Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Charlotte
The Aerie
Chapel Anteroom
Charlotte should be nervous. Brides were always nervous on their wedding day.
She had been a jittery bundle of nerves on her first wedding day. Every little detail seemed so important at the time. Now it was laughable. It had rained. Disaster. The flowers were wilted. Ruined. The candles were tallow, not beeswax, and left smoke in the air. How could she show her face in public again? How indeed, considering that her first wedding day ended in blood.
Well, perhaps nervous was the reasonable response.
Charlotte paced the length of the chapel’s waiting room. It was not nervous energy that compelled her to be in constant motion but a need to keep warm. The room lacked a fireplace, and the bare stone walls gave the room a punishing austerity. Two uncomfortable wooden chairs and a small side table furnished the room.
She touched the spot on her chest where the compass normally rested. Having worn the item for weeks now, she felt unsettled without its comforting weight.
The locked door compounded the situation by making her feel like a trapped animal. She was cold.
She tucked her hand under her arms to warm them. She wanted to get the wedding over with. If she could just skip the ceremony and the reception dinner, and wake up tomorrow in a warm bed, that would be ideal. The waiting was intolerable.
“What is wrong with you? Why don’t I care if you die? Where is our bond?”
Lionel’s words haunted her. What if it happened again?
No. She refused to believe that such misfortune would happen twice. For several reasons. One, Draven’s condition was not a secret. Therefore, it would be impossible to spring that surprise on her in the middle of dinner. Two, he wasn’t actively trying to murder her. Probably. She sincerely hoped not. Three, no one had that kind of bad luck. Absolutely no one outside of broadsheet stories and ballads.
She just had to make it through the next few hours, and everything would be fine. Well, fine enough. This wedding was a farce. She knew that. It would not be registered, no license had been obtained, and therefore would not be considered legal. Charlotte could walk away without consequence. So why could she not settle? Why the restless pacing? A few hours and the day would be done.
Only the next few hours seemed an impossibly long amount of time. She broke it down into smaller chunks of time. Surviving without incident for fifteen minutes at a time was acceptable. Stressful, without a doubt, but acceptable. She just needed to focus her energies and not dwell on what previously went wrong. Fifteen minutes at a time.
“This is ridiculous.” Charlotte knocked politely on the door.
When she failed to get an immediate response, she banged louder. “Open this door!”
Through the door, Charlotte heard the rattling of keys and muttered curses. It opened slowly. A guard poked her head in. She had a face still soft with youth and wide eyes. Completely unintimidating, other than her impressive stature.
“They’re not ready for you, madame,” the guard said.
“Why was this door locked? Lord Draven assured me I was not a prisoner.”
“Oh, umm, I couldn’t say.”
“Could not or cannot?” Charlotte asked, pouncing on the guard’s nervous response.
“It was locked when I got here?”
The guard didn’t have the answers to satisfy Charlotte. There was no point in asking why the door had been locked. Reasons. Perfectly reasonable reasons that would humble her with their reasonableness. Instead, she asked something the guard might be able to answer. “What’s taking so long?”
“Eager, are we?” The guard chuckled.
Charlotte was not impressed. “Madame Lemoine woke me at a rudely early hour, scrubbed me like I was covered in fleas, and hurried me to this tiny room without so much as a piece of toast or a cup of tea. I am not eager. I am cold and hungry .”
The color drained from the guard’s face. “You haven’t eaten?”
“No. If Lord Draven’s arrival is not imminent, could you do something about that? A warm drink at the very least.”
“Um, yes? About the food. I can’t do anything about Lord Draven. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Charlotte agreed, giving a friendly smile. “What is your name?”
“Orianne Lavaud,” she said. Her posture went stiff. “You’re not going to complain, are you? I have no say about Lord Draven’s schedule. We’re expected to wait at our posts until he arrives. That’s just the way he is.”
“I make it a point to know the name of my friends, Orianne.”
“Oh.” Orianne visibly relaxed. “I can’t abandon my post to run to the kitchens.”
“Delegate. Send someone to do that. I won’t leave this room. You have the key, after all.” Charlotte flashed another smile.
“I guess? I mean, yes. I can do that.” Orianne scanned the hallway like she expected a supervisor to jump out of the shadows and accuse her of dereliction of duty. “Wait here.”
Charlotte thanked her and sat on an uncomfortable chair to wait. Another fifteen minutes gone. Orianne returned, this time carrying a tray of bread and cold cuts, and a mug of spiced wine, another fifteen minutes had elapsed. See? Easy. She could manage the day while avoiding disaster and not spilling a drop on her dress.
Steam curled in the air from the spiced wine. The aroma of nutmeg and cloves filled the air. Charlotte held the mug in her hands, soaking up the heat in her freezing digits. When she deemed the wine cool enough to safely drink, she took a sip. She had never been a fan of spiced wine, finding it too tart. Too often people employed a heavy hand with the spices to hide subpar wine.
Not in this case.
The wine was smooth, even a touch sweet. The spices added warmth and complexity. Charlotte drained the mug. Heat bloomed within her, no doubt raising a flush in her cheeks, and she ate the meal provided.
Pleasantly warm and with hunger’s edge blunted, it was easier to ignore her nerves. Yes, she admitted it. She was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? She had two wildly different encounters with Draven. One as the overly concerned gentleman at Sweetwater Point and the next as a snarling, foul-tempered friend who did his best to scare her.
The vampire’s theatrics might have worked if he had not been so insistent that she take his coat and gloves. He had already shown her that he could be soft and considerate. Still, her nervousness persisted.
The rattle of keys signaled Lemoine’s arrival, derailing Charlotte’s thoughts before she could work herself into an anxious mess. The woman immediately homed in on the remnants of Charlotte’s meal and the empty mug.
Lemoine sniffed the mug. “Spiced wine?”
“I asked for a hot drink. I had no say in what was delivered.” Charlotte rose as she spoke and regretted it immediately. Her head felt fuzzy, and she laid a hand on the back of the chair to steady herself. Not enough in her stomach to absorb the alcohol. That was all.
Lemoine’s gaze swept over Charlotte, no doubt taking in every flaw of the dress. Charlotte felt like a student called before the school matron. With her lips pressed firmly together, Lemoine managed to appear disapproving while keeping a perfectly neutral expression on her face. Quite the talent, that. Classic school matron.
Charlotte resisted the urge to smooth the front of her dress. It was a pale lavender wool, suitable against the winter chill and a shade that complimented her complexion. A delicate shawl kept her neck warm. There was nothing wrong with her outfit. It was a good dress. Practical. Certainly not a dainty affair of satin and lace, but such gowns did not travel well. Currently, her most lavish gown was wrinkled beyond hope.
She lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by Lemoine’s blank stare. “I know this is not my best dress, as that one is currently in dire need of a pressing. Since Lord Draven wants the wedding today, the wool will have to do.”
“I don’t care about your dress, you silly thing. Are you drunk?”
“From one mug of spiced wine? Hardly.”
Lemoine shook her head slightly. “At least you managed not to spill anything on yourself. Imagine such a mess. I’m surprised you would be so reckless as to eat before the service.”
Reckless? Charlotte steeled herself for the inevitable comment that she could afford to skip a meal.
Thankfully, it never came. Instead, Lemoine dithered about the hypothetical inconvenience of making everyone wait while Charlotte changed. “Shockingly thoughtless of you.”
“I agree,” Charlotte said. “Shockingly inconsiderate.”
This brought Lemoine up short. She looked as if she did not know what to say. “Well, good—”
“It was shockingly thoughtless to rush me to prepare for this ceremony, skipping any sort of nourishment, and then lock me in a room, alone for hours without so much as a glass of water.”
“It hasn’t been hours—”
Charlotte ignored the woman’s protests. Now that she had spoken her mind, the words were impossible to stop. “So shockingly thoughtless to treat Lord Draven’s guest like a prisoner. Not to mention treating a perfectly capable person like a dog ordered to stay. And frankly, insulting to imply that I am a…a drunkard and incapable of drinking without dumping the contents on myself.”
Lemoine’s shoulders went back. Charlotte recognized it as the stance of a very stubborn person who refused to back down. “I didn’t wish to give you an opportunity to change your mind. I’ve seen too many women with second thoughts the morning of. I won’t let you disappoint Lord Draven.”
“That’s thoughtful.” In a controlling way. “But you did lock me in.”
“Well, I’m too old to go chasing after a runaway bride.”
She spoke with such matter-of-factness that Charlotte couldn’t formulate a reply.
“Now, the minister has arrived and the guests are waiting.” Lemoine opened the door and swept her hand in invitation for Charlotte to exit.
She moved past the woman, stumbling but catching herself on the doorframe. Lemoine steadied her with a hand on her elbow.
“You have a minister? A real minister?” she asked, shaking off Lemoine’s grip. This was supposed to be fake, for show. No real ministers involved.
“Why wouldn’t the minister be ordained?”
Charlotte wanted to reply that the vampire lord was a law unto himself and ruled this mountain like a tyrant. Why would the denizens of said mountain bother with such trivialities as being ordained? Instead, she said, “I’m surprised.”
“Lord Draven accepts all people from all backgrounds when they ask for sanctuary. Some leave behind their old lives and take new names, but they do not cease to be themselves.” Lemoine spoke with a devout fervor, her head high and her body trembling with barely contained excitement.
“And you? What life did you leave behind?” She swayed on her feet but managed to steal a glance at Lemoine.
“I was born here. I’ve served Lord Draven my entire life. Everything I have is because of him. For him.” A smile flickered across her face, the first hint of an emotion beyond scorn. “People are waiting. Try not to trip over your own feet.”
Draven
Draven flung open the doors to the chapel. The waiting crowd fell silent, and the music ceased abruptly. The simple room, furnished with backless benches and a plain altar, was filled with waiting people. Guests. Draven couldn’t say who exactly, other than they must be among the higher echelon of the Aerie. He recognized a few faces, but he couldn’t be sure he knew their names. He might confuse an adult child for their parents. He had done it before. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Stringer handled the invitations.
Buried within the mountain, natural daylight did not reach the chapel. Candles provided soft illumination, casting shadows on the ceiling. Lighting had once been provided electronically, but those had been salvaged long ago for use in more vital areas. Even if the mountain provided protection from the fluctuating Nexus energies of the planet, time and wear took their toll on equipment. Some items were impossible to replicate. Draven had to use the remaining resources prudently. What would happen when the lights went out and there were no more parts to scavenge? Another worry to add to his pile.
Charlotte and the minister awaited him at the altar. His worries fell away. All he could see was his bride. She was a vision in pale lavender, like an early spring blossom. Curls framed her face, and the rim of her glasses gleamed under the candlelight. So sweet, just a bite-sized morsel ready for him to gobble her up.
He took his place at her side. The minister opened a heavy book and flipped the pages.
“That was a rather dramatic entrance,” Charlotte whispered, turning ever so slightly to face him.
Her breath…she stank of poison. Wormwood, vervain, and wine.
How amusing. Did she think to poison herself in the hopes that he would drink from her? A combination of wormwood and vervain would slow his reflexes and impair his ability to heal if he were to have an unpleasant encounter with a silver dagger. A decent enough plan, but clearly she had no idea that he could detect the deadly herbs.
“Where did you smuggle in the herbs? Sown into the hem of your skirt?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Last night her supply had been confiscated, but obviously she had more.
Charlotte turned to face him, confusion on her face. “Excuse me? I don’t follow.”
She was precious, like a fluffy bunny hopping along, unaware that she attracted the attention of something so much worse. He’d allow her fumbling attempts at assassination, knowing he was in little danger.
“Is there a problem?” the minister asked.
“No. Proceed,” Draven ordered.
One wedding ceremony was much like another. Draven had stood there several times. Five? Seven? He remembered his brides with fondness and clarity, but the weddings blurred together. What was there to spark a memory? The chapel was the same, even though it had faded slowly over the centuries. The crowd was the same. Faces and names changed, but the crowd remained the same selection of his trusted followers and staff. They were there to support him, to witness him, never the bride. The vows were identical. Repeat these words. Hold hands. Place a gold ring on her finger.
The only thing that was different was that he felt a pull when the minister declared them wed and free to kiss.
Charlotte lifted her eyes, anticipation on her face.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Not while you’re poisoned, sweetness,” he murmured.
“What poison?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
Her brow furrowed. “Are you accusing me of being drunk? I had one glass.”
“We’ll discuss this later.” He stepped back to face the applauding crowd, a hand raised in gratitude. In a voice soft enough for only her to hear, he said, “Smile. You wanted to be here.”