Under Her Skin
Page 27
Grace sat in a sickened silence.
"Anything to say?" Alasdair asked.
"That's very horrible," she said.
"Yes, it is."
"However, I never knew Jonathan Mailliard. I didn't even know his name. I feel awful about the murder and I understand that my family bears responsibility, but I never killed anyone. I've never hurt you and neither has my mother, my uncle or my great grandfather, who hid in the closet." She tried to make her voice sound calm and reasonable. "I've done you no harm, yet you limit my freedom and force me to risk my life because of a crime perpetrated a century ago by someone I've never met. Our family has served yours for over a hundred years. At some point this debt will have been repaid. When do you think will that be?"
"Never," Alasdair said.
It felt like a slap. She looked to Nassar. "So this is how you do things? You dumped all of the blame for a bloody feud onto a fourteen year old child who hid in a closet, and because he's failed to stop grown men from killing, you keep his descendants in perpetual servitude?"
"Hardly perpetual," Nassar corrected. "Since I assumed the responsibility for the clan fifteen years ago, I've called on your family only four times."
"But we know we can be called at any point. We have to live with the knowledge that on a moment's notice we might be required to risk our life for a complete stranger for no reason and we might never see our loved ones again. We can't refuse. The terms are obedience or death. Would you want to live like this?"
"No," Nassar admitted.
"Can you tell me when the debt will be paid?" she asked.
"This arrangement is to our advantage," Nassar said. "It makes no sense for us to release you."
"I see. I'll have to release us then."
"Really?" Alasdair gave a short barking laugh. "How exactly are you planning on doing that?"
"My uncle has no offspring and I'm my mother's only child. To my knowledge, I'm the last of Mailliards. I'll have to make sure that I don't continue the line." She rose. "I think I've seen the washroom on the way here. I really need to splash some water on my face."
"Second door on the right," Nassar told her.
"Excuse me."
Grace walked away. Her knees shook a little in her jeans. Her face burned.
* * *
Nassar watched Grace's figure retreat down the winding path.
"Wow," Alasdair offered.
"Yes."
"Think she'll do it?"
"She's a Mailliard."
He'd seen the same steely resolve in her mother's eyes, Nassar reflected. He suspected it was the same will that drove the wedding night atrocities a century ago. It enabled her mother, Janet, to grimly bear her service, and fueled Grace's fight against it. He doubted she would ever go into outright rebellion, not while her mother and Gerald were alive, but he could tell by the way she held herself, by her face and her eyes and her voice, that she would rather give up her future children than bring them into Dreoch's "service."
"You like her," Alasdair said.
"What of it?"
"Why don't you make a move?"
The imbalance of power between them was too great and her antipathy and contempt for Dreoch was painfully obvious. Nassar took the towel off his shoulder and sat on the bench. "Because she can't say no."
* * *
When Grace returned, Alasdair was gone. Nassar sat alone. It was easier if she simply admitted it, Grace decided. Sometimes you see another person in passing, your eyes meet, and you know by some instinct that there is something there. She felt that something for Nassar.
It was wrong on so many levels, her head reeled from simply contemplating it. He was a revenant, a creature more than a man. Her great grandfather's brother slaughtered his relatives. His family held hers in bondage. If he really wanted her, he could simply order her to submit. Maybe it was some sort of twisted version of Stockholm syndrome. Or an animal attraction. He was... not handsome exactly, but very male. Powerful. Masculine. Strong. But there was more to it: the sadness in his eyes, the courteous way he managed himself, the feel of his magic. It pulled her to him and she would have to be very careful to keep her distance.
"You still haven't told me what you need me to do," she said.
He rose. "Walk with me, please."
Grace followed him down the path deeper into the atrium. Nassar led her out through an arched door and into a large round chamber. Bare, it was lit by sunlight spilling through a skylight very high above. A thick metal grate guarded the skylight. Plain concrete made up the floor, showing a complicated geometric pattern with a circle etched into its center. Nassar stood on its edge.
"When a revenant takes a new body, he gains great power but he also inherits the weaknesses of that body. The body I took was cursed. After I transferred into it, I was able to heal the damage and break the curse. But all of my invulnerability to the curse is gone. I've used it all up."
"And the man who was born in this body? What happened to him when you took it?"
"He died," Nassar said.
She'd hoped he wouldn't say that.
A woman entered the chamber through the door in the opposite wall. A pale blond like Nassar. She smiled at them. Nassar didn't quite smile back, but the melancholy of his face eased slightly.
"This is Elizavetta. My sister."
"Anything to say?" Alasdair asked.
"That's very horrible," she said.
"Yes, it is."
"However, I never knew Jonathan Mailliard. I didn't even know his name. I feel awful about the murder and I understand that my family bears responsibility, but I never killed anyone. I've never hurt you and neither has my mother, my uncle or my great grandfather, who hid in the closet." She tried to make her voice sound calm and reasonable. "I've done you no harm, yet you limit my freedom and force me to risk my life because of a crime perpetrated a century ago by someone I've never met. Our family has served yours for over a hundred years. At some point this debt will have been repaid. When do you think will that be?"
"Never," Alasdair said.
It felt like a slap. She looked to Nassar. "So this is how you do things? You dumped all of the blame for a bloody feud onto a fourteen year old child who hid in a closet, and because he's failed to stop grown men from killing, you keep his descendants in perpetual servitude?"
"Hardly perpetual," Nassar corrected. "Since I assumed the responsibility for the clan fifteen years ago, I've called on your family only four times."
"But we know we can be called at any point. We have to live with the knowledge that on a moment's notice we might be required to risk our life for a complete stranger for no reason and we might never see our loved ones again. We can't refuse. The terms are obedience or death. Would you want to live like this?"
"No," Nassar admitted.
"Can you tell me when the debt will be paid?" she asked.
"This arrangement is to our advantage," Nassar said. "It makes no sense for us to release you."
"I see. I'll have to release us then."
"Really?" Alasdair gave a short barking laugh. "How exactly are you planning on doing that?"
"My uncle has no offspring and I'm my mother's only child. To my knowledge, I'm the last of Mailliards. I'll have to make sure that I don't continue the line." She rose. "I think I've seen the washroom on the way here. I really need to splash some water on my face."
"Second door on the right," Nassar told her.
"Excuse me."
Grace walked away. Her knees shook a little in her jeans. Her face burned.
* * *
Nassar watched Grace's figure retreat down the winding path.
"Wow," Alasdair offered.
"Yes."
"Think she'll do it?"
"She's a Mailliard."
He'd seen the same steely resolve in her mother's eyes, Nassar reflected. He suspected it was the same will that drove the wedding night atrocities a century ago. It enabled her mother, Janet, to grimly bear her service, and fueled Grace's fight against it. He doubted she would ever go into outright rebellion, not while her mother and Gerald were alive, but he could tell by the way she held herself, by her face and her eyes and her voice, that she would rather give up her future children than bring them into Dreoch's "service."
"You like her," Alasdair said.
"What of it?"
"Why don't you make a move?"
The imbalance of power between them was too great and her antipathy and contempt for Dreoch was painfully obvious. Nassar took the towel off his shoulder and sat on the bench. "Because she can't say no."
* * *
When Grace returned, Alasdair was gone. Nassar sat alone. It was easier if she simply admitted it, Grace decided. Sometimes you see another person in passing, your eyes meet, and you know by some instinct that there is something there. She felt that something for Nassar.
It was wrong on so many levels, her head reeled from simply contemplating it. He was a revenant, a creature more than a man. Her great grandfather's brother slaughtered his relatives. His family held hers in bondage. If he really wanted her, he could simply order her to submit. Maybe it was some sort of twisted version of Stockholm syndrome. Or an animal attraction. He was... not handsome exactly, but very male. Powerful. Masculine. Strong. But there was more to it: the sadness in his eyes, the courteous way he managed himself, the feel of his magic. It pulled her to him and she would have to be very careful to keep her distance.
"You still haven't told me what you need me to do," she said.
He rose. "Walk with me, please."
Grace followed him down the path deeper into the atrium. Nassar led her out through an arched door and into a large round chamber. Bare, it was lit by sunlight spilling through a skylight very high above. A thick metal grate guarded the skylight. Plain concrete made up the floor, showing a complicated geometric pattern with a circle etched into its center. Nassar stood on its edge.
"When a revenant takes a new body, he gains great power but he also inherits the weaknesses of that body. The body I took was cursed. After I transferred into it, I was able to heal the damage and break the curse. But all of my invulnerability to the curse is gone. I've used it all up."
"And the man who was born in this body? What happened to him when you took it?"
"He died," Nassar said.
She'd hoped he wouldn't say that.
A woman entered the chamber through the door in the opposite wall. A pale blond like Nassar. She smiled at them. Nassar didn't quite smile back, but the melancholy of his face eased slightly.
"This is Elizavetta. My sister."
