Chapter 3
Avrum
Metal clashes, vibrating against my eardrums. Energy from the storm last night crackles all around, and the crowd that’s gathered at the forest edge feeds off it, howling and stomping their feet.
I can feel it too, the rising power, the tension before the big release.
It’s hard to imagine that it was only hours ago that these men were dressed like perfection when now they stand here egging on the two fighters in the middle of the circle, with shirts undone and smelling of drink.
In the center of the commotion is Lysander.
He’s the reason for the crowd’s whooping cheers and the only reason why I ever come to watch these duels.
Unlike the spectators, Lysander’s still dressed for a party in dress slacks, a vest, ascot, and brooch.
The only sign of anything amiss are the fact that his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his elbows; he isn’t even breaking a sweat.
His thin lips twitch as he circles his brutish opponent, sword out. Could it be…? A smile? It’s such a rarity on him, that I wonder it’s real.
“Come on, Cornelius!” Lysander chides, tossing the sword from one hand to the other. “I think I’ve let this torture go on for long enough.”
Cornelius huffs, a hand protecting his wounded side.
For a man of great height and broad shoulders, he moves slowly, clumsily, but there’s a ferocity in his green eyes that tells of his hatred for the man opposite him.
I’m sure that if he ever manages to get his hands on Lysander, he won’t leave much behind.
“You talk too much,” he growls, lifting his sword. There is a purple bruise under his right eye that is fading fast. “Oh, how I would love to peel that beautiful blond hair off your scalp.”
Lysander shrugs, unbothered. “It is such words that have gotten you here. Tu es bête comme tes pieds.”
I wince. I don’t know much French, but I have heard him use the insult before.
You’re stupid like your feet.
Cornelius’s eyes widen and then flash black with anger. He flings himself at Lysander, using all his strength to wield his sword.
Lysander spins just in time, avoiding the blade, and strikes Cornelius between the shoulders with the handle.
The force propels him forward and onto his knees.
He grunts, his massive size swaying, but before he can regain himself again, Lysander presses the tip of his sword to the back of his neck, his eyes glowing menacingly.
Everyone holds their breath.
Is he going to do it? Kill him?
Moving closer, Lysander runs the blade’s tip over Cornelius’s shoulder blade and down his one arm. Toying with him. A twisted grin forms on his face. There are not many ways to kill our kind, whatever we are. But removing a person’s head from their neck is one of the sure ones.
The tension rising, I step further into the circle. “Lysander…” I warn, anxiety gripping me. “Don’t…”
It isn’t uncommon for blood to be spilled in these duels, but death? That would call for some kind of punishment, I’m sure. Henri doesn’t like rule-breaking or disorder.
There’s something about Lysander’s rigid stance and the way the silvery moonlight reflects off his skin that makes him appear ghostly. He raises his sword above his head with both hands and grins, exposing his fangs.
With an angry roar, he swings it.
“No!” I shout, my heart dropping.
But to my surprise, Lysander’s sword doesn’t impale Cornelius. It’s embedded in the ground, only inches away from him. An obvious warning.
My heart bangs in my chest, but I draw in a deep breath to try and calm it.
Thank god he didn’t go through with it. But then, why is the sharp tang of blood dampening the air and filling my nose? Where is it coming from?
That’s when I see it. A single drop of blood sliding down the mound of muscle on Cornelius’s arm.
Not the dramatic death Lysander had everyone expecting, but it’s enough to claim him the victor in this fight. First blood.
I expel all my held breath, relief washing over me instantly.
The crowd erupts with cheers and laughter. Shoulders easing, Lysander’s eyes return to his natural calm, gray color, and he tilts his chin high as he strides over to me, gaining many congratulatory slaps and praises along the way.
“That was quite a performance,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice from wavering with nerves.
“Merci.” Lysander takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs the few beads of perspiration on his upper lip.
“You had us all nervous for a moment.”
He glances over his shoulder to where Cornelius still kneels. “Well, someone had to quiet him.”
I laugh, patting him on the back.
Waving the cloth at the crowd, he addresses them instead, “Now, who’s up next?”
No one moves. Fear and hesitation wash over every face.
“You’ve given yourself quite a reputation,” I say.
“After decades of professional training while in France, and a few wars, I expect it.” He begins to stride back toward the manor, and the men separate from him to walk.
Before getting too far, he pauses and glances over his shoulder again.
“Oh, and someone tell Cornelius when he’s swallowed enough of his pride that he must see to his end of the bet. ”
I hurry to his side. “You bet him?”
He nods. “He must take over my guard duty for a month.”
Worry stirs. Being a part of Lord Henri’s guard is considered a noble position. The lord only chooses the best to protect him, and Cornelius may be large in size, but he isn’t a skilled fighter—as Lysander proved tonight. Lord Henri might even take this as an insult.
“Lord Henri will not approve.” I shake my head. “I don’t think it wise―”
“I’m sure Henri won’t approve,” he interrupts, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket, “but this is why you never make a bet you aren’t willing to keep. Dear Cornelius can handle those consequences.”
I have a sickening feeling about this.
“After all this, I think I deserve a drink. Avrum, would you care to join me?”
Despite the unease worming up my spine, I nod. Hopefully, Lord Henri isn’t too bothered by Lysander’s disregard for the rules.
As I follow him across the yard, my mind turns to Haven and how I’d left her the night before.
Had Henri scolded her for leaving the party and running away to the city alone?
She’s another one that sits heavily on my thoughts.
I could barely close my eyes without seeing her face, an exact reflection of when I’d found her under the stained-glass window.
Wet hair clinging to her cheeks, lips and cheeks rosy, skin pale―like a fallen angel. That vision of her haunts me.
My only wish is that she soon understands that she has been given a second chance now. She can have a better life here with us. It’s an opportunity most only dream of.
The night the fire took everything from me, Lord Henri found me. He took me in and guided me through the hard parts of the change and loss, like a father might. He introduced me to a life of riches and wonder.
I’d gone from rags to tailored suits. I went to operas, tasted real food, and drank expensive wine. There’s nothing left for me at the Brenin farm. Nothing. Only memories and heartache.
“Did you ever find her?”
Lysander’s voice brings me back to the present. “Find… her?”
He gives me a deadpan look as he pushes open the door into the manor. “Haven. Did you ever find Haven?”
“Yes, I did.”
We both step inside. “Was she far off?”
“She went to the city. To see her father.”
“Her father is still alive?” Lysander asks as we make our way down the dimly lit corridor, our footsteps muted by the soft burgundy carpeting. Greystone is deathly quiet compared to the night before, with all the party guests gone and the festivities over.
Lysander ponders this for a moment and rubs his jaw. “How… interesting.”
“I didn’t understand it either,” I reply, “but I’m sure Lord Henri has a good reason for bringing her here. He had one for the rest of us.”
Lysander shrugs, stopping in front of the doors leading to the kitchens. “You know, you put a lot of faith in him.”
“Why shouldn’t I? He saved my life. He took me into his home and treated me like a son. He did the same for you, didn’t he?”
Lysander’s gaze drifts away, seeming uninterested now, his way of saying he doesn’t want to comment. Instead, he runs his hands over the front of his shirt to smooth out any wrinkles.
I wish he would tell me about how he came to Greystone. How he met Henri. I don’t understand the secrecy.
The kitchen doors behind us open, and when a maid appears with an empty tray in her hands, he beckons her over. She is very young and very human—like most of the servants working under Henri—with wheat-colored hair braided like a halo around her head.
“Two scotches,” Lysander orders, “and bring them to the library. That is where we will be for the rest of tonight.”
“Please,” I make sure to add with a small smile, since Lysander had forgotten.
The maid nods and Lysander walks toward the library, expecting me to follow. But before I do, there’s one more thing I want to do.
“Please, miss,” I call back to the girl. “Can I ask something more of you?”
Blinking innocently, she waits for me to continue.
“Do you know of a young woman here named Haven? Her bedroom is the one beside Lord Henri’s, yes?”
She gives me another nod.
“Could you just see what she’s doing this evening? Make sure all is well?” My voice quivers, and I clear it before continuing, “She was left in the rain for some time last night and—”
The maid curtsies, understanding, and disappears again through the kitchen doors.
“Thank you,” I say, even though she’s gone. Relieved I didn’t have to explain myself more, I head down the hall to catch up to Lysander.
Henri