The Duke of Snow and Apples (33 page)

Sir Bertram’s face stilled, and his eyes shone as hard as green pebbles. “I’ve learned to make my own way. It’ll be easier once there are no more people who know my secret.”

How many names had he worn, before Sir Bertram? How many people had he
fed
on, keeping them on like placid dairy cows whenever he needed them? She glanced at the plush, polished furniture in the room, the dark old wood, the dragons carved in white marble onto the mantle. All of which ostensibly belonged to Sir Bertram, once he’d rendered Charles Littiger incapable of enjoying it.

He seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts, for he cut through the space between them. His hand shot out, catching her chin in a punishing grip and forcing her face up to his snarling one. “Just because I am used to wandering does not mean I have ever enjoyed it. Latching onto the Snowmont title was a gift I’d never dreamed of, and it gave me fifteen years of luxury, of stability, of status.”

His fingers dug into her skin, bruising her jaw. “Just because I value my skin enough to give all of that up does not mean I won’t take a sweet, deliciously long time making you suffer for taking it away.”

Go on,
Charlotte thought, looking up into that mask of hatred.
See if there’s anything left in me. I am empty, as empty as Frederick. There’s nothing left of either of us.

Sir Bertram looped his hands around her neck. “You aren’t going to fight me?”

Charlotte stared at him. She felt nothing. Not even fear.

His thumbs pressed into her windpipe. “Everyone fights, at first.”

A loud, muffled
bang
from somewhere else in the house stilled Sir Bertram’s hands. The
bang
was followed by a great rumble that seemed to shake the foundations of the building, topped off with a
crraack.

“What in the holy Circle was
that?
” Sir Bertram cried, his voice rocketing up in pitch.

That
, Charlotte supposed, was what happened when some poor servant tried to separate Lady Leighwood from her reticule.

Sir Bertram took a few deep breaths, and shudders traveled all the way up his arms until his fingers trembled against her throat. He released her, and stepped backward, shaking.

You took too much of Frederick,
Charlotte realized, as she watched the muscles in his face fight to control the almost comically exaggerated expressions of surprise, terror, and anger that twisted his lips back from his teeth.
You took too much, and now it overpowers you at every turn.

Satisfaction permeated her shield of apathy. While Sir Bertram was distracted, she reached inside herself and found that thread of wind that coursed through her stronger than any other element. She whispered the spell in words barely louder than an exhalation.

Good thing sylphs had very keen hearing.

All at once, the study windows rattled as loudly as a hailstorm, and the salamanders hissed in the grate as a burst of wind sprites howled down the chimney. A childish, clumsy display that would have only startled a gentleman of ordinary sentiment.

Sir Bertram, vibrating with emotions not his own, leapt two feet in the air, his body rigid. A deeper
boom
sounded below them, shaking a thin cloud of plaster loose from the ceiling. He clapped his hands over his ears like a child frightened of thunder.

“Stop!” Sir Bertram shouted. “Stop it, curse you!” His mouth turned down in a snarl, and a vein in his forehead twitched as blood rushed to his face. “I’ll
make
it stop.” His boots clattered against the floor as he stumbled out.

As the sound of his footsteps quieted, Charlotte’s veneer of courage crumbled and she sank to the floor. Sir Bertram’s clenching fingers had left ten aching points across her neck and jaw. She couldn’t have risen from the floor if she’d wanted to—grief poured through her, scouring her, scraping away at her strength and purpose. What was there to be done, after all? Sir Bertram might be stopped, captured, and Collared, but as far as Charlotte knew, she’d already lost.

Frederick is gone
.

Shaking, she dragged herself back to the chaise, to Frederick, or what remained of him.
Holy Maiden, don’t take him away.
She rarely prayed, but now she wanted to believe, had to believe that someone existed who was powerful enough to change the workings of the world, and benevolent enough to do so.
Please bring him back.

I love him.

It burned, the admission, a bright spot of sensation in her breast, so piercing it felt like pain. Charlotte gasped, pressing a hand against the tiny flame. The spark, the precious red spark. A piece of Frederick preserved. Sir Bertram hadn’t taken everything.

But what good could it do? It was so small. Hopelessness swamped her, but she fought it, conquered the current. It was better than nothing. She could sacrifice this spark, sacrifice anything, if it brought him back.

She gazed at Frederick. No fear or terror marked his features. His eyelashes fanned his pale cheeks, his mouth a soft, drooping line. He looked as if he were only sleeping, this beautiful man, waiting for someone to wake him up.

Slowly, she forced his eyelids open, his deadened gaze to meet hers. Her face drifted down until their lips touched, a delicate, butterfly kiss. The spark within her flared in intensity, until she could almost see streaks of scarlet flame course through her, simmering under her skin, pooling in her belly, and she deepened the kiss.

See, Frederick
, she prayed.
Look, Frederick. Take, Frederick. It’s yours.

I’m yours.

…

Nothing. Pure black—darker than Gray, a well so deep and dark and absent of direction it paralyzed one into absolute stillness. Couldn’t move, there were no paths. Couldn’t think, no names existed. Couldn’t feel, not if one didn’t know where one ended and the Black began.

Only one thing existed that was not Black. The not-Black was barely a figment, but still, it was the only not-Black in existence. The not-Black was the echo of memories, strange ones. Little roads under the skin. The soft part of a woman’s face. Tart autumn sweetness. One longed after the echoes, for no reason other than because they were not-Black. Perhaps one remained one, instead of nothing, thanks to the small, insignificant not-Black swimming around in the well with one like a fish.

Suddenly, the Blackness rippled as something punched through the darkness, a not-Black so very not-Black it filled one with warmth and words he’d forgotten. Sounds, letters, words, sentences welled up in him, and suddenly there
was
a Him, a him against the Black. Him and the
red
. Red, the color of blood, of lips smiling beneath his, of apples, rosy and flirtatious behind veils of leaves.

A name:
Charlotte
. Spoken aloud, all smoky consonants and flushed vowels, hot as an ember.

As if his returning knowledge of blood, of apples, of
Charlotte
, drew these things into being, his veins opened up with heat and sensation, flooding his brain with memory, swelling his soul near to bursting with pain and loss and hope and love. Love for Charlotte.

He remembered kissing when he felt her lips on his own, and the slide of her tongue as it forced his slack mouth open and explored the ridge of his teeth. Wherever it touched, his nerves jolted alive with a feeling so intense it was almost pain, sending spiraling messages of “awake!” through his nervous system.

His tongue loosened first, and it met with Charlotte’s—dueled, probed. His lips next, returning Charlotte’s kiss with hungry, punishing force. Rising waves of pleasure crashed through him, thanks to his body and soul’s overwhelming reaction to Charlotte’s touch. His hands jittered to life, fisted, stretched, then moved to pull Charlotte closer. He was on fire, and Charlotte, too—he could feel her fever through the thin cloth of her dress, through his shirt. He blinked, as the shifting, burning hues chasing away the Black coalesced into shapes that he knew, colors he understood.

Passionate colors—the burning colors of Charlotte’s soul, searing streams of crimson and orange and deep rose, the torch of her desire, her love, dispersing the darkness. Worldly colors—her trembling pinkness as her fingers traced under his shirt, her dark eyebrows drawing down in lines of serious intent, the warm brandy shade of her eyes. Pleasure rippled up his spine, and he heaved himself off the chaise, flipped her beneath him and pinned her there.

“Charlotte,” breathed Frederick—the revelation of his name barely an afterthought compared to his recognition of the woman he loved. “Charlotte, I’m here. I’m
here
.”

He brought his mouth crashing down on hers, suddenly starving, drowning in want. She met his desire with her own, drawing her hands up his back to grip his shoulders so tightly her fingernails left welts. They pulled apart, gasping, not so much for air, but to breathe as much of the other in as possible.

“I knew there had to be something left of you,” she said. As she drew in a wobbly breath, tears trickled down her temples into her hair.

He traced a tear-track down her cheek with his thumb. Bringing it to his mouth, he savored the salt with a mixture of desire and wonderment. “There was, in you.” He glanced at his mark upon her breast, the courageous little spark that had led him out of the Black. For years he’d believed his power was a curse, but now gratitude rose in his throat until he could barely speak.

Countless men and women fell in love, gave of their hearts, bound themselves to their partners—but how many people could
watch
it happening, see the visual proof of it in the person they loved?

“I should have told you why I ran away,” he gasped between kisses. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t get enough. “I should have explained while I had the chance, why I thought, why I ran—”

“You have to know,” Charlotte said, pushing him away. “Sir Bertram is the one who caused the Gray. Not you. He’s the one who turned your gamekeeper…”

“I found out.” Renewed rage bubbled up from below. He glanced up, seeming to notice for the first time where they were. He shot to his feet. “Where is he? Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “He’s unstable, Frederick. When he…
drained
you, he took too much. Any emotion, good or bad, can set him off.”

“Then we better find him before he finds someone else.”

A scream rent the air, high and shrill.

“Too late,” said Charlotte.

Chapter Thirty-One

Frederick took the lead, barreling down the corridor with Charlotte close behind. Hot, boiling anger threatened to shake him apart, but he bound himself together with renewed purpose. He could stop the Gray. He could protect the ones he loved. And he would ensure that Sir Bertram never hurt another living soul.

At the other end of the corridor, a door burst open and a wild-haired, blond, purple creature stumbled out and sprinted toward them.

“
Sylvia?
” cried Charlotte in disbelief.

“Charlotte! Your Grace! Thank the Maiden!” Instinctively, Sylvia’s hands flew to her head, trying and failing to smooth her tumbled blond curls into place. “We caught Sir Bertram trying to escape outside from the study, the coward.”

“There isn’t a door to the outside in the study,” Frederick said.

Charlotte’s sister blushed to the roots of her hair and said nothing.

“Lady Leighwood?” he guessed.

“She only meant to scare your stepfather’s footmen away with a loud bang,” she admitted. “She didn’t realize she’d forgotten to dilute her potion until she’d thrown the bottle and…”

“What about Sir Bertram?” Charlotte cut in.

“He tried to get away but our footman caught him. I’ve never seen a man so deranged. He didn’t put up much of a fight at first. But-but…” Panic returned to her eyes. “Oh, but we should have watched him! Somehow he got the better of the footman and he grabbed Dorothea. He’s taken her to the saloon. We don’t know what to do!”

Frederick and Charlotte arrived at the saloon to find all the players of this drama coated in a thin layer of false calm. Tall John stood in a loose boxer’s stance, a silver letter opener dangling from his hand. Lady Leighwood clutched her reticule, the lace on her bonnet slightly scorched. Littiger, surprisingly, stood as part of their ranks, his blank face revealing nothing. Ladies Balrumple and Enshaw completed the semicircle, faces rigid.

Boxed in by this gathering, with the saloon’s floor-to-ceiling Selencian windows looming behind him like night-black sentinels, Sir Bertram breathed heavily, his eyes as wide as a caged animal’s. With one arm wrapped tightly around Dorothea’s throat, the other held a long, slender dagger, barely sharper than Tall John’s letter opener, but fully capable of slitting a throat if its wielder were so inclined.

At Frederick’s entrance, he backed up, until the rattling of glass and the soft creak of the windows’ hinges told him there was nowhere else to go.

“No.” Sir Bertram shook his head, shutting his eyes as if expecting Frederick to be gone when he opened them. “No. You shouldn’t even be
thinking
, let alone standing.”

“Quite the contrary,” Frederick said. He kept his voice soft, his movements slow and deliberate. He advanced until he was level with the Dowagers and Tall John, but no further. “I’m thinking clearly for perhaps the first time in my life. I thought I was hurting my friends. I thought
I
was the reason for my mother’s decline, because I had no one to tell me any better. You let me believe I was cursed.”

“
Don’t act like you’re better than me!
” Madness flushed Sir Bertram’s face, and spittle flew from his mouth. To Frederick’s sight, dirtied colors swirled around in the dark, chaotic maelstrom of Sir Bertram’s being. He brought the knife to Dorothea’s throat. For her part, the seventh Dowager reacted with a quiet cough, as if she found the situation only a mild annoyance. “We weren’t given this power to snivel under a master’s whip. We were given this power to be masters ourselves.”

Frederick glanced at Charlotte out of the corner of his eye. His mark glowed like a tiny red candle. To Charlotte, he wasn’t a gaping pit of teeth and hunger, not like Sir Bertram.
We’re not the same. Not really.
Whatever power Sir Bertram had been born with, however he had perverted it, Frederick wouldn’t fall into the same trap.

A movement from Sir Bertram brought Frederick’s attention back to the situation at hand—too late. Curling his hand with the dagger behind him, Sir Bertram unlatched the Selencian doors and threw them open, dragged Dorothea back with him onto the small marble terrace beyond.

“One more step and I’ll carve her a new smile, I swear it!” he screamed. He jerked his arm back, causing the dagger to nick Dorothea’s throat, awakening a thin line of blood along her skin.

“You hurt me,” Dorothea said, with mild surprise. “They aren’t going to like that, not at all.”

“Too boils-cursed bad.”

Suddenly, the darkness erupted with noise—a wild chorus of
caws
and shrieks. Seven shadows detached themselves from the darkness to descend on Sir Bertram, wings flapping like faint applause. With a shout, Sir Bertram pushed Dorothea from him, but her crows followed him.

He stumbled backward in a cloud of feathers and claws and bloodied hands, and his mouth opened in a weak, high, little-boy scream. “No! Stop fluttering! Stop flying!”

The back of his legs hit the balustrade and he tumbled over, his scream trailing off in a thin ribbon of sound.

The crows followed him, all but one, who fluttered back to the place of honor on Dorothea’s shoulder.

She clucked fondly at her bird. “I told him you wouldn’t want me hurt, Gertrude. He didn’t listen.”

…

They found Sir Bertram lying on the flattened remains of a leafless rosebush. Tall John laid his hands along the man’s neck, and shook his head.

“He’s dead.”

“He only fell one story,” Sylvia said. “Did he break his neck?”

Frederick brought the lantern forward to shine more light upon his stepfather’s face. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what killed him?”

Charlotte couldn’t repress a shudder. Death had frozen the man’s face in an open expression of naked terror—his mouth a wide screaming hole, his eyes round and bulging. “Fear did.” He’d sucked Frederick dry of nearly everything that made him human, and in the end he hadn’t been able to control it. A strangely fitting justice, that.

Snow crunched underfoot as Charles Littiger stepped forward to gaze into the face of his former guardian. “Is he really dead?”

“Yes,” Frederick said. “You’re free now.”

Charlotte watched Littiger’s face for any moment, for any sign of emotion. The young man stared at Sir Bertram, his face an unrevealing square. He could have been a statue, for all the humanity he displayed.

His mouth twitched. The edges curled downward—just a slow downturn, like a plant drooping in the heat. “I don’t feel free.”

Frederick placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “You will. It grows back.”

“I don’t think so,” Littiger said. “It’s been too long for me. I doubt I even remember what it’s like.”

Frederick looked over Littiger’s head, to meet Charlotte’s gaze. His eyes, even without magic, sent heat spiraling through her, unravelling the knots inside of her, leaving her loose and wanting. She was surprised she didn’t smoke in the frigid winter air.

Frederick turned back to look his cousin in the eyes. “If you’re very, very lucky, Littiger, you’ll find someone who will help you find it again.”