The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror (41 page)

Wayland doesn’t believe a word of it, but like many fantasies, this one has its own internal logic. It’s easy enough to follow. The judge is ninety, his once ruddy complexion has gone the color of clay, his formerly firm step has become shuffling and tentative. He’s clearly in pain, and he’s lost weight he can’t afford to lose.

“I suppose that today you saw your name in the sand,” Wayland says.

Judge Beecher looks momentarily startled, and then he smiles. It is a terrible smile, transforming his narrow, pallid face into a death’s-head grin.

“Oh no,” he says. “Not
mine.
”

The music was stopped by the tolling of the bell.

A sound not belonging to the dead of night.

A signal to take flight.

The Fox Maiden
Priya Sharma

Owens never told a soul, not even his wife in later life, but he could have sworn the girl scrambled out of the blackness on all fours. The cave’s interior was dark. Animal bones crunched underfoot. He blinked away the caul of sunshine and shadows from his eyes.

There was a disembodied snuffling. Owens watched, rifle ready, as sound took shape. He had the impression of a pointed face.

He’d survived mutinies and dysentery. He didn’t want to die, ravaged by some beast, so far from home. As the shadow became clearer, he saw it was small. Some sort of dog, perhaps. He lowered his rifle. The shape now walked on hind legs. He must have been mistaken.

She tried to scamper past. Poor mite. There was no doubt it was the captain’s child. A sight to break the heart. Dirty with a mass of matted hair. Crusted blood beneath her fingernails. Too old to be naked as the day she’d come upon the earth. Too young to be so unhinged by grief.

Owens crossed himself.

Early morning, late in autumn. The meet gathered. Strutted in their black and scarlet. Drank Madeira from crystal glasses. The horses stamped and pranced, unhappy in Lily’s company. Steam poured from their nostrils, as though her inclusion made them fume. Lord Lacey had found for Lily the most docile mare, fit for novices and children.

“I’ll be a liability,” Lily protested.

“You’ll come. You’ll be my luck.”

The dappled pony clattered about the yard, spooked by Lily’s approach. When she finally managed to mount the animal, it skittered under her as though she wore a set of spurs. Lily’s rivals smirked. Thin, ravenous things in glossy skirts, bound together by their loathing of her.

The whipper in brought the hounds, a seething mass of white and tan. They liked Lily even less.

“Pity anything so hunted.”

Lily hadn’t meant to speak aloud. She was shocked they’d heard above the din. If they were waiting for her error, here it was. The ladies, huntswomen to their fingertips, scoffed at this display. The men, politely outraged, turned away. Lily’s true affinities had been betrayed.

Lord Lacey’s laugh showed he didn’t give a hoot.

“Better hunter than hunted.”

Lily’s aunt watched from the manor steps with eyes like shiny beads. They reflected all she wanted from the world. Everything she felt she was entitled to that she’d been denied. Her thwarted avarice festered inside.

Lily could still feel the brush raking her scalp. Her aunt complained. A tiresome task. The russet mass would not be tamed.

“You will accept him.”

“He’s not asked.”

“He will and you’ll say yes. Accept him or I’ll put you out.”

Her aunt had managed to pull her hair into some semblance of a coil. She drove the pins to fix it, drawing blood. A demonstration of her resolve.

Lily was no equestrian. Whenever she approached a horse, it shied away. No matter. Riding wasn’t a luxury she could afford. She walked instead, her pace more like a trot. Her aunt bemoaned this orphaned niece from distant lands. She didn’t like her wayward shock of hair. Surely from the girl’s mother’s side. No such color belonged among the Hastings stock.

The aunt’s redbrick terrace was at Botheringstile. Built for economy and function. A spinster’s existence reflected in the polished aspidistra and glazed tiles. She’d been resigned to a middle-class and single life.

The girl disrupted everything. She traipsed dirt in on her boots. She shed the leaves caught up in her hair. The house couldn’t contain her.

“You’ve been seen. Running on the common. Really, Lily, it’s too much.”

Lily, behaving like an urchin, not a young lady with slender limbs and neck.

“Are you listening? Keep off there. And for heaven’s sake, stay away from Grissleymire. The tenant’s mad. Gypsies loiter in the grounds. Dirty fellows. They steal children.”

“Really?” Lily’s ears pricked up. Her teacup was at the saucer’s edge, threatening to spill. Then, “I’m not a child.”

“Your interest is inappropriate and morbid. You shouldn’t be wandering so far. You’re not to go out alone again. Now, we must discuss your future.”

The conversation was a dismal failure. Lily, freedom curtailed, became obstinate and obtuse. Cornered, she took on a shifty look that her aunt disliked. She berated Lily for chances squandered and ambition lacked. It soon became a tirade against Lily’s father and a lament in his foolish choice of wife.

“You’ll join Lord Lacey for the hunt. There’s an end to it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“As you said, you’re not a child. We can’t do as we want. We do as we must.”

“Why?”

“You suppose that you’ll live off me forever? I took you in. I’d hoped for some sensitivity in return.”

“You talk as if I were some stranger, not your own family.”

“How dare you!”

The fire spat as they sat in silence.

“I’m sorry, Aunt.”

“We’ll never mention it again. We’ll forget it.”

She set her mouth into a line that meant, on the contrary, it wouldn’t be forgotten for some time. Once Lily had been excused, her aunt chastised the maid instead, until the girl wept over some imaginary stains upon the nets.

By “Lily’s future,” her aunt had meant her suitor. Lily often saw him riding in the distance as she roamed her days away. She asked who he was, and it seemed Lord Lacey of Marshcombe had been inquiring about her, too, and learned her family was of a minor pedigree and her father was an army man who’d left his sister and daughter impoverished.

They received an invitation to a ball at Marshcombe Hall. Lily’s aunt fussed, dressing her in an unfashionable gown cut for a child. Lacking family jewels, Lily’s hair would have to be her only embellishment.

Lord Lacey’s mistresses encircled her, wearing banal diamonds and silks the colors of the night. Reflected alongside them in the mirror, Lily could see she was handsome in a feral way but nothing like the classical beauties of the day. She was relieved. A man like him would have no use for freshness. Lacey could inspect her at close quarters and once rejected, she’d be free to go on as before.

Lily didn’t try to ensnare him. She didn’t smile or flutter her eyelashes. As he bent to kiss her hand, she could feel the fluttering of her heart, the beat at the base of her throat, as if it were desperate to escape. She couldn’t help but notice he was staring at the telltale pulse at her neck, licking his lips, as if fear was what attracted him the most.

Lord Lacey’s thighs tensed across his hunter’s back as he wheeled about Lily.

“Try and keep up.” His unconcealed pleasure at her discomfort made her bristle. Nor did she like the way he ordered her about. “Pike will stay close but should he lose you, don’t stray. If you see smoke, turn back. That’s the gypsy campfires on Grissleymire.”

The word made Lily shiver.

“The tenant, Victor Mallory, is deranged. A circus performer or something equally vulgar. He refuses to let us hunt there. He’s let loose all kinds of dangerous animals on the land.”

A woman trotted alongside of them, eager to join in.

“His bear,” she said, “has ravished a village girl.”

Lily wasn’t listening. Victor Mallory. The name was a stone dropped down a well into the past. It landed on her father’s lips. She knew this man.

Victor Mallory. Seek him out if you’re ever in need. He’s one of us.

Her father’s dying lips.

Lily was unprepared for the anarchy of the hunt. The howling, scrambling of the pack. The tally-ho. The hue and cry. The thunder of the ride. Hooves churned the earth, great clods thrown into the air. Pike goaded her mare with his crop. He didn’t want to miss the fun.

She caught the flash of red upon the hill and wished it Godspeed, but it wasn’t to be. They chased the vixen to exhaustion. Lily didn’t see the kill. Unfortunately, with Pike’s help, she arrived in time to see the trophies taken. The mask, the pads, the glorious brush. Lily appalled them with her squeamishness. This fox, this monarch of the field and copse, had been a stunner. Now she was tossed and torn apart at the frothy jaws of mere dogs.

Lily flinched when Lord Lacey came close. She swayed and swooned, only to be caught. Faces filled her vision as it narrowed to the long corridor of a faint. Her eyelids fluttered as she clung to consciousness. Lord Lacey knelt beside her, gripping her foot. She felt his hand slide up to caress her calf.

“She’s turned her ankle,” he announced. Lily tried to protest but he hushed her, adding, “She may have hit her head. Pike and I will take her to Mother Biddie’s cottage where she can rest a while.”

Lily didn’t like Pike’s sly smile.

“You,” Lacey beckoned a groom, “ride back and tell her aunt not to be alarmed. I’ll ride back later with news and arrange a carriage when she’s well enough to travel.”

The rest rode away. None of the women saw fit to stay, even to act as chaperone for another lady in distress. She wouldn’t be a lady for much longer. They mistook her for a toy, not a contender for the role of Lady Lacey. They could not help but smirk. Let him have his way. They were only happy to leave Lily to her fate.

Lily awoke in Pike’s arms. She struggled against his grip, the pain of his digging fingertips. She didn’t want a voyeur to her humiliation. She didn’t want Pike to enjoy her shame.

Lacey lifted her veil as though she were a bride. He daubed her face with the fox’s brush. Cold and clotted brush across her cheeks. The bedsprings creaked as she tried to jerk away. She heard Mother Biddie lock the door.

“Your first time,” he turned her head to admire his work, “I’ve bloodied you.”

Lily bared her teeth. An involuntary response. It earned her a slap, which excited Lacey even more. Now other blood sports were on his mind. He’d hunted her to the edge of ecstasy. Her creeping skirt was creased between her thighs. It ignited his more violent desires. He would spoil her if it was the only way to possess her. She wasn’t so defiant now. A wild thing cowed.

Lily knew she’d need guile. She was resourceful.

She’d run away after her father died. She was still a child. His regiment searched for a full eight weeks. She’d been hiding in a cave. A scrawny thing that screamed and bit, who struggled and raved. As if she’d forgotten how to behave. Lily denied this time when she’d been wild with sorrow. This merciful amnesia didn’t obliterate the trauma that followed. She could never forget the terrors of the cabin. The tipping of the sea. Homesickness replaced seasickness. Her aunt’s embraces were devoid of any comfort. The odors of England were baffling. She longed for the fragrances of India and her father’s hair pomade.

“Wait.” Her mind seized on Victor Mallory. She must have cleverness and courage.

Lacey paused in pawing her.

“I can give you something better.”

“What’s better than this?”

“Riches.”

“I
am
rich.”

“Women.”

Her audacity made Lacey gasp. That he’d misjudged her delighted him. It appealed to his corruption. This new-Lily was delicious.

“I don’t lack for those either. I plan on having you. Now and whenever I want once you’re my wife.”

It was worse than she had feared. She thought that afterwards she’d be free.

“Hunting.” There. She had struck him. That she knew him so well already made him tremble. “The best day’s hunting you’ve ever had.”

Now Lord Lacey had a different sort of quarry. If he caught Lily, he could have her on the spot, if he wanted. Then there’d be a wedding without delay. He agreed to give her a head start by sending for fresh horses and a different type of dog.

“You have twenty-four hours to find me. After that, you relinquish your claim. You’ll make no proposal. I go free.”

Lily suggested the terms with an encouraging smile, as if truly game.
It’ll be much better this way.
All he had to do was catch her. She responded to his query about her virginity with quiet dignity.

Lacey tore off her drawers.

“For the dogs,” he explained.

She was just a girl on foot but her endless roaming had kept her fit and given her the geography for miles around. She thanked her stars for her stout boots.

She took care when she set her pace. The ground was uneven. Too fast and she’d be at risk of flagging or falling, too slow and they’d soon catch her up. She didn’t strike out randomly. She had a destination. A source of possible salvation. Grissleymire and Victor Mallory.

The bog was the safest route. If she showed respect it would let her pass. She’d learnt its tricks and treachery, the secrets of its sucking love. Its foulness might help to mask her smell. If she was fortunate, it might even claim Lacey, Pike, and all their hounds.

Lily was a sight. Mud on her skirt, blood-smeared face, her veil torn remnants of lace. The bodice that had been laced to make her waist narrow now only served to make her breaths come fast and shallow.

It was in this state that she reached Grissleymire. She limped along in dappled shade. A bird flew down the tree-darkened lane. Darting and swooping, it showed her the way. The estate was overgrown. Ivy smothered shut the gates. She would have to find another way.

The wind had swept up the fallen leaves. Lily paused as they stirred and a snout, followed by a pair of eyes and pointed ears emerged from its hiding place within the pile. The fox shook off this crackling autumn robe. A male of the species, in his prime. Sleek coat. A brawler. Torn lip. A wound that had long since healed. He sniffed the fox blood on her and then flowed away.