Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Draven
A celebration followed. Not his idea, but Stringer pointed out that people were restless and needed an outlet. Blow off steam. Winter on the mountain was like that. On a clear day, it was easy to get sunshine and fresh air on the upper levels, especially if one visited the greenhouses. Taking a trip down the mountain, through the pass, and into the valley was an easy journey in good weather. Hunting parties came and went daily.
In foul weather, though, travel became difficult and risky. Only the most skilled and vital went out.
Music and laughter filled the great hall. Food was in abundance. Wine and beer flowed freely. Charlotte made all the appreciative noises one expected of a guest.
Draven watched the festivities from his seat at the high table, bored and glowering. He had work to do. There was a situation in the lower levels that required monitoring. It had been stable when he left, but the equipment was old and fragile. The minions he left to supervise did not have the technical experience to make repairs. That was all he was nowadays. A repair tech.
He tucked his hair behind his ears, irritated. The sooner it was finished, the sooner he could get back to work. The whole event was a waste. Occasionally, those who were brave enough approached to give congratulations. He waved them away as quickly as possible.
Charlotte leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “What’s that dance? I don’t recognize it.”
Her words caught his attention. The dancers stood shoulder to shoulder in orderly lines. They moved four steps to the left, then right, back, forward, and turned. They clapped and gestured to the music. Despite this, he recognized the dance immediately. “It was old in my time. The hand…thing…is new.”
“How fascinating.” She turned in her chair to face him, eagerness written in bold on her face. “Would you care to dance?”
“I do not dance,” he said coolly. She wilted at his words. “This dance does not require a partner. Anyone may join,” he added, because that was factual and not because he disliked seeing her disappointment.
“I think I shall.” As she passed behind his chair, she brushed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Try not to flirt while I’m away.”
“I do not flirt.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re shameless.” She flashed him a smile and winked before joining the dance line.
Had the poison affected her inhibitions? She did not act like the prim and proper lady from last night. Then again, a prim and proper lady would not have accepted his proposal.
He glared at the partly filled wine glass by her plate. How much had she had to drink that evening?
“You were late to your wedding,” Lemoine said, appearing at his side.
“Nonsense. The wedding started precisely the moment I arrived.” Draven leaned back in his chair, as if he had not a care in the world.
Lemoine made a noise that conveyed she wasn’t impressed with his logic but couldn’t be bothered to disagree. Sensible. That’s what he liked about Lemoine. She knew when to keep her mouth shut.
“There was an incident in the lower levels. I was otherwise occupied,” he said.
“Should we raise an alert? Cancel the celebration? This level of noise will attract attention but canceling the revels too early will hurt morale.”
“A very sensible thought. It is contained. All is well.”
While they spoke, Charlotte joined the dance line. A few awkward minutes passed as she attempted the steps, missing the beat and turning a second too slowly. She laughed, tried again, and soon had the maneuvers down.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She glowed as if lit from within by happiness. A trick of the light. She hadn’t looked happy when they exchanged vows at the altar. She looked resolute.
There was something that pulled him to her. He could admit an attraction. It had drawn him to her at Sweetwater Point, when she had been sorely out of place in the frontier town. Pretty, yes. Out of her element but resolved. The way she had regarded him with suspicion, intelligence shining in her eyes. Once again, he was struck by her resemblance to a bunny. He wanted to both protect her from the horrors of the world and consume her because he was one of those horrors. The oldest horror.
Absently, he rubbed his chest, just over his heart. The ancient organ still functioned, although some days it was easier to imagine it a lump of coal or gone altogether.
Charlotte bumped into the person beside her. A blush darkened her face as she laughed.
Yes, there was something there.
His focus did not go unnoticed. Lemoine made various noises of disapproval and mutterings about spectacles.
“You dislike Charlotte,” he said.
“My opinion is of no consequence,” Lemoine said in a flat tone.
“I would not be discussing the issue if that were true. Why have you taken such a dislike to her?”
“I do not dislike her, personally. I’m sure she’s lovely and charming and all the things a useless city lady is meant to be. I dislike that she will inevitably fail and that will hurt you.”
Draven took another drink of wine, making no immediate reply. Lemoine was a loyal hound, obedient and faithful to the point of obsession. Her opinions of his bride would always be low because she had seen too many of them fail year after year. “Your concern is commendable.”
“But not asked for.”
“She consumed wormwood. How did a useless city lady smuggle that past your inspection?”
“She did not,” Lemoine said vehemently. “I personally searched her luggage, all five trunks.”
“Perhaps it was sewn into the lining of her garments.” Such measures were common for jewels. Why not poison?
Lemoine shook her head. “No. I confiscated all her clothing, even what she wore, and searched them all. There was nothing.”
“Well, that leads us to an unpleasant conclusion,” he said, draining his glass. Lemoine moved to refill it, but he covered the glass with a hand. He had his fill of wine. “Someone poisoned my bride with wormwood.”
“That’s harmless to humans.”
“Yes, and I’d detect the stink of it on her, ensuring I’d never sample the poisoned fruit.”
“It’s a warning.”
“Yes.” A warning to him, as Charlotte would never know she had been laced with wormwood. Someone had access to his inner circle, a supply of deadly herbs, presumably other weapons that could harm him, and the will to use them. “Investigate what she consumed and who had the opportunity. I do not care for these little games. I want them found.”
“Yes, Lord Draven.”
“And be discreet, Lemoine. None of your usual browbeating.”
“Shall I recruit Stringer? He has a softer touch.”
“Use your best judgment,” he said, knowing she was unlikely to ask for help.
That resolved, he turned his attention back to Charlotte. Her face glowed with mirth as she moved with the other dancers. As she moved, the fabric of her dress pulled against the curves of her hips and thighs.
“You should dance,” Lemoine said.
“In all your years, have you ever seen me dance?” Draven asked, his gaze fixed on Charlotte.
“No, but it is not outside of the realm of possibility.”
“I am far too busy keeping this place running for such indulgences.”
“Everyone deserves to have an evening off. Even you.”
She had a point. When the song ended and the dancers dispersed, Draven made his way to Charlotte, the crowd parting before him. He reached her just as the next song started. The dancers paired up with partners for the couple’s waltz.
He held out his hand. “I presume you know this dance,” he said.
“I am familiar.” She beamed at him, somehow smiling with her entire body, as they moved with the music.
“You will forgive me if I trample on your toes,” he said. “I am out of practice. It’s been…some time since I danced.” A century, at the least.
“Thank you for the warning but I find it unnecessary. You are exceptionally graceful, Lord Draven.”
“Are you attempting to flirt with me?”
She laughed. It wasn’t nervous or made brittle by tension. It was warm and comfortable, the laugh of a woman completely at ease in the arms of a monster. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear all the little noises she made. Gasps of delight. Moans of pleasure. All of them. They belonged to him now.
His hand tightened on her waist. Was this a trick? Dangle an irresistible treat in front of him and fill her full of poison. “How did you smuggle in the wormwood?”
Charlotte
The Aerie
Assembly Hall
Charlotte frowned. “I don’t have wormwood. Do you mean the tea in the hunter’s kit? That was wolf’s bane, I think. It’s meant to, ah, make me taste bad, but that was confiscated.”
“I mean the wormwood that you ingested today. You stink of it.”
They twirled, the motion breaking their conversation.
“I haven’t taken anything,” she said when they came back together.
Draven stared at her like he could sense her heart pounding in her chest. “Your heart is racing.”
Perhaps he could.
“From the dancing,” she said quickly. Suspiciously quickly. She amended her statement with, “I’m not used to the exertion. It’s been more than a year since I’ve danced. Society frowns upon widows who dance after their husband’s death.”
He nodded. “I would not blame you for dancing on his grave.”
“Oh, Lionel doesn’t have a grave. He was dismembered and burned to ash.” Perhaps she sounded bitter, but she did not care. If Lionel had a grave, she’d do far worse than dance on it.
“Now I know you are flirting with me,” he said.
His response caught her off guard. She had to laugh at the absurdity of it. “Is that your idea of flirting? Are you a cat bringing little love tokens of mice and dead birds?”
“Should I bring you the hand that poisoned you with wormwood? Your modern rules of courtship are so much more formal than in my day, but I’m willing to learn if it would please my vicious bride.”
They clasped hands above their heads and rotated slowly, able to only look at each other.
He stared at her with such cold intensity that she shivered. Not from fear. No, rather something far more surprising. Desire. She should have been appalled at her body’s reaction to this man. He was a bloodthirsty monster threatening to sever limbs for her. Rather than be horrified, Charlotte found his offer endearing—sweet in an appalling way.
Enticing.
Perhaps she was flirting. Draven was beautiful. There was no way to avoid it. Tall and elegant, he moved beyond classically attractive into the unreal. His appearance had a preternatural edge, sharp and unforgiving. To behold him was to witness an unappeasable force of nature. To be this close to him, in his arms, pinned under his gaze, was to be caught in the same blizzard, and she rather enjoyed it.
And he looked at her like she was the beautiful one. It was enough to make one feel flustered and—for lack of a better word to describe the fizzy, animated feeling in her stomach—peculiar. She hadn’t felt that way in more than a year.
Or possibly that was nothing more than the wormwood.
“Have I really been dosed with wormwood? What are the effects?” she asked.
“Wormwood oil can cause seizures, but it is far easier to slip the herbal form into wine or food. That has no effect on humans.”
The maneuver ended and Draven’s arm settled on her waist once more. They moved together, matching step for step until the music faded.
“You’re warm,” he said. “Let’s get you a cold drink.”
Charlotte spied the punch table at the far end of the great hall. Rather than move through the crowd, Draven gestured, and a server appeared with two glasses of lemonade.
“Thank you,” she said, sipping the cold beverage. “You know, I didn’t dose myself.”
“I believe you, but someone did.”
“Why?” she asked, and immediately had the answer. “Oh. To poison you.”
“Or sow distrust between us. Pick your poison, if you will.” He raised a brow, waiting for her response.
“Did you make a joke, Lord Draven?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Once a century, give or take?”
“Oh no. I’m far more amusing than that,” he said in a dry tone. “Once every twenty-five years.”
Her lips twitched. She hid her smile behind the glass of lemonade.
Various people gave their congratulations, preventing Draven and Charlotte from continuing their odd flirtation. She had no doubt it was flirtation. His dark jokes left her giddy, which said more about her character than Draven’s idea of courtship. Plenty about Draven left her giddy. The possessive way he held her as they danced. Even now, he kept his hand on her lower back, whether as a show of possession or just a need to remind her of his presence, she couldn’t say. Either way, she approved.
“How was your wedding reception? Do you feel properly celebrated?”
“It’s overwhelming,” she answered. From the moment she awakened, the day had been a never-ending parade of sights and sounds. The great hall was stark in regards to its architectural style, but it was filled with people, music, and an almost suffocating warmth. Now she danced with the unnaturally beautiful vampire. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed? “No one attempted to murder me, my husband survived, and I was only slightly poisoned. A success, I think.”
Draven laughed, tossing his head back. His laugh was loud and sharp, more tooth than amusement, and it delighted her.
A hush of stunned disbelief fell over the crowd. The music ceased. Conversation stopped.
“I do not know if your standards are tragically low or thrillingly high,” he said.
Charlotte desperately wanted to say something witty, a turn of phrase so sparkling and cutting that the vampire would forever be charmed. Instead, all she managed was, “You’re pretty when you laugh.”
She wanted the floor to open and swallow her. How mortifying.
Draven stepped closer, leaning forward enough to keep their conversation as private as possible. “You think I’m pretty?”
“When you laugh. You should do that more. Also when you don’t laugh. Just pretty in general.” Her face blazed with embarrassment. “Forgive me. That was tactless, and I’m too embarrassed to stop speaking. Why am I still speaking?”
“I think you’re pretty, too. Especially when you blush.”
Somehow her blush intensified enough that she felt she might burst into flames.
“I think perhaps it is time we retire for the evening.”
Charlotte nodded, still blushing and now her stomach was fluttering all peculiar again. Thankfully she said, “Yes,” instead of babbling a reply. “Will the party end if we leave early?”
“They’ll carry on until morning. Worry not,” he said, guiding her to the exit.
The crowd parted for them. Everyone watched them. Everyone knew, or rather speculated, why they left early. A brave few made rather bawdy comments.
Let them say what they will. I’m not ashamed.
Once in the corridor, heavy doors muffled the noise of the celebration, and silence resumed. All Charlotte could hear was the pounding of her heart. In a few minutes, she would be bare before her husband. What would he think of her? He said she was pretty. Would he find the soft rolls of her stomach pretty? What of her legs, which were more sturdy than shapely? She disliked this feeling of self-doubt. Perhaps he’d want her to remain dressed. Lionel had. Oh, she disliked thinking of her former husband even more than she disliked self-doubt, but Lionel’s presence had haunted the entire day.
Too quickly, they arrived at her room. The fire had died long ago in the hearth. A chill hung in the air. Draven tended to the fire and had a blaze going in no time.
“Come warm yourself,” he said.
She rubbed her hands together before holding them before the fire. Draven regarded her quietly, his expression almost fond. She paused, tilting her head in an unspoken question of curiosity.
He stepped closer, brushed back the curls from her forehead, and then cradled the back of her head with his hand.
“Oh, my hair escaped.” She reached up to pat her coiffure. She started that day with her hair neatly swept upward, curls cascading like a crown, but several strands had worked their way free.
He leaned in. The space between them heated. Was she breathing? She couldn’t remember.
“May I kiss my bride?” he asked.
“The poison?”
“I believe the experience will be worth the risk.”
“Then yes, I implore you to kiss your bride.”
Gently, he pulled her toward him until their lips met. His previous kiss had been rough, more teeth than tenderness. The kiss in the chapel had been barely worth mentioning. This…this was stepping outside into the winter storm, being swallowed whole. Consumed. Savored. She wanted him to savor every drop of her.
He pulled back. “Good night, sweetness.”
She grabbed his hand as he turned to leave. “Stay.”