erika saw her like that – so unbothered, entitled, spoiled – and hated her for it.
The night Bela had killed her first maiden, the eldest slept like the dead, uncaring of the moments where she could hear the staff wailing in grief beneath the castle.
She probably would still be like that if it weren't for Erika. What started as an awakening to her singing has now developed into . . . something. A featureless as candlelight, but the light is there, and it's glowing, and it's warm, and it's comforting.
The word still scares Bela, and though she's quick to deny it, she doesn't know what else it could be.
It's irrational, but it feels so right. It's like she's being hollowed out, but filled to the brim. It's like she's being destroyed and rebuilt in the most glorious of ways, and nothing in the world could ever relent that smile from her mind. That mental image of how the sunlight casts across her cornsilk hair; how it radiates in her teal eyes when she finds joy in something she loves.
Bela wants that . . . with her. Bela will give that to her.
She will tear down every star and hand it to her. Will shower her with such affection so that she will never have to doubt her existence, never have to know fear and pain and hunger and rejection.
And Bela will rip the world asunder if she is taken from her.
She will have that love. And it will be deep and unrelenting and unexpected, the beginning and the end and eternity, the kind that can change history, change the world.
The hilt of the stiletto is cool in her hand, and as Bela rolls back over, no more than a restless sleeper, she pulls it with her.
Lightning gleams on the blade, a flicker of quicksilver.
To the dynasty that heaven will not shake.
It is so very easy to sit up and slice the knife across his throat.
The next morning, I am awoken by a trembling servant delivering a message from Lady Dimitrescu. She wants me to skip my usual morning hunt to go and visit the tailor and her assistant Gabriella for a fitting. I'd nearly forgotten about the event the Mistress is supposed to be hosting, with all that happened yesterday. But I'm more than happy to sleep in, if only for a couple of hours since Duke's Emporium won't be open until then.
Although, I feel had for having to send the servant back with such a request.
Rolling over to the cooler side of my bed, I'm still exhausted from spending time with Bianca and Gretta last night, but I'm in a better mood than usual. My cheeks still hurt from smiling so much, enhanced when they stretch wider upon remembering Gretta's cowardice of spiders.
Of course, my other cheeks are still sore as well, a bruising pain zapping me when I sit down a certain way, or just press too hard on the skin.
Unfortunately that also emerges my anger at Nadine for her betrayal – and for what, I still don't know. I should've known though; I've witnessed firsthand the lengths some women will go to for getting attention. Most of the time it revolves around a man, and I stupidly promised myself that I wouldn't allow such a thing to happen to me.
But then my mother soiled our reputation, and I had been so desperate to have some kind of female companionship that I practically laid myself bare at the first kind gesture and word she spared me.
I snarl. What do I care; she seemed miserable enough when her plan backfired, I suppose. It wasn't exactly fun for me, but the punishment was worth seeing Nadine stiffen like a board from anger at the attention I was getting.
A part of me does pity her – at the kind of life she must've lived if she thinks that the attention of a vampiric serial killer is better than a life of peace in the village.
At least she hasn't tried to slice my throat in my sleep . . . yet. Now I might have to be on guard, unless Dimitrescu puts an order around the castle that I'm not to be trifled with. I'm at a point now where I wouldn't mind, now that I seem to have a guaranteed friendship with Bianca and Gretta.
My fingers fiddle with a piece of the sheets as I glance over to the wall, trying to peer through the rounded gap of stone I call a window.
Privileges I might have, I'm still caged here – of my own choice, as I have to keep reminding myself. And after seeing Lacy in the market, so bright-eyed and happy and healthy . . . it really does make the suffering worth it. So she might never have to make the same choice I did. So her only concern will be between the simplest of problems; her life a guarantee for the next day.
I sit up in bed, stretching long as I squint at the clock on the mantle. My morning hunt usually takes me from dawn until noon, on a slow day. I'd have plenty of time to browse Duke's Emporium and make it to see Gabriella without much time lost.
I don't truthfully care for the tailor herself – the woman as bitter and wrinkly as Kathryn, only more . . . posh. Though I'd hate to think what pressure might be under to try and create such amazing pieces for a woman of Dimitrescu's size. And for someone as crazy – and probably picky – as her daughters.
Breakfast is delivered to my room within the hour, delivered to me by the two servants who resemble twins – Irina and Mihaela – and I make sure to let them have some of their own bites before they are commanded away by their duties.
As well as confirming that they actually are twins. Irina claims herself to be the older one.
They didn't seem too hostile towards me, and I'm hopeful that my warnings to Bianca and Gretta have spread about the staff, even if only limited to the kitchen. From what Bianca told me, Nadine didn't seem to have a pleasant standing with everyone from the beginning. Perhaps my warning and account of events had been the final nail in her coffin.
I'll have to be extra careful with her potential alienation.
I dug into my breakfast, savoring each rich sip of tea before slipping into the bathing chamber. When I'm done eating and bathing, I dress myself in another exquisite tunic – this one of purple so deep it could have been black. I wish I knew the name for the color, but catalog it anyway. I pull on my boots and as I sit before a marble vanity braiding my wet hair, I cringe at my reflection.
Tucking some loose strands behind my ears, I catch a glance of myself in the long, rosewood mirror, feeling more like myself than I have this past month. Yet the dark purple circles are still gripping to my under eyes for dear life, as the nightmares from Donna's estate, though infrequent, are still detailed enough that I end up running to the bathroom each time with overwhelming nausea.
Other than that, I look . . . normal, safe for the visible scar next to my eye. I touch the tip of my finger to the skin, wincing at the raised river of pale skin from temple to cheekbone. I can't decide if it looks more intimidating, or ugly.
A knock sounds at my door, and I quickly answer, relieved to find the same servant girl having returned. She hands me a note with a quick bow and scurries off down the hall. I don't blame her.
I open the piece of paper she handed me, sighing when in see Lady Dimitrescu's eloquent, feminine writing.
If you insist on going shopping, then make it useful and fetch me some items. You have my permission to leave the castle. Return before noon for your fitting.
I huff at the grocery list of items. They're complicated, and none of them are food. If she wants me to go to the village, I can only assume going to Duke would be off limits. I don't know why though – I'd figured someone like her would only want to buy from Duke. Not to mention we had just gone shopping yesterday.
Perhaps I should've given my reason as to why I want to go. But then again, that would've brought on too many questions.
So I grab a cloak from the closet, tucking my braid in the hood before pulling it over my head.
The trek to the main hall was fast, and there was no sign of the sisters, or Dimitrescu. I'm spared the task of telling Duke I'm shopping somewhere else, as I see his door is closed as I aim for the front door leading into the carriage gate.
I take a deep breath as I head down the hill, passing by the vineyards with the terrifying scarecrows. I try not to stare, but the smell of them has my stomach dropping, my throat closing. I only spare a quick glance, noting the shape of the body is male.
I don't like how that eases the tightness in my chest.
Especially not when an affluent, blue-colored jacket catches my attention, the color stark against the reds and yellows of autumn. My feet stop me in front of the scarecrow, the smell still making my stomach rock, but stays afloat when I behold the familiar chiseled features, and the raven black hair now looking as dull as a pile of coal.
His blue skin indicates he's been dead a while, but not before rigor mortis could set in. They needed his body to be loose while they strung him up.
My throat tightens at the deep gash that splits his throat from ear to ear.
A crow lands on his right side, fearlessly hopping closer to his throat where it digs into the gash to pull out a pink piece of innards.
I look away and quicken my steps down the rest of the mountainside, trying to contain the excitement that bubbles in my chest.
She'd killed him.
She actually killed him. Which means she'll be free again, and I can be saved from Lady Dimitrescu's constant attention.
Maybe if I get back to the castle in a short enough time I can find her, though I don't really know where she would be.
Yet as I clear the stone archway and come to the drawbridge, I question my own morals as the wood creaks beneath my boots.
I adjust my hood.
I should feel pity for this man, like I did the other victims at that masquerade party. Like I did for the women that had been tortured and left for dead in the dungeon. Like Rachel Matthews, especially since I'm the one who got her killed. There's no way around that.
I thought I'd tried not to let my opinions be swayed after what had happened, but even still I find myself wanting to skin every man alive. I find myself looking at every face of every man so that I would know who to report – who to kill – if they ever decided to trifle with the people I hold dear.
There are still good men in the world – my father was an example of that. Luiza's husband; that unnamed neighbor who stopped me from killing my mother for leaving Lacy in the snow.
They still exist. They still exist.
But from the way that noble had looked at me, the way he looked at Bela.
He only wanted one thing, and it's that one thing that naively led him to his demise.
The cut along his throat had been clean and precise. Perhaps Bela had been beyond playing games, because there were no other signs of injury upon him.
He'd been crucified without even the decency of clothes, or his genitals.
As I make it to the stone gates leading into the village, I send up a silent prayer to the Black God, in hopes that he suffers.
The market is usually slow during the week, but I still keep my hood up to obscure my features. I didn't have anything recognizable before I left for the castle, other than my hair maybe, but better to keep to myself.
Lady Dimitrescu's list primarily consisted of bolts of fabric, a couple of orders for some custom shoes and gloves, and some jewelry. Which, I don't know why she didn't just give the list to us while we were out yesterday. A part of me wonders if this is related to her punishment for 'stealing' her red lipstick.
I can't think about that now. Despite my hesitance, I can't overlook the tremendous freedom I've been granted. My hunting has taken me outside of the castle walls, yes, but I was still trapped within the bordering stones; still trapped in the game parks with the shadows of the spies crawling across my back like the claws of an ancient beast.
Here, I am free entirely. I am outside of the castle and its borders. But I am far from safe. In fact, the castle has now become the safest place for me; out here, I'm carrion to Mother Miranda. My family and friends are targets. Lady Dimitrescu getting to them would be the best of my fears considering Mother Miranda.
I wander about the village, aware of my direction and destination, but still keeping my gate casual – attempting to enjoy the freedom to some degree. I cannot go see Lacy, but I can still make the most of being among regular people.
People who either have some, or no idea, of the things that go on behind the walls of the lords' homes. To think of how many women have died in that castle . . . of the mothers and daughters and sisters and aunts.
It doesn't matter now. It won't bring them back, and there's nothing I can really do to bring the families peace.
Despite my privileges, I'm still just as powerless as I was before.
The village's market is set up around Fallow Plot – a gathering of tables and stalls filled to the brim with fresh foods or materials. I can't help but smile at the combining smell of leather and peaches; livestock walking along the sides of the stalls, but leaving space so they don't knock anything over. Children weave amongst the sprinkling of people, an occasional dog chasing after them.
Everyone is going about their day, uncaring and unaware of my existence, and I love it.
The village seems to be getting ready for Seleenwoche – as I had caught some candles having already been left at some headstones in the graveyard, and I notice a few other cultural customs having been brought to our quiet, devout village: a small group of children are cutting eyeholes into large, white sheets, others are hanging wreaths of autumn leaves and gatherings of corn on their doorways. Even some farmers are selling pumpkins for the traditional carvings my father used to tell me about. Strings and banners of gold and red and orange hang from the taller buildings of the village, sweeping along fences and between tree branches, the entire atmosphere charged with a pure joy that I haven't seen for some time.
My eye sting, and I don't know why – but seeing the village have its celebrations, to see people enjoying their lives and families after what I had sacrificed and lost, I thought I would be bitter, but I'm only content. I'm only pleased to see them living without such problems. Almost makes the stains in my soul worth it, even with the majority of these same people having rejected me.
But that's fine. They'll love Lacy – they always have, and they'll protect her when I cannot.
Maybe that's the reason; that I know Lacy will be in good hands, should something ever happen to me. Or maybe it's the reality that no one, outside of Luiza and Elena, didn't really like me. Didn't really care for me.
But that's fine.
I note the stalls that I need to visit and pay quick patronage – even bargaining down a few of Dimitrescu's items by mentioning where they would be going. Some of the vendors were excited, others were frightened; not wanting their heads to roll because of their poor products or ridiculous prices.
Some of the items do require them to be shipped to the castle – as I sure as hell can't carry two hundred pounds of fabric all the way back to the castle – and with written receipts and stamped approval, I begin to make my trek back to the castle.
I surprise even myself with that. Wanting to return to a place that has nothing but blood and suffering and death. Let alone return to a woman who is responsible for twenty-five percent of it. But the thought of Bela waiting for me, perhaps even stumbling across her in my room, has me near skipping out of the market square towards the Maiden of War, and Castle Dimitrescu's looming shadows.
But as I have the Maiden in my sight, the sound of chattering commotion draws my eyes towards a small throng of people gawking and gathering at the mouth of the market. I slow my steps and take cover behind the base of the Maiden statue. Other onlookers slowly begin to gather around me, like vultures to carrion.
As I'm leaning my head around, a woman yelps in surprise and disgust, as though she's just spotted a rat. But when I see a lump of moving leather, I realize it is something worse.
A silence settles across the crowd, safe for a few whispers and those trying to banish the palpable veil with casual conversation.
Several people part like wave eddying back to the ocean, and Lord Salvatore Moreau waddles his way past the people.
I duck back behind the Maiden, thinking her stone base and shield will protect me from the being of twisted flesh. His crown of bones sits about his cloth covered forehead, his back heavily hunched, and a lingering smell of fish and algae follows him like a plague.
My heart sinks when I begin to hear laughter trickling through the villagers like a mountain stream.
Lord Moreau lives in the reservoir past the windmills, a small portion of the village primarily responsible for harvesting fish and other sea creatures able to be brewed up from the mountain's fresh water. But it is said he is not the only being that dwells in those waters.
Communication with that part of the village is scarce, but it is still recognized as one of our own, so we still have communication with them, whenever or however we can. Sometimes we'll send a courier over to make sure that everyone over there is still alive, and we get a note back indicating that everything is fine.
But sometimes, we don't get the messenger back.
Productions and distribution of the fish hasn't slowed, but the lack of reports is more concerning than comforting.
Lord Moreau is treated differently than the rest of the Lords. He is seen as more of a joke, despite the other likened villagers who praise him, and his position of power granted to Mother Miranda. It gives them hope that even beings of twisted flesh and mind can ascend to such great things.
Then the names begin to be shouted, and I whip my head around, noticing a group of men – farmhands, and seemingly drunken ones for that matter – shouting and spitting and approaching with tomatoes in their hands.
Oh gods.
"Go back to your watering hole, you mangy git!" One of the men slurs, the booze making his accent even harder to understand.
The men's laughter erupts from their group, most of the townsfolk silent.
"We don't want you on the council you fucking bulbous cunt!" Shouts another.
The third says, "You'll look better as my fuck-toy, sir. Put that slime on your ass to good use!"
I look away in time as I see the first man fling his tomatoes at the lord.
I don't hear its impact, only the sound of female gasps and male aweing.
Moreau's voice, one garbled and hollow, as though he has seawater permanently cradled at the back of his throat, hisses, "Mother Miranda will punish you all!"
"Oh go back crying to the priestess you spineless freak! She doesn't love you, she pities you!"
"She loves me more than your own mother ever loved you!" The Lord counters, earning a small eruption of laughter.
My own lips stretch at the retort.
But then I hear the Lord grunt, and I look back to see him stumbling back, and one of the men raises his foot, and shoves it into the Lord's side.
Moreau tumbles into a mud puddle, soaking his leather cloak.
The three farmhands spit on him, kicking more mud and dirt and brown water onto the lord.
"Mother Miranda gave you the windmills so we don't have to fucking deal with you and your ugly ass!" One shouts.
"Think you can say what you want because you're a lord? Your just some retarded freak she took pity on!" says another, his boot stomping into Lord Moreau's side.
Hearing the Lord grunt and cover his head, seeing his little arms and legs struggle to lift him to his feet to escape, he reminds me of a rabbit caught in my snare.
My temper is a burning river in my veins. A quick scan and I snatch a hunting rifle from a man two steps to my left. He's about to say something, but one glare from me shuts him up. Perhaps the scar Cassandra gave me has its uses after all.
I pull the bolt back to check the chamber and find it loaded.
Don't know how many rounds are in here, but whoever I don't shoot I can bash their head in with the butt of the stock.
I take two steps before I lift the stock of the rifle to my shoulder, aiming down the sights at the first man – a redhead with dirtied overalls that looked olive green. No one is standing behind him.
My steps are smooth as I pull the trigger.
The sound of the rifle cracks through the village square. People instinctively duck low to the ground, woman screaming, dogs begin barking, children cry and huddle into their mothers.
The man's body collapses to the ground, his head gone, neck spilling blood like a fountain.
I contemplated aiming for his chest, but after seeing him stomp on Lord Moreau's ankle, I impulsively switched to his head.
Slowly heads begin to turn to me, the two remaining farmhands look with snarls full of yellowed-teeth, but when they notice the rifle in my hands, their eyes widen to show the whites all around.
I keep approaching Lord Moreau, villagers giving a wide berth, stepping back, even crawling away from me.
"Leave him alone." I slowly drawl, my voice calm, hush. Laced with a deathly chill as sharp as any blade.
The two farmhands, and three others who have joined in beating the lord lift their hands up.
But one lanky man with thinning, dirtied blonde hair and a mud-stained mustache grins at me.
And it's one I'm all too familiar with.
His eyes remain wide, but they scan my body from head to toe.
A gust of wind blows through the village, pulling my hood back as gently as a goddess's hands. I ignore it; my attention solely on the men.
Then the farmhand says, "Now look at you. Lovely thing." He moves his hand forward, motioning with his fingers, "Now come on darling this doesn't concern you. So why don't you just hand me that rifle, and once I'm done with him, I promise to be gentler with you when I –"
The rifle cracks across the square once more, and more women scream as the farmhand tumbles back onto the ground.
Blood begins to pool from the hole I put in his chest.
Without hesitation I turn the rifle and shoot the third farmhand in the knee, crumpling him into the mud and puddles.
I lower the rifle and stalk towards him, no better than the many lynxes I'd seen in the woods.
He's still screaming when I'm directly over him, and before he can beg for his pathetic life, I lift the rifle and drive the stock directly into his face.
He collapses with a broken nose pooling blood down the front of his shirt. Hearing it crack tickles like the twang of a harp string.
Keeping the rifle low, I cast my glance to the other men, to the rest of the villagers who gawk and stare in horror and surprise.
"Anyone else?" I purr with frightening innocence.
They all just stare, as still as deer.
"Then leave. Now."
There's a collective breath as men and women scatter like roaches, mothers clutching their children to their sides, stepping around and over the bodies of the men.
Propping the stock on the ground like a sword, I kneel next to the lord; his cloak dirtied and stained, tearing in some spots from where he tried to fight the men who were trying to pry it off. To reveal whatever lies beneath in humiliation.
"Are you all right?" I softly ask.
Some villagers still gawk, but I ignore them, keeping the rifle close to me.
Lord Moreau does not answer.
Standing to my feet, I look over my shoulder to find the owner of the rifle a few feet behind me.
I turn on my heels and head back over to him, his wife and son cowering behind him at my approach.
I clear the bolt – the empty shell singing as its ejected – and hand him back the rifle.
"If anyone asks, I threatened you to give it to me."
He only nods.
Walking back over to Lord Moreau, he's struggling to get to his feet, looking like a fish out of water.
I don't bother asking for his hand before I clasp my fingers around his elbow and help hoist him to his feet. He is indeed slimy, and I keep telling myself it's just body odor. And he weighs a lot. No wonder his back has hunched.
I then unbutton my cloak. I avoid the urge to take a step back as those unearthly features devour me as I aim to throw it over him as I mutter, "Here."
"I did not ask for your help," he sneers, but his voice hitches on the last word. Catching in his tumorous throat, the bulges tightening my throat. The smell of decaying fish certainly doesn't help.
My heart beats faster as I behold the webbed fingers and razor-sharp teeth. But all I answer with is, "You need it."
The lord looks to me, really looks to me, and I see the twitching of his brows – torn between gratefulness or indifference.
Yes, a lord needing help, accepting charity. But from someone who understands. Who helped him, nonetheless.
I soften my own features, let him see my pain. My understanding.
His face relaxes, and I help him adjust the cloak around himself, around his messy one, not wanting to remove it. At least in public.
I do my best to make sure it covers most of his back, the length less than ideal despite his hunching back. But we make it work, the hood clinging to his crown of bones. It doesn't pass me that his hands have distinct webbing between the fingers. His clogged breathing only softens my heart, despite knowing what he might've done to some villagers.
Then again, perhaps they deserve it.
"You might see it again," he mutters, looking up at me like a child in a raincoat.
"It's fine. I can get another one." I insist.
"I'll see to it that you are not burdened with this." He motions towards the bodies of the men, the one with the broken nose beginning to rise to consciousness. He turns and takes those small steps towards them.
I inclined my head slightly. "Will you be all right, My Lord."
He pauses, whirling with preternatural smoothness.
A dip of his chin.
"Thank you," he says, and bows deeply. "I will not forget this kindness." His voice slithers over the words, and I shiver again as his black eyes threaten to swallow me whole. "Nor will any of my sisters."
Without another word, and without much else to do, I head back towards the castle, the faces of many villagers tight with reproach.