Chapter 5
Alaric
I get two days of peace. Two days when I’m not called upon to track down the unruly princess. Two days when I take my horse and ride out beyond the wall, bringing back the head of an unfortunate dire wolf I come across.
At least I would have had two days of peace, but those two days were haunted with memories of a slim, shapely figure, of red pouting lips I should not be imagining kissing.
The messenger waves, and I reluctantly draw Tharrok to a halt. “What is it?”
His face is pale. He shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, though the horse looks fresh enough. He wasn’t looking long. “Her Majesty wishes you to see her in her chamber.”
I turn and spit upon the earth in disgust, but her summons can’t be ignored. “Fine.”
Without another word, I spur my horse and make for the stables. I take as long as I dare removing the saddle and brushing him down, delaying the inevitable.
I do not bother to change from my riding gear before climbing the stairs to the upper level of the keep.
Up here the air is clean and fresh. No scents of animals or food or muck from the levels below pollute the royal chambers.
Yet the cloying sweetness of her perfume tenses my jaw and makes me wish I could slink below to the great hall and the fire.
Or out to the frosty forest where the air is truly fresh and clean.
There might be monsters in the Gloamwald, but the worst of them are here, at the heart of Blackthorn.
“Enter.” The queen’s voice cuts through the thin air and stiffens my back. I pause with my hand on the door, steeling myself for what will come.
Melantha sits at her dresser, long, dark hair unbound and trailing down her back.
She wears a thin black garment with a lace neckline and cuffs.
In the mirror, she watches me as I approach.
I look away from her reflection, disgusted by the loose, wrinkled skin, the dark circles, the withered, ancient corpse it reveals.
Her true image, unfiltered by the spell she keeps me for.
“What is your desire?” I ask, though I know what she wants.
Her brows twitch into the beginnings of a scowl and she presses her lips together for a moment. “I have spoken to you about the way you address me. Do not make me do so again.”
“What is your desire, my lady?”
“Show me.”
She does not need to say more. Each week she calls me to her chamber to perform this ritual. This dance which has become a duel. Each sevennight we eye each other off. I search for a weakness, a moment when she will reveal her hand. She watches me smugly, knowing
she’s found mine and I will never escape her.
My feet carry me into position behind her.
My mind longs to be anywhere but here. I place my hands on her shoulders and close my eyes, drawing on the cold, unnatural force within.
My skin, icy already, grows colder still as I weave the magic, and my fingers feel so brittle they might snap off at any moment.
The chill pulses in my bones, burns in the place my heart once beat.
It softens and knits flesh that’s not my own.
“The blood,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
Her body shifts as she reaches for the vial on the dresser. A moment later there’s the soft tinkle of glass as she sets it down again, and I feel the change in her instantly.
Hot, red blood flows through Melantha’s veins. I sense it, though it never warms me. Opening my eyes, I watch as withered skin repairs itself, plumping and blushing as the magic transforms her.
Now her face is that of a woman in the bloom of middle years. With high, firm cheekbones, thin, arched brows, and lush, red lips the color of the dire wolf blood she drank. She lifts a hand to her cheek and sighs. “Better.”
I step back and lift my hands, bending my fingers to loosen stiff joints. The mirror still shows the withered corpse.
“Where do you think you are going?”
With a sigh, I take the vial and tip the last of the monster’s blood onto my thumb, smearing it across the mirror until the blurred reflection shows the illusion too.
Then I circle her chair and get on my knees.
I can never decide if this or the spell itself is the worst part of the ritual.
Yet they are as unavoidable as death ought to be.
My punishment for trying to evade the hunter god’s arrow.
Now the god of death smiles at me with his hollow grin as I clamber between her thighs and put my mouth to work to service the queen.
She slips a hand into my hair and tugs roughly, bringing my tongue to the place she wants me.
I obey. I take no joy in the sour flavor of her dry cunt.
All the blood of all the monsters in the forest could not make its taste regain the sweetness of youth and beauty.
And nothing could induce me to do this for her, save the one thing she already possesses. The one thing I hunt and cannot find.
Her hand tightens in my hair, and I know she stares at her own face in the mirror as I make her cum. The spasms of her cunt finally subside, and I’m allowed to lift my head.
“At least you can make yourself useful that way,” she sneers. “Too bad your magic cannot rouse the pathetic thing that hangs between your legs.”
I stand and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I do not tell her my cock needs no magic to grow and swell to full, painful thickness. Not lately. Not when I think of Guinevere undressing for me. Melantha will never see it thus. “Will that be all?”
She gives it a final calculating look then dismisses me with a sigh. “You may go. Do not be late next week.”
I say nothing as I bow and stalk from the room.
How many more times must I debase myself before her? How many more weeks and months and years before I find what she stole from me and regain the power to end this charade?