Chapter 9 Rumple
nine
Rumple
When he reached the Royal District, Rumple’s shadows were all but vibrating with need.
Unseen, he seeped through the paltry palisade that barely kept the drunk and disorderly Royal Guard in, let alone any credible threat out.
From there, he swept into the outer bailey, much as he had the previous evening, and sank into the undercroft where the palace’s cells were.
His report to the Queen could wait, the boy in the cell could not—but the boy’s cell was empty!
The upturned bucket in the corner still held the remains of the burned-out oil lamp upon it, but the spinning wheel and his Heart were gone.
Consternation rode him hard as Rumple materialised and crouched to pick up a dried stalk of maize from the floor.
Only hours ago, this had formed part of the bed he had felt compelled to make when he lulled the boy to sleep, and it would still contain a trace of his essence within it.
He crushed it in his gloved fist, opened his palm, blew the grits into the air, and returned to his shadowed form.
Following his Heart’s essence, Rumple flowed deeper through the undercroft until he emerged on the far side of the inner bailey.
The market stalls and their traders had long since packed up for the day, and the magick-infused grits didn’t linger.
They breezed east along the trail, and Rumple’s gaze fixed on the view of the gallows through the iron gatehouse at the end of the gravelled path.
Why was he being led this way? His shadows thickened with menacing intent.
Yes, his Heart was the Queen’s prisoner, but for all her faults, Rumple had always known her to be a woman of her word.
The boy had been very clear last night; Her Majesty had given him until sunrise to spin the straw into golden thread.
Rumple had transmuted the precious metal himself—his Heart should have been spared!
He pushed his magick harder. If Queen Schon had reneged on her deal and murdered the boy while he was on yet another one of her self-serving missions he would find a way to kill her, black magick be damned.
The swirl of grits suddenly banked right and slammed into the barred and closed door of the Fachhallenhaus at the end of the row. The run-down farmhouse was mere steps from the gatehouse.
Unprecedented relief flooded Rumple’s system when his shadows filtered between the splintered wooden planks of the door, where the grits had fallen upon the threshold.
The boy hadn’t been escorted to the gallows in his absence after all, but had instead received an upgrade to his accommodation.
Although this pleased Rumple, the urgent need to see for himself that his Heart was unharmed—and alive—prevented the emotion from taking root.
The sound of steady and rhythmic breathing came from the chamber bay at the far end of the low farmhouse, and there, draped sideways over a narrow cot as if he had sat on the edge of the thin mattress and simply fallen asleep where he was, lay the boy.
The split soles of his boots dangled just above the bare floor, and his forearm covered his eyes as if to block out the light while he dozed.
The sight warmed Rumple. Even when alone, his Heart sought out the darkness.
Unable to resist, he watched the boy in his slumber.
If Rumple were capable of getting drunk, he’d describe the feelings within him as intoxicating.
The boy was undeniably beautiful with his mop of honey-blond curls and dusting of cinnamon freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks—but it was more than the simple sum of his parts.
There was a vulnerability about him that triggered something in Rumple, a yearning he hadn’t ever experienced before.
The boy embodied pure innocence, and the longer he stared, the stronger the temptation to indulge became. A wicked smirk tugged at Rumple’s lips.
Rumple commanded his shadows to fortify the Fachhallenhaus.
They haunted the furthest reaches of the gabled farmhouse, including the bays along the outer walls that he only now noticed were piled high with more bags of straw.
So that was the motivation behind the boy’s relocation into the Merchant’s Quarters?
There were six bays that flanked the length of the low hall, and within each, hessian sacks of straw were piled three high. No doubt remained in Rumple’s mind that the Queen would expect all thirty-six sacks to be spun into golden thread.
Had she offered him the same generous deal as before?
Did the boy have until daybreak to complete his task?
It didn’t matter. Rumple had already decided that if buying himself the time to discover how to claim his Heart meant spinning all the straw in Falchovari into gold, then that was exactly what he would do.
He materialised before the sleeping boy and stood between his already spread legs.
Belatedly, he realised that the cuffs of his brocade coat had dried flecks of blood on them.
While a natural consequence of who—of what—he was, it felt wrong to be in such a state when faced with his present company.
As if the blood of his victims would mar him more than Rumple already had.
He was brushing at the stains when the boy stirred.
Those deep brown eyes widened as they looked up at Rumple before they darted away. His Adam’s apple, pronounced under the sensitive skin of his neck, bobbed when he swallowed.
Rumple studied the boy. It bothered him that his Heart was still wearing the same clothes as he was yesterday. The cider brandy had dried alongside the sticky pink of strawberry juice, and the unmistakable evidence of their intense first night together was clearly visible on his crotch.
Unsettled, Rumple looked around until he found what he needed.
In the recess to the right of the chamber bay stood an old washbasin, an empty pewter jug, and a shrivelled-up bar of soap.
Impatient now that he had a kernel of a plan, he commanded shadow tendrils to place the small tub on the floor and flicked his wrist to fill the jug with warm water.
The whole while he told himself that this was not a kindness; he simply liked beautiful things Clean and beautiful things.
Begrudgingly, Rumple took several steps back and waited for the boy, who had since propped himself up on his elbows, to follow. When no further action was forthcoming, Rumple arched an eyebrow in silent question.
“I don’t know what you w-want from me.” The boy’s voice shook a little when he spoke, and it betrayed his insecurity.
As he had the night before, Rumple held out his gloved hand, palm side up, in invitation. Rich chestnut eyes flickered between Rumple’s face and his outstretched hand, and then over his shoulder to the window behind him.
Was he worried about being seen? Or about being seen with Rumple? That thought didn’t sit well with him at all. In fact, it felt like a belt had tightened around him, but when the boy sat upright on the bed, he caught the slightest twitch of movement from his crotch.
Had he imagined it? But no, the boy flushed crimson and looked down at his lap where he surreptitiously rested his hands, and Rumple couldn’t tear his gaze away.
His presence had had the same effect on the beguiling human last night.
What an unexpected, and ambrosial, side effect of having found his Heart.
Rumple stalked closer and traced a gloved hand across the boy’s jaw. A hot wave of anticipation twisted in his gut and his body hummed.
The boy closed his eyes but failed to suppress both the shudder that overtook him and the way his head pressed ever so slightly into Rumple’s palm. Was the rapid rise and fall of his chest fear, or was the boy struggling against the same tide of desire?
If it were fear, then he had already failed his Heart.
Rumple dragged the back of his leather-clad knuckles lower, down the thick artery that pulsed in his neck, along the fair skin of his collarbone, and over the sensitive skin on the inside of his arm until he reached his wrist, where he gripped him firmly.
If it were lust, then he needed to be certain it was given freely.
With a single tug, he pulled the boy to crowd against him, his slender chest pressed to Rumple’s more muscled one.
Heat radiated from the boy’s body. His breaths came fast and shallow, and he held still as if any movement at all might shatter him.
Rumple leaned in close, his lips ghosting over the shell of the boy’s ear when he spoke. “Last night, you knelt for me.”
The crimson flush, which had been restricted to the boy’s cheeks, spread down his neck and he spluttered in shock. Rumple ran his other gloved hand roughly down the boy’s side and gripped his hip tightly. Possessively.
“Have you fantasised about doing it again?” Rumple had thought of little else since he had left his cell shortly before sunrise.
“N-no,” the boy protested.
His gaze flickered under Rumple’s heated scrutiny, and the patter of his pulse was fast under Rumple’s fingertips. “You’re lying.”
The boy flinched at the accusation and bit his lip, leaving it red and raw.
But the possibility that he might be telling the truth, that maybe the boy hadn’t thought about what had transpired between them on repeat whilst he had edged himself to fever pitch, angered Rumple.
He released the boy from his hold and stepped back brusquely, his shadows thickening in his rage as they oozed up the walls like molasses.
Slowly, they overcame the sturdy but battered vanity unit that stood beneath the looking glass…
They swallowed the iron grill in the hearth where the previous occupant had left the ashes for someone else to clean out…
They soaked the already-stained material that partially covered the windows…
And they plunged the interior of the farmhouse into darkness. A darkness under Rumple’s control.
Roughly, he pulled the hem of the boy’s soiled shirt loose from his breeches, giving him only seconds to figure out Rumple’s intention and raise his arms before it was yanked clear over his head.
Rumple could easily count the ribs on the bared torso—a stark reminder of his Heart’s mortality. It gave Rumple pause.
Yet where he hesitated, the boy didn’t. With wide-eyed wonder, he stretched up on his tiptoes, and gained enough height to swipe his fingertips through the shadows that hung from the rafters above his head.
The boy’s breathy gasp travelled unimpeded to the cavity of Rumple’s chest, and a rush of sexual pleasure coursed through his veins, softening them.
Shyly, the boy glanced at Rumple. His fingers lowered as if he were unsure of their welcome, but before he found the words to encourage him to do it again, the boy smiled.
A beatific metamorphosis that lit up his whole face.
It pinkened the cheeks that framed his enlarged eyes, which seemed to Rumple to sparkle with delight despite the full dark that enveloped them both.
This dynamic between them was exhilarating.
He watched the boy like an owl might observe the activity of an entire field with a single blink; with an omnipotent fervour.
When those work-hardened hands dipped into his shadows once more, and the boy laughed—a genuine and delighted sound—it made Rumple forget why he had been so angry in the first instance.
Rumple’s shadows, that not long ago had flayed a man alive, showed no signs of treating the boy in the same manner.
They became less viscous and easily coated his hands in darkness, the black a stark contrast to the pale and freckled skin that adorned his exposed and angular shoulders. Rumple couldn’t look away.
There was that something again.
Having only ever coveted fear as a symbol of his power, Rumple was rendered speechless by the simple sound of laughter.
He’d heard laughter before, of course, but as he stood motionless while his shadows played with the boy, he realised nobody had ever laughed with him.
They’d cried, begged, and pleaded. They’d vomited, bled, and died.
But no one had ever found joy in his presence. Until now.
And somewhere deep down inside, Rumple realised he was the one who was afraid.
Unnerved by the direction of his own thoughts, Rumple took three abrupt steps back toward the only window in the chamber bay.
There’d been no hint—no suggestion whatsoever from anything he’d ever read or learned—that discovering his Heart would affect him this way. And that must be what this was.
Thankfully, the object of Rumple’s torment hadn’t noticed his plight, so absorbed was he in his game with the shadows of the most terrifying geist the kingdom had ever known, and it bought him precious time to regain his equilibrium.