Crimson Bound
Page 37
Rachelle wanted to snarl, I’d rather kiss a forestborn, but anger would just amuse him. Would just amuse everyone, because anger was funny when it couldn’t be backed up by strength, especially when it was the anger of a stupid little girl from the northern forest.
She couldn’t smile and hide what she was feeling, though. Blankly submitting was beyond her too: her eyes stung, and in a moment she really would be crying.
If she had to submit to him, at least she could do that, too, on her own terms.
“I never forget,” she said, and rolled abruptly to the side, swinging a leg to sweep him off his feet. Erec went down, and though he was rolling back up a heartbeat later, she was on him and pressed him back down with her sword at his throat.
“This is for you,” she said, and crushed her mouth down onto his.
For one moment, it was glorious: her heart drummed against her ribs, his body was pinned beneath hers, and for once she was the one wresting something from him. Around her, the air sang with icy, approving sweetness.
But he was Erec, and he had no problem kissing her back. Nor in wrapping his bloody fingers around the blade—again—and pushing it away as he sat up, still kissing her. Her body was catching fire, but inside her chest was a cold hollow, because always, always he made her helpless.
Then he broke away. Rachelle caught a strangled gasp. Her body felt like it was made of sparks and no longer quite attached to her. She had to take a few breaths before she scrambled to her feet, and by then of course Erec was already standing straight and tall and smug, convinced that he had won this contest as well, because he was looking ironic and she was breathless.
Of course he had won. He always won.
Rachelle lifted her chin and looked at the King. “Are you sufficiently amused, Your Majesty?”
That was when she noticed that the crowd had gone dead silent. She remembered what Armand had said about kissing in public.
Well, if they wanted to think her an animal, let them. It wouldn’t be so far from the truth. Her body was shaking with pure animal hatred.
Then she saw Armand, still sitting on the ground where she had left him and watching her with absolutely no expression.
Yes, she thought ferociously. This is what I am. Don’t forget it.
Her body grew tenser, as if preparing to fight again. A heartbeat later, she realized there were woodspawn nearby.
“Erec,” she whispered, “do you—”
Then the woodspawn attacked.
They didn’t come out of the trees. They stood up from the grass, as if they had been there all along, though the space had been empty and well-trodden a moment before. There were at least ten of them: furry creatures that stood as high as her knees but were long and limber as ferrets. They would have looked almost natural except for the glowing red eyes and the long, snakelike black tongues that lashed out of their mouths.
She had fought this kind before. She knew their tongues were deadly poison.
Rachelle had killed the first two before the crowd even realized what was happening. Then they started clapping and laughing. She didn’t understand what it meant—she was busy dodging the tongues of two more woodspawn—until Armand’s voice rang out: “Everyone get back! They’re dangerous!”
She realized: the courtiers thought this was entertainment.
Somebody screamed—not a shriek of fear, but a howl of pure agony. Rachelle whirled and saw one of the ladies had fallen to the ground, clutching her arm. One of the woodspawn crouched beside her.
Rachelle threw her knife; it hit the woodspawn but glanced off, and then the creature turned on her.
She charged. The creature leaped at her and ended up spitted for its troubles. Rachelle turned, discovering as she did that the thing’s body was stuck on her sword—
And saw, in the same instant, that Erec had managed to kill off all the others but one, and that one was preparing to spring at Armand.
She sprang first. Barely. She hit its body in midair and both tumbled to the ground. Its tongue lashed up and struck her throat, burning like white-hot iron—
With a shriek of pain and fury, she seized its neck and twisted. She felt it writhing in her grip. Felt the bones of its neck snap. Felt it go still.
She felt the air rush out of her lungs. And then she felt nothing at all.
16
It didn’t take her long to wake. What was deadly poison to humans was only pain and an hour-long fever to bloodbound. When she was able to sit up again, her throat aching and her skin shivering, people were still shouting and fainting and chattering.
Rachelle managed to escape most of the tumult by dragging Armand away for his own safety. Though by the time she got him back to his rooms, the servants had already heard and were talking about it.
On the bright side, the horror of a surprise woodspawn attack in plain daylight seemed to have stopped people from talking about the depraved antics of the King’s bloodbound. Not that Rachelle could stop thinking about it; every other minute, she remembered Erec laughing at her as he scored point after point in the duel, Erec pinned beneath her but still—through the kiss—making her dance to his bidding. He had humiliated her and laughed at her and then he had still made her want him.
Armand didn’t speak to her for the rest of the day. That was good, because she didn’t want to talk to him. He had seen her kissing Erec, seen her panting with lust and bloodlust at the same time. She knew what he must think of her.
It shouldn’t matter what he thought of her.
The King didn’t send for them that evening, so Armand ate dinner in his rooms, grimly stabbing at his food with the fork clamped to his hand. Rachelle sat in the corner and stared. She didn’t want to look at him. Looking at him made her think of this afternoon and the day before and everything that was horrible and broken and wrong in her. But she couldn’t look away.
Finally, Armand looked up at her. “Are we still pretending you take orders from me?” he asked with a mild curiosity that burned more than any anger.
Rachelle’s chest tightened. “Have we ever pretended that?”
“I would like it,” he said quietly and distinctly, “if you pretended long enough to go into the other room and stop staring at me.”
“And let the woodspawn eat you?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re useful. For now.” She stood. “Scream if you need help.”
She went to her room and spent the next hour watching Amélie mix powders and trying not to cry. Which did not make any sense.
Nothing in her heart made any sense.
She couldn’t smile and hide what she was feeling, though. Blankly submitting was beyond her too: her eyes stung, and in a moment she really would be crying.
If she had to submit to him, at least she could do that, too, on her own terms.
“I never forget,” she said, and rolled abruptly to the side, swinging a leg to sweep him off his feet. Erec went down, and though he was rolling back up a heartbeat later, she was on him and pressed him back down with her sword at his throat.
“This is for you,” she said, and crushed her mouth down onto his.
For one moment, it was glorious: her heart drummed against her ribs, his body was pinned beneath hers, and for once she was the one wresting something from him. Around her, the air sang with icy, approving sweetness.
But he was Erec, and he had no problem kissing her back. Nor in wrapping his bloody fingers around the blade—again—and pushing it away as he sat up, still kissing her. Her body was catching fire, but inside her chest was a cold hollow, because always, always he made her helpless.
Then he broke away. Rachelle caught a strangled gasp. Her body felt like it was made of sparks and no longer quite attached to her. She had to take a few breaths before she scrambled to her feet, and by then of course Erec was already standing straight and tall and smug, convinced that he had won this contest as well, because he was looking ironic and she was breathless.
Of course he had won. He always won.
Rachelle lifted her chin and looked at the King. “Are you sufficiently amused, Your Majesty?”
That was when she noticed that the crowd had gone dead silent. She remembered what Armand had said about kissing in public.
Well, if they wanted to think her an animal, let them. It wouldn’t be so far from the truth. Her body was shaking with pure animal hatred.
Then she saw Armand, still sitting on the ground where she had left him and watching her with absolutely no expression.
Yes, she thought ferociously. This is what I am. Don’t forget it.
Her body grew tenser, as if preparing to fight again. A heartbeat later, she realized there were woodspawn nearby.
“Erec,” she whispered, “do you—”
Then the woodspawn attacked.
They didn’t come out of the trees. They stood up from the grass, as if they had been there all along, though the space had been empty and well-trodden a moment before. There were at least ten of them: furry creatures that stood as high as her knees but were long and limber as ferrets. They would have looked almost natural except for the glowing red eyes and the long, snakelike black tongues that lashed out of their mouths.
She had fought this kind before. She knew their tongues were deadly poison.
Rachelle had killed the first two before the crowd even realized what was happening. Then they started clapping and laughing. She didn’t understand what it meant—she was busy dodging the tongues of two more woodspawn—until Armand’s voice rang out: “Everyone get back! They’re dangerous!”
She realized: the courtiers thought this was entertainment.
Somebody screamed—not a shriek of fear, but a howl of pure agony. Rachelle whirled and saw one of the ladies had fallen to the ground, clutching her arm. One of the woodspawn crouched beside her.
Rachelle threw her knife; it hit the woodspawn but glanced off, and then the creature turned on her.
She charged. The creature leaped at her and ended up spitted for its troubles. Rachelle turned, discovering as she did that the thing’s body was stuck on her sword—
And saw, in the same instant, that Erec had managed to kill off all the others but one, and that one was preparing to spring at Armand.
She sprang first. Barely. She hit its body in midair and both tumbled to the ground. Its tongue lashed up and struck her throat, burning like white-hot iron—
With a shriek of pain and fury, she seized its neck and twisted. She felt it writhing in her grip. Felt the bones of its neck snap. Felt it go still.
She felt the air rush out of her lungs. And then she felt nothing at all.
16
It didn’t take her long to wake. What was deadly poison to humans was only pain and an hour-long fever to bloodbound. When she was able to sit up again, her throat aching and her skin shivering, people were still shouting and fainting and chattering.
Rachelle managed to escape most of the tumult by dragging Armand away for his own safety. Though by the time she got him back to his rooms, the servants had already heard and were talking about it.
On the bright side, the horror of a surprise woodspawn attack in plain daylight seemed to have stopped people from talking about the depraved antics of the King’s bloodbound. Not that Rachelle could stop thinking about it; every other minute, she remembered Erec laughing at her as he scored point after point in the duel, Erec pinned beneath her but still—through the kiss—making her dance to his bidding. He had humiliated her and laughed at her and then he had still made her want him.
Armand didn’t speak to her for the rest of the day. That was good, because she didn’t want to talk to him. He had seen her kissing Erec, seen her panting with lust and bloodlust at the same time. She knew what he must think of her.
It shouldn’t matter what he thought of her.
The King didn’t send for them that evening, so Armand ate dinner in his rooms, grimly stabbing at his food with the fork clamped to his hand. Rachelle sat in the corner and stared. She didn’t want to look at him. Looking at him made her think of this afternoon and the day before and everything that was horrible and broken and wrong in her. But she couldn’t look away.
Finally, Armand looked up at her. “Are we still pretending you take orders from me?” he asked with a mild curiosity that burned more than any anger.
Rachelle’s chest tightened. “Have we ever pretended that?”
“I would like it,” he said quietly and distinctly, “if you pretended long enough to go into the other room and stop staring at me.”
“And let the woodspawn eat you?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re useful. For now.” She stood. “Scream if you need help.”
She went to her room and spent the next hour watching Amélie mix powders and trying not to cry. Which did not make any sense.
Nothing in her heart made any sense.
