Chapter Twenty-Two
Theodore
Why did God curse us with thoughts and will?
Is a body not punishment enough?
Is the unknown before us,
that which we must trust with blindness,
not punishment enough?
The past is far more durable than teeth,
And flesh and blood can only succumb to decay.
What hope is there in living?
Dread is a heavy burden to carry when one’s shoulders are as thin and weary as mine.
It drags the feet, leaving scores of reluctance carved into the earth with every step.
It keeps you gasping for air as your body tries to battle the animal instincts inside you, unsure of whether it should run or fight.
The problem is, I’ve never been good at fighting, and there’s very few places to run in a village as small as Sainte-Falaise.
“Dora! There you are! I’ve been waiting all day for you!”
True to his word, Fitzwilliam finds me the next day.
Kolfina had tried to keep me at the manor for the next few days, convinced that our encounter with the man would only lead to further trouble.
She was right, of course, and I knew she would be, but the day after the festival is always a busy one at the shop, full of cataloging remaining inventory and restocking shelves, balancing the books and placing new orders.
I couldn’t leave it all to my father, even with Manon there now to help.
I’d hoped to at least make it the day before he managed to track me down. I should know better by now. Fitzwilliam is a jackal—an opportunistic scavenger. When he sees prey skittering around in the fading sunlight, he strikes before it has the chance to run.
I do think about it, for a moment. Running. I’m small, but I know Sainte-Falaise, and I know the forest even better. If I could make it to the tree line, the likelihood of him following me further is slim.
But the thought flutters away on the wind when I turn to face him, somehow surprised to see two other men at his back.
édouard and Lucas have been stalwart members of Louis’ pack, though I have always thought them more under Fitzwilliam’s control than his.
I suppose I can be grateful Louis isn’t with them.
I’m not sure how I would have handled it if he decided to choose their side over mine for whatever Fitz has planned.
“Fitzwilliam,” I greet him, taking a careful step back only to find myself colliding with the wall of a nearby house. Fool, I curse myself, letting yourself be trapped like a little rabbit. “I am on my way home for the night. My father is expecting me.”
“Oh, come now, Dora. I was just checking in after last night.” He stalks forward a few steps, the others circling around him, caging me in. “How’s that young lady you escorted to the festival doing? Still breathing, I hope?”
I clench my fists at my sides, trying to decide how useful they might be right now.
Louis might have taught me how to fight over the years, but it does not escape me how woefully outnumbered I am.
And while I have been in my fair share of scrapes in the past, Fitz and his cronies are all much larger than I am. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Lady Kolfina is fine. She’s returned home with Lady Alilovi?,” I tell him.
Fitzwilliam hums, tucking his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “You know, I was surprised to find you two. We heard rumors, of course, that you would seduce whoever you could, but I couldn’t imagine it. Guess I just don’t see in you whatever Lou does, eh?”
It’s a struggle not to cower back into the wall when he takes another step forward, but the closer he gets, the more my stomach churns and rumbles.
The sensation surprises me. It has been a while since my hunger has surfaced. It’s always there, lingering behind my teeth, but Azizi’s frequent glasses of blood have kept it somewhat satiated. Not completely, never completely, but enough that it is fairly easy to ignore when I’m at the chateau.
But with Fitzwilliam… There is no reason to ignore it here, so it builds and stretches beneath my skin, arching its back like a freshly woken predator. I try to shove it back, to make sure the lock on its cage is tight, but I can feel it there. Watching. Waiting.
“Leave me alone, Fitz,” I warn him.
“What's the matter, Dora?” he asks, drawing close enough that I can feel his breath across my face.
“You would put out for pretty-boy Louis, but not the rest of us? And here I thought you were quite happy to spread your legs for anyone who showed a bit of interest in the city. You certainly looked happy to get down on your knees for that lady last night—”
“I said leave me, Fitzwilliam. I want nothing to do with you. You are a brute, and your mother would be ashamed of you.”
“And your father isn’t ashamed of you?” he bites back just as quickly, a disgusting smile sliding onto his face as his friends laugh behind him.
“A daughter who dresses like a son? A freak who likes to sink her teeth into anything that moves? Father Thompson preaches of people like you, you know. Men and women possessed by the Devil, allowing him to lure them into sinful acts. He says that’s why your mother died.
God was punishing you for the Devil in your heart. ”
Bile pools in the back of my throat, and I bare my teeth at him. “You know nothing about me.”
I try to push past him, but it’s useless. Fitzwilliam is a large man, and he uses it well, clucking his tongue as he shoves me back into the wall with only a hand on my shoulder.
“Little Dora, the Devil’s Delight,” Fitzwilliam croons, and a shock of ice solidifies in my veins.
Not that one. Please, never that one. “Perhaps we ought to show you exactly what it means to be a man, if you are so insistent on becoming one. Then maybe we’ll send Father Thompson after your lady friend, have him purge the Devil from her before she’s too far gone—”
The scar between my shoulder blades burns at his threat, the beast inside me pouncing with protective hunger.
My fist collides with his nose before I even realize I am moving, his head snapping back with the force, but I do not stop there, tackling him to the ground as my fists crack into his face with a fierceness I can no longer control.
My knuckles ache with it; my heart throbs in time with every hit.
The surprise doesn’t last long enough. I manage enough hits to leave his nose crooked and his mouth bloody, but it only takes a few moments for Fitzwilliam to regain the upper hand.
His elbow connects with my chin hard enough to send stars cascading through my vision, and he uses the momentary lapse to flip our positions.
He hits me once, twice—I can feel the bone in my cheek crack under the pressure.
The pain is exquisite, in a depraved sort of way.
I almost want to thank him for it—for the way it bruises and aches, the way it cracks and bleeds.
But there is a ruthlessness that builds inside me, one that wants to fight back for once.
One that wants to claw out in defense and tear into him until there is nothing left but bone.
Azizi would have. She would have let them corner her against the wall, let them think they had the advantage, and then torn their throats out with her bare hands, ripped their life out with her teeth and let their blood sink into the dirt. Wasted.
“You have no place here, devil girl,” Fitzwilliam spits, one hand pressing down on my throat while the other grabs at my chin to hold me still. Blood splatters from his mouth across my face, too warm against my already burning skin. “When’re you going to learn that?”
My beast writhes and howls in my chest, but no amount of twisting and kicking will knock the man off of me.
You have no place here, devil girl.
Maybe it is the fear that makes me do it.
Makes me open my mouth and sink my teeth in, latching onto the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
Maybe it is the lack of air in my lungs or the anger pooling in my belly.
Maybe it is the hunger. In the end, it does not matter, because Fitzwilliam may be a jackal, but I am a wolf.
And a wolf’s bite is so much sharper.
“Fils de pute—She’s—putain—let go!”
Fitzwilliam shoves at my forehead with his free hand, clawing at my face to try and dislodge me, but I only tamp down harder as the blood pools into my mouth like a waterfall, the flesh breaking easily in my powerful bite.
Still, he is the stronger of us, and with édouard and Lucas’ help, he manages to break away—though not without a significant chunk of his hand torn off with him.
“You little cunt,” the man seethes above me, his shoulders heaving and bloody drool dripping from his mouth. He cradles his injured hand against his chest, baring his own teeth as if it could possibly intimidate the monster within me. “The Father was right. You’re a soldier of the Devil himself.”
My hunger grins at him, swallowing down the blood and flesh he’d sacrificed to it. “Va te faire foutre,” I curse as I push myself up into a seated position. “If I’m destined for Hell, then I’ll make sure there’s a spot there next to me for each of you.”
The next part is a blur, a series of fragmented memories caught between blinks.
I remember seeing the vicious sneer on Fitzwilliam’s lips, remember the shadow of his boot as it rushed toward my face.
I am sure at some point édouard and Lucas join the fray, as the force and number of kicks grows with every passing second.
I do not know how long they beat me for, but it is long enough for the world to be overtaken by a hazy red fog and a dull underlayment of throbbing pain.
My beast scrambles to fight back, but there is little it can do in a body as weak and fragile as mine.
I can only curl up and try to protect the bits of me that are the softest.
“Hey! Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Someone help!”