Midnight Soul (2 page)

I heard no reply.

“Antoine,
mon cœur
, are you there?” I
called and winced when I heard the urgency and desperation in my
own voice.

Even so, there was no more from Antoine.

And if a servant, or (as if I hadn’t already
been cursed by the goddess Adele to endure the unendurable), the
dire happenstance of being caught by Noctorno (either of them), my
cousin Frey, his Finnie, the king of Korwahk, his Circe (or the
other Circe), Prince Noctorno’s Princess Cora, Apollo or Madeleine,
should they walk down this corridor, they’d think me deranged.

And I couldn’t have that.

I’d shown them weakness.

With the loss I’d suffered, what I’d been
forced to do to my Lunwyn, my family’s House, my brother, I no
longer had it in me to show them strength.

And I’d learned when that was the case. When
you were brought low, escape was the wisest course.

I hurried toward the steps, deciding to find
my wine somewhere else.

I knew Queen Aurora was enjoying refreshments
with the green witch of the other world, a woman who went by the
name Valentine (and I approved that she pronounced it in the
Fleuridian manner, Val-ehn-
teen
) as well as Lavinia,
Lunwyn’s most powerful witch.

And all of them indisputably deserved those
tonics, what with the palace having all its windows blown out by
evil magic, the green witch instigating her layering of plans in
order to save our realm, and Lavinia having actually died at the
hands of the wicked triumvirate, necessitating her being
resurrected by the elves.

They’d been at it since everyone was
transported back to the Winter Palace and the short debriefing had
occurred.

They were all women I admired—intelligent,
powerful, shrewd. In Aurora’s case, cold and strategic, in
Valentine’s case, smug and calculating and in Lavinia’s case,
nurturing and gracious.

I would never tell them I thought any of
that.

This was not because they wouldn’t give me
the opportunity, not seeking or desiring my company.

I just wouldn’t.

I was a Drakkar. Even a compliment earned was
withheld, regardless if that compliment had to do with saving the
world.

I finished my descent down the stairs to the
first floor and caught a scurrying servant as I did.

As was habit, I lifted my chin slightly, kept
it aloft and looked down my nose at her.

“I shall be in the morning room. Have two
bottles of wine delivered to me, some bread and cheese.
Des
Champs du Sauvage
, if the queen has that in her cellar.”

“Right away, Lady Drakkar.”

I didn’t even nod. I moved sedately to the
morning room as the servant, who had also endured the attack that
day, not to mention they had a house full of visitors to see to due
to the cancelled Bitter Gales that was to happen that night, if the
world had not been threatened.

I worried the morning room would have some of
these visitors occupying it and was relieved to find it didn’t.

Aloneness.

What I needed.

Loneliness
, my mind whispered.

What no one needed.

I drew in breath as I entered the room,
seeing it was lit. The sun had long since set, as it was late
evening, but regardless, the windows had to be boarded. I was
equally relieved to see that the debris from the blast that
shattered them had been neatly cleaned away.

Yes, the servants were all likely dead on
their feet.

That was the last I thought of that as I
pulled the cord and found my seat.

To my fortune, a male servant came in
swiftly. I wasted no time with pleasantries (as was my wont) and
ordered a fire laid and lit.

He did this as another servant hurried in
with my wine, bread and cheese.

Perhaps due to the amount of wine I’d ordered
they’d brought two glasses.

Uncharacteristically of me, after the girl
poured, I did not bid her to take the extra wineglass away. I
didn’t need a reminder I would be drinking alone.

She more didn’t need an extra errand this
day.

You’ve made me soft
, I told Antoine.
Too soft
.

I waited, taking the filled glass and
bringing it to my lips for a sip, my body held tense, expectant,
hoping to hear his beautiful voice in my head again.

It did not come.

The servants left me with all I’d asked and a
roaring fire that was quickly warming the space. However, when the
male made to close the door behind him, thus closing me in and
keeping the draught from the hall from cooling the room, I lifted
my hand lazily his way.

“No, leave it open,” I bid.

He bobbed his head, did a slight bow and
disappeared out the door.

I ordered the door left open for I had no
company and it’d be quite dire to sit in a closed room all by
myself, brooding.

With the door open and the comings and goings
of a busy palace, at least there would be something that could take
my attention.

I sipped. I allowed the soft cheese to soften
further in the warming room. I sipped more. And more. I replenished
my glass. I spread the cheese on the bread and nibbled.

And through this, I found myself alone in a
room, staring at the fire, brooding.

“Hay.” I heard and started at the strange
word that pertained to barns and horses being uttered in a deep
voice that was not suave, even on that short word, but rough, as if
hewn through granite.

I turned my head to see Noctorno of the other
world (and his appealing faded-blue trousers), moving into the room
with immense masculine grace, his gaze on me.

But as he walked toward me, I took in his
expression, which, like Circe’s, was sated.

There was, however, no relief or
gratitude.

Instead, even if some time had passed, he
seemed invigorated most assuredly by his recent activities inside
Circe’s bedchamber, and at the sight of it I felt my breath catch
in my throat.

I remembered that look.

I
relished
that look.

Not only on my Antoine but any lover I’d had
(but, obviously, getting it from Antoine was far more
rewarding).

It was a look I worked toward, putting great
energy and imagination into it, losing myself in these endeavors,
feeling free of my name, my history, my secrets, my
responsibilities, and reveling in my success as if I’d scaled
mountains.

It was my greatest talent: bringing a man to
climax and making utterly certain it was one he wouldn’t
forget.

This was my greatest talent outside, of
course (as any good Drakkar would excel), honing in on any
vulnerability and manipulating it for the greatest possible
gain—coin, jewels, furs, favors, silence, information, or simply
for amusement.

Seeing the look on Noctorno in that moment, I
knew Circe too had performed well (admirably well, I might add,
considering her dismal past).

I also recognized—focusing on it keenly—what
Circe might have missed, or perhaps what Noctorno hid from her
understanding, or simply just sensing, how she came to him.

He was not done.

Oh no.

If she had not given indication she wished
him out of her bedchamber, he’d still be in it.

Indeed, he might be in it all night, and not
to sleep.

He might have been in it, perhaps, for
days.

As these thoughts flitted in my mind, I
became aware he’d fully entered the room, was stopped not far from
my chair, and was standing, chin tipped down, eyes regarding me
with a scrutiny that I found so uncomfortable I actually shifted in
my seat.

I ceased this reaction the instant I became
aware of it, appalled at myself.

Giving something away so easily? Especially
something like discomfiture?

You’ve ruined me
, I snapped silently
at Antoine.

My dead lover had no rejoinder.

“You okay?” Noctorno asked.

“Am I what?” I asked in return.

His head gave a slight twitch before he went
on, “You okay? All right?” His voice lowered. “It’s been a tough
day, babe, for all of us. Including you.”

I looked beyond him to the fire, lifting my
wine to my lips but not sipping it until after I murmured, “I’m
perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, right,” he stated, and the disbelief
veritably dripping from his tone made my gaze flick immediately
back to him.

This meant I watched as he sauntered right in
front of me to the chair accompanying mine, threw his lengthy frame
in it and reached for the wine at the table that separated our
seats.

He also reached for the extra glass.

These were seats, I shall add, that were
turned at corners to each other with a small, round table in
between, so my knee was nearly touching his.

He poured.

It was on the tip of my tongue to share that
I had not invited him to attend me.

Alas, I became distracted by his long
fingers, and the words died in my mouth.

“That shit was whacked,” Noctorno declared,
easing back in his chair, lifting the red wine to finely-molded
male lips while I watched. “Glad it’s done,” he finished before he
drew in a sip.

With some effort I refused to acknowledge, I
turned my eyes back to the fire.

“Franka, right?” he asked my name.

“Correct,” I answered, thinking that one of
the other universe women claimed by men in this one should have
shared with this man, princely or not, that as a member of the
guard he was well beyond his station
tossing
his (long,
powerful) body in a chair,
helping himself
to
my
wine
and
introducing
himself
to me
with a, “Franka,
right?”

Inexcusable.

Perhaps this was how they did it in his
world.

It was not how we did it in mine.

I was of the House of Drakkar. I was
aristocracy. My cousin, Frey Drakkar was
The
Frey,
The
Drakkar. He commanded elves
and
dragons. He was
married to the Ice Princess of my snowy country (even though she
actually wasn’t the
real
princess, she was from a parallel
universe, I had no earthly idea what had become of the real
Princess Sjofn, but everyone seemed to be disregarding that so I
had no choice but to do so as well, and frankly I’d never liked the
woman much anyway, her replacement, however, was quite
spirited).

Not to mention, my cousin, Frey, had already
sired the future king on her, for Adele’s sake!

I was, however, not going to offer myself up
for etiquette lessons to this man.

I would sip my wine and hope he’d get the
indication I wished no company through my manner. If he didn’t, I
would leave (though, I couldn’t figure out how to do that and take
the other bottle of wine with me without this appearing
undignified).

As I turned this quandary in my brain, he
said in that gentle voice, “Hay,” again, but he added at the end,
for some unknown reason and for the second time in the short period
he’d been addressing me, “babe.”

I turned to him and informed him
condescendingly, “You speak strangely.”

That got another twitch of his head before he
asked, “Pardon?”

“Hay. Babe,” I said. “What do these words
mean?”

“You…uh, don’t have the words ‘hay’ and
‘babe’ in this world?”

I lifted my chin a smidge.

“Of course we do. Hay is fed to horses. And
babes are wee. Newborns. I simply don’t understand why you utter
them to me.”

He grinned.

My heart squeezed, the pain so immense it was
a wonder I didn’t double over, fall to the floor, dead before I
hit.

So handsome. That light in his striking
eyes.

My Antoine had been handsome.

But when he’d smiled…

“Not saying ‘hay,’” Noctorno told me. “I’m
saying ‘hey,’ with an e. It’s how people say hello, greet each
other in my world.”

I battled the pain, hid the severity of the
fight and nodded my head once.

“And ‘babe?’” I prompted, though I shouldn’t
have. Engaging in discourse would not get him to leave.

“It’s what guys call chicks in my world.”

I drew up a brow.

He watched it go and his striking eyes lit
brighter.

“Chicks?” I asked, ignoring the amused light
in his eyes.

“Girls. Women.”

“Girls and women?” I asked.

“Well, you wouldn’t call a girl-girl, like a
little kid, a babe or a chick. You’d call women that.”

“So it’s an endearment,” I deduced, thinking
that I might, indeed, expend the effort to have a word with one of
the women in this world who were of his world to share with him a
few important things.

Precisely that he shouldn’t be referring to
anyone he barely knew, and certainly not his superior, with an
endearment.

“That, though chick is more slang,” he
shared.

“In other words, in your world, you refer to
the female gender with words indicating to said female every time
you use them that you think they’re as vulnerable and weak as a
newborn child or the like, but that of a species of fowl.”

Without hesitation his mirth surged forth,
filling the room, warming it, drawing me out of my mood, away from
the events of that day, of the last months, of the loss of the only
man I’d ever loved, and silently I watched and listened.

I gave no indication I enjoyed it.

But I enjoyed it.

He controlled his joviality but didn’t stop
smiling or watching me as he asked, “What do you call dudes
here?”

“Dudes?” I responded to his query with a
query.

“Men,” he explained, still smiling.
“Guys.”

“We call them men or gentlemen.”

“No, I mean endearments or slang.”

“
I
, personally,
do not
engage
in uttering
slang
.”

He studied me like I was a highly
entertaining jester who’d come to court before he inquired, “Okay,
what do you call a man you’re in with?”