Bastien (6 page)

I enter directly into the bower, with a black cup already waiting for me. I was expected.

“You made me wait, lover,” Lilith’s disembodied voice croons. Bracing myself with grim determination, I down the contents without once looking at the mirrors.

I don’t remember the white cup. My dreams are filled with thorns and not a single bloom.

When I awake on the floor of the shack, I know I won’t be dreaming the woman again no matter how often I come here and drink the black cup. She’s gone. I lost her. No more point in returning here, then. I make that decision before I even have my feet under me. I feel hollow, as if I’ve lost something precious, a part of myself I never knew I had, and the hole left behind is quickly filling with resentment.

Damn Louis for bringing me here, and damn Lilith for making me this craven for something I never should have had to begin with. I hope the both of them rot in hell.

Outside, it’s day time. Frost makes the dry grass crunch beneath my shoes. The hag is not there, but I didn’t expect her to be. I look for the rose and instead find a single tarot card.

The Hanged Man.

Chapter Ten

Dreams used to mean little to me. Vague snatches of images, faces I knew or not, voices saying things that made no sense. They were nothing more than the imaginings of a tired mind after a busy day of revelry and drink. Rarely did I wake after a dream and think it had any meaning beyond the immediate.

I was a fool.

Dreams are far more than anyone gives them credit for. I doubt even fortune tellers and mystics know what their dreams are trying to tell them. A tarot card appears on a table. They grasp for meaning based on what they were taught about the card. A King of Pentacles, for example, is supposed to mean a prosperous man with a family and estates. It means wealth, luck, and contentment. A King of Pentacles is what the hag ascribed to me. She called herself the Hierophant.

I wonder if perhaps her deck was stacked.

Not a night goes by now when I do not dream. Dark visions of pain and torment, chains and emptiness. A presence nearby, kept away, out of sight. I call out to it, will it to approach, but it shies away with fear. Every time it does this, I hear a creature howl in agony inside my chest as it dies a little more.

I pour over books on mysticism, superstitions, magic and clairvoyance. I spend hours and days in my library, hardly eating, trying to reason out what it all means. Vague portents of doom are all I find. Any one of the elements in my dreams can be explained by these books, but all of them together make no sense at all. I make myself half insane trying to unravel it, eagerly retiring to my bed each night, waiting to dream something more to help me understand.

I stop hoping for the woman of Strength. She is well and truly gone, not a hint of her left behind, not even her rose. I study the card so much it’s worn and fraying. I purchase several more decks, hoping that one of them will hold an image different from the one I have. I find a fist, a warrior, a bulwark, a mighty oak, but no woman. And no rose.

Why would a rose signify strength? Roses are delicate things, finicky about where they grow and how they want to be cared for. They have long stems which break easily, and heavy blooms which weigh them down, making them even more fragile. Their only defense is the thorns.

My garden is empty. On my order, all the plants and flowers were torn out to make room for roses. They are already planted, waiting for spring to bloom into their full glory. I find myself counting the days until the first blossom opens.

I don’t like what this obsession has made of me. I’ve become a hermit, no longer interested in any of my usual sins. When the endless cycle of frustration and fervor is at its worst, I even contemplate seeking out Louis. Perhaps he knows more than I do. Perhaps once I tell him that I am no longer seeing Lilith and he is welcome to her and the damned elixirs, he will settle his feathers and speak to me as a friend once more.

On a sunny winter day, that hope has me mounting my horse and riding into Fauve.

The village is battened down against the cold. People avoid the outdoors most days, but today the sun is warm enough that it lures out the children and with them everyone else. They call greetings as I pass. I wave absently as is my duty, but ignore them for the most part.

Louis’ estate is set far enough from the village that he can see the whole of it from his windows. I give my reins to one of his hostlers and knock. There was a time when I would simply enter and seek him out. I’m afraid that time has passed.

The butler opens and ushers me inside. He takes my coat and informs me that Louis is in his study. I find him there, in front of the hearth, with a drink in his hand. “What do you want?” are the first words out of his mouth.

“To talk.”

“What is there left to say?”

“That I am sorry?” The apology comes easily because I’m saying it to myself. I am sorry. I regret what I have done, the time I lost to Lilith. I regret it for my own sake, not Louis’.

He probably knows it, too. When he turns to glare at me, it is not with forgiveness or understanding, but accusation and malicious joy. I did this to myself, just as he is the originator of his own misery. He was the one who wanted to boast to me of his conquest and lost it to me instead.

“That you are. A sorrier bastard than you have any right to be.”

I wonder whether he’s taken a look in the mirror lately. “May I sit?”

He snorts. “Do whatever the hell you want. You’re going to, anyway.”

I sit. There are things I want to say to him, questions I want to ask, but I don’t know how to begin.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“You should have told me.”

Louis laughs. “And would you have believed me?”

He has a point. “Have you been back since ...?”

He shakes his head and takes a drink. “But I can tell you have. Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Immensely,” I retort in the same bitter tone. “What do you know about the hag?”

His glass stops halfway to his mouth. “The hag?”

“The one with the tarot cards.”

Louis chuckles and then bursts into laughter. “You saw the Faery court, you made love to their princess, one of the highest, most beautiful beings on this Earth, and you want to know about some hag?”

Lilith is their princess. I vaguely remember the voices in her bower whispering something like that. I never paid much attention. “I think the hag—”

Louis hurls the glass at the hearth. It shatters in the flame, making it flare up higher for just a moment. He shoves to his feet and self-preservation forces me to match him. “She offered me immortality,” he snarls in my face. “I was this close to becoming one of them before you waltzed off with her.”

He can’t possibly have believed her. A creature like Lilith doesn’t consort with beings lesser than her except for temporary entertainment. Was Louis in love with her? Blinded by his own foolish emotions, did he swallow every lie she told him?

“I may not have lasted very long, but at least I had her respect,” he rants. “You are nothing but her pet. She will tire of you soon enough, and when she does, oh, my dear boy, mark my words, you will rue the day you laid eyes on her.”

I already do. “And when she rains down her punishment upon my head,” I say dramatically,

“will you be satisfied? Will you put this behind us?”

Louis pulls back, surprised out of his anger. “Yes.”

I nod. There is nothing left to say, then. I take my leave without another word.

By the time I get back I am in a right foul temper. I stomp past the servants hanging tapestries to ward off winter’s chill and head into the library.

Jocelyn is there. She jumps at my entrance and then smiles brightly. “My Lord! I am reading about the Greek gods. Athena, and Zeus, and Eros—”

I stop her mouth with a kiss. She gasps and her hands flutter against my shoulders before curling into my lapels. I pick her up and lay her down on the settee. It takes some creative maneuvering to rearrange her clothing and mine without slipping off the cushions, but then her breasts are finally bared to me and my cock is free of my pants and I am tearing through her maidenhead and silencing her cries with my mouth.

I stroke her pain away slowly, stoke her passion into a fever pitch, and pretend she is the one I want to be holding in my arms. Not a wide eyed maid or a heartless Faery princess. I stroke her black hair and pretend it’s red-brown instead. I look at her mouth because her dark eyes are nothing like the blues I crave, and I rock against her, into her, willing my dream into reality.

My powers of will are insufficient, and the shocked squeak she emits when her first orgasm rocks her breaks me out of the bitter fantasy just as I take my own release. Jocelyn is weeping and smiling at the same time. She looks awed, love struck. I break loose of her embrace and hastily rearrange my clothes. Tugging her skirts back down, I leave her to set the rest of her gown to rights and make a hasty retreat to my chambers.

My hands shake when I pour water into the wash bowl. It’s frigid cold when I splash it on my face. When I look up, my own haggard, half animal reflection mocks me from the mirror. I tear the silvered glass from its moorings on my dresser and smash it on the floor.

Chapter Eleven

Two months after I left Lilith’s bower I’ve all but forgotten about her. My castle is in quiet uproar over Jocelyn. It seems she hasn’t told anyone about me, but the moon eyes and dreamy smiles she wears day after day have betrayed her. Her aunt Aimee especially seems to be in a snit, equally angered with the girl and disappointed with me. As the head of staff, I assign the blame fully on her shoulders. Jocelyn is her niece and her responsibility. If I am such a menace to womankind, Aimee should have warned the girl.

I request my meals to be brought by someone else and avoid Jocelyn as much as I can. The handful of times we cross paths, she smiles at me with some secret knowledge I most definitely do not share and makes me all but run in the other direction. Childish infatuation. It will pass soon, I hope. If I must be more direct with her and explain the exact nature of her status in my castle, it will not go over well. I should hate to have to turn her out.

A snow storm blows in at Christmas time. The roads become impassable and the winds howl through the crenellations, threatening frostbite for any who dare venture outside. Only the most able bodied men go out, and then only to chop more wood. We are fortunate to be surrounded by trees, as we burn through them quite quickly to keep warm.

I spend my idle time in solitude, reading or absently shuffling tarot cards. Christmas itself passes quietly for me. It is tradition here for all the servants to have the day to themselves, and I don’t see even one of them from sunup until sunup the next day. At least I can walk my hallways in peace and look forward to a happy, smiling staff when they return. It takes little to make them happy. Most days I simply don’t bother.

On the night the storm breaks, I dream of Lilith and wake close to dawn hearing whispers call my name. Somehow my balcony door has come unlatched, letting in the frigid wind. I close it, pull the heavy drapes shut against the morning light, and go back to bed.

I dream Lilith is standing in my chambers, stripping out of her gown and beckoning to me, and when I wake again, I find I’ve slept through most of the day.

It happens twice more that week and then the hallucinations start. I hear Lilith’s voice calling to me on the wind outside, on a stray breeze inside the castle. I see shadows flitting about where there ought not be any, and the face of every woman in my castle begins to resemble the Faery princess in some way.

Just when I think I can’t stand it any longer, the bitch herself appears at my doorstep.

Dressed as a proper lady, her hair braided in the latest style and a thick fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders, she steps into my entry hall as if she is paying a social call. She has the temerity to smile at me, but her eyes are cold. “Hello, Bastien.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My Lady,” Jacques says, “would you care for some refreshment? Shall I stoke the fire?”

She waves her hand and the fire flares up, startling my butler half to death if the way his eyes subtly widen is anything to go by. “I have everything I need,” she says. “You may go.”

Jacques obeys.

“Lover,” she purrs when he’s gone. “It’s been too long.”

I grin. “Did you miss me, Lilith?”

Lilith smiles and produces a black flower cup.

My smile wanes in a hurry. “You wasted a trip. Go home.”

Shock mingles with anger in an expression I never thought to see on her face. Her eyes quickly morph from human brown to the colorless shine of her natural appearance. It’s almost comical the way she gapes, her lips parted the slightest bit with incomprehension. “Go home? Is that all you have to say to me?”

I recall everything I wanted to say to her not so long ago, the accusations, the anger I hoped to unleash on her, fully expecting her to laugh in my face. None of it seems to matter anymore.

Lilith is an immortal. In this world she is nothing but a creature of fantasy and myth. In that sense, she might as well not exist. She is nothing to me.

But she is the Faery princess. It occurs to me that if anyone knows about the hag and her magic tricks, it’s Lilith. She could tell me whether the woman I saw is real or not. I could charm the answers out of her. God knows she enjoys me enough to seek me out when I don’t come to her. It shouldn’t be too hard to draw the truth from her lips.

As soon as the idea comes to me, I reject it. Violently. Not once have I mentioned the hag or her cards to Lilith and something, some lingering effect of the tarot spell perhaps, makes me think I shouldn’t mention it now. A female’s wrath is a thing to be avoided at all cost but strangely it is not for myself that I do this now. “Yes,” I answer her shortly. “That is all.”

“I am not finished with you!”

For all that she is a Faery princess, seasoned and ancient, she is easily as tenacious as any spoiled human girl I’ve ever had the bad luck of laying with. Her appeal has already faded. “Go home, Lilith. It’s been an enjoyable experience, but it’s time to move on. One should always stop before the sweet nectar grows sour, don’t you think?”