Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
I put on a pair of sturdy boots, tying the laces up my calf. I don’t call for Medora to help me change my dress or put on my cloak.
I don’t want anyone to have any clues as to what I’m up to today. However, only mere moments after entering the foliage of the nearby woods, I hear a shriek of “Duchess!”
Little Nico lowers himself from the nearest tree, jumping the last few feet and catching himself on his hands and knees on the mossy ground. He slaps his hands together to remove any loose dirt before throwing his arms about my skirts.
“Good day, Duchess,” he says.
“Good day to you, too. What are you about this afternoon?”
“I’ve spotted a bird’s nest up in the tree. I’m waiting for the eggs to hatch.”
“Have any of them moved yet?”
“No, and the mother hasn’t come back since I scared her off while discovering the nest.”
I take his little hand in mine and start walking. “You’d best leave the eggs alone, else the mother might not come back. Then the babies would die.”
“Oh,” he says. “She would be most indignant if her babies died. I shall leave the tree alone.”
“Wise decision.”
“What shall we do instead?” he asks.
As we trot along the worn path, he jumps on sticks, cracking them underfoot, or picks up rocks to throw at the trunks of trees. I hadn’t any experience with young boys until moving to the estate, but they are quite destructive little things.
“I’m going to pick some wildflowers,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’d find it terribly boring.”
“Not at all. I shall help you find the best ones!”
I don’t want an audience for this part, but I doubt Nico counts. After all, he’s already forgotten the bird’s nest from two minutes ago.
We pick our way through the woods until we come to an open field laced with blossoms. Daisies and dandelions and morning glories and irises. Nico rushes forward and grabs handfuls of the plants, yanking some of them out by the roots in his enthusiasm. He doesn’t seem to care whether the flowers look fully ripened or if anything looks like it needs more water. All flowers are created equal in the eyes of a four-year-old boy.
I show him how to make crowns out of daisies, and he spends some time perfecting his new skill before rushing toward the nearby stream to look for bugs and frogs. I keep him in my line of sight as I begin selecting my own blossoms.
Foxglove. Water hemlock. Nightshade.
They all grow naturally in the uncultivated forest surrounding the manor. I’ve been taught all my life to stay away from these plants, not to touch them, and certainly not to eat them. With my gloved hand, I pick a few of the belled flowers from the foxglove, berries from the nightshade, and clusters from the water hemlock.
Ensuring Nico isn’t looking this way, I place my finds within a leather pouch I brought along with me. I turn my soiled gloves inside out before pocketing them. Then I search for some harmless flowers to take back with me to the estate. I call out to Nico when I’m done. He barely acknowledges me as he tries to catch water skippers hopping across the slow-moving sections of the stream. He’s drenched up to his waist and couldn’t be happier for it.
His childhood is so different from what mine was. So much freer, though he doesn’t get to spend time with other children. There aren’t any others to be found on the estate. Perhaps I should find a way to change that. We could hire on new help. Perhaps single mothers who need work? Something to look into once Eryx is gone.
I hand my bundle of flowers off to Tekla once I enter the estate, asking her to find a vase for them. That night, I steal a small teapot from the kitchen when no one is looking. Since I regularly frequent the kitchens, no one thinks my presence odd. I am fond of baking from time to time, so I regularly pop in to try out new recipes from Cook’s books.
I fill the pot with water and place it atop the roaring fire in my room. I add the pouch of petals, berries, and clusters. I’m not entirely sure how much it takes to kill a man, so I figure it couldn’t hurt to brew a lot of everything, letting it all soak in the boiling water, drawing out the poison from the plants into what I hope is a more concentrated form.
A mixture of the three deadliest plants found on the estate.
When I deem that my concoction has had enough time to stew, I pour it into a glass vial and stopper it with a cork. I flush the remains of the plants down the toilet, then wash and return the pot to the kitchens in the dead of night.
It seems careless to poison the duke so close to when I went picking wildflowers. No, I need to wait just a bit. Let no one be able to put this together.
I am not like Alessandra.
If I kill a man, I’m not going to be caught.
I WAIT A FULL week before putting my plan into motion. My sister’s wedding is this weekend. I’m cutting it close, but the delay was necessary. Caution is paramount when plotting murder.
When I go through the meal schedule with Cook, I arrange for an extremely spicy and potent dish on Thursday, a foreign curry heaped with herbs and vegetables. Something that will hide the foul smell and taste of my home-brewed poison.
The trickiest part, by far, will be getting the poison into Eryx’s bowl when no one is looking. There are so many attendants standing near the dining table in case they are needed. The kitchen is full of staff preparing meals for all in the household.
I arrive at the dining room early and have to make a scene just to give me a moment alone with Eryx’s food. I knock over a glass of wine, which trails onto one of the chairs and the waiting carpet underneath.
While everyone rushes to assist with the cleanup, I unstopper my glass bottle, pour the poison into Eryx’s bowl, give it a quick stir, and return to my former position before anyone else rises off the floor. The table has to be lifted so the rug can be taken out for cleaning or replacement. The chair is ruined, the white upholstery having no chance of recovery from the bloodred stain.
It is just as everything is being set to rights that Eryx emerges with his cronies in tow.
“What is happening?”
“There was a spill, Your Grace,” Xandria says.
“You are kind to cover for me, Xandria,” I say, “but it was my fault. I’m afraid the chair didn’t survive, and the rug isn’t looking much better.”
Eryx pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to insist on spending more money to replace them, aren’t you?”
“Quit fretting like a pauper. Should you like to have a bare dining room? What will guests think when they see an odd number of chairs at the table?”
“That the duchess cannot count?”
“Precisely!”
Eryx smirks as he seats himself. He takes a whiff of the food in front of him. “Smells delicious. Do give my regards to Cook,” he says to the nearest of the kitchen staff.
As I reach for my napkin, I utter the words I prepared for tonight: “You need a haircut.” I glance at the medium-brown mess of tangles atop the fake duke’s head with disdain. (I don’t care if Tomaras says Eryx is legitimate in his claims, he will always be the fake duke to me as the title should be mine.) Talking about future events with a man I don’t plan on seeing in the future only further cements my innocence.
“You need a muzzle,” he replies.
I sigh with feigned impatience. “The wedding is this weekend. You must look presentable. We’ve come a long way with your manners, but your appearance is just as important. Please go get a haircut and not from Argus or Dyson. I doubt either man has ever held a pair of scissors. Go see a barber. Ask him for something gentlemanly. You cannot be seen with that mop upon your head.”
Eryx gives me a look so dark I swear it leeches warmth out of the room.
“Fine,” he bites out.
He sits with his eyes closed, breathing heavily, as though he needs to control his temper before he can even pick up an eating utensil. His temper seems to be getting shorter and shorter of late, though I’ve no idea as to what could be the cause.
I’m already a few spoonfuls into my meal, watching Eryx as I always do, in case I need to correct his manners. When he faces his food and grabs a spoon, my leg trembles from under the table. My whole body raises in temperature as he brings his first taste to his mouth.
There’s a moment where I doubt. One small moment in which I think to stop him, to call out a warning that he shouldn’t eat the food. A second where I can reverse what I’ve done and stop a man from dying.
And that moment passes right by without me saying a word. Eryx swallows his spoonful, wincing slightly. “Little stronger than I’m used to,” he says, “but I’m sure I’ll acquire a liking.” He drinks some wine before taking another spoonful.
Another.
Another.
My leg shakes all the more fiercely. How long does it take for the poison to set in? I cling to my prepared reaction, readying for my surprise and shock.
Eryx puts a hand to his stomach, and his breathing picks up.
Finally , I think.
A jolt goes through his body, and he reaches for his wineglass again, taking a large swallow. Then he presses a hand to his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I ask him. “Use your napkin, not your hand to wipe your mouth.”
“I’m not—” He convulses again, and something pours from his mouth. At first, I think he might be vomiting, if one were to vomit… black.
And then, I notice that whatever is coming out of his mouth isn’t falling to the ground. Gravity is not claiming it as it would a liquid. Because it isn’t a liquid at all.
Smoke.
No, not smoke.
Shadow.
I’ve been close enough to the Shadow King to recognize what that is.
Black shadows trail from Eryx’s lips, floating upward, floating downward, floating outward. Eryx slaps both hands to his mouth as he sees the blackness oozing from him, but that doesn’t stop it. It only flows from his nostrils instead.
What the devils did I do to him?
“Eryx?” Dyson asks.
The servants all take a step toward him.
“What is happening?” I ask, true alarm creeping into my voice.
He flees the dining room, Dyson and Argus on his heels. When I look back to the table, where the shadows had started to flow over the dishes, I see that they have vanished, as though they were never there at all.
“Did you see that?” I ask the servants.
“His Grace seemed quite unwell,” Xandria responds.
“Was that smoke coming out of his mouth?” another servant asks. I don’t catch which one.
“Looked like it,” Xandria says. “Though I’ve never seen His Grace with a pipe before.”
All the waitstaff look equally confused by whatever the display was. Our minds are quick to find rational reasons when the impossible is presented before us, but I know better by now.
“I’m going to check on him,” I announce, shoving out of my chair. “Please clean up dinner. I doubt either of us will be returning.”
I race after the three men once I’m out of the dining room, fearing that they’ve disappeared back to wherever Eryx is hunkering for the night. But I can hear them, specifically him , moving about up the stairs.
Groans guide me as I place one hand on the railing and use the other to raise my skirts as I ascend. Turns out the fake duke only made it as far as a guest room before sheltering himself within.
I place my hand on the door and push. “Eryx?” I call out. “Are you all right?”
Someone slams the opening door closed, flinging me back. I nearly lose my footing from the force of it.
“Best stay away, Your Grace,” comes Argus’s voice. “The duke’s come down with something. You wouldn’t want to catch it.”
“That’s utter nonsense,” I say, outraged to have been kept out of a room in my own house. “You let me in this instant, Argus.”
“I cannot, Duchess. For your safety, you must stay on the other side of the door.”
A pained gasp comes through the crack under the door, and a small twinge of guilt courses through me. I hadn’t thought his death would be painful. I just imagined him falling over dead after the first bite passed his lips.
“He sounds like he’s dying,” I murmur. “I’ll call for a doctor at once.”
“No!” comes a shout. This time from Eryx. “No doctors.”
“Are you honestly too proud to accept medical assistance? You said you were sick. Let me ring for someone to help.”
“Duchess, I forbid it!” he shouts before a nasty cough takes over.
“There, there,” Dyson says, and I think I hear him slap the other man on the back.
“You cannot forbid me anything.”
“Damnable woman!” More coughing. “I will cut off your stipend again if you ring for a doctor.”
Oh, he wouldn’t dare! “You don’t want me to ring for a doctor? Fine, let me in.”
“No,” Argus calls back.
“Fine. I’m sending Kyros now.”
The door flies open. Eryx barely stands, with Argus keeping him up on one side and Dyson on the other. He’s got his face pointed toward the floor, and I see little spirals of shadow drifting upward, disappearing when they crest over his head.
“What are you?” I ask, even though the question should be ridiculous.
Eryx coughs, and more shadows spill from his mouth. “I’m just having a bad reaction to whatever was in that curry.”
“A reaction that makes you breathe out shadows?”
“Don’t be preposterous. I have a pipe in here. It’s supposed to counteract the reaction.”
“No, you had shadows coming out of you downstairs, too.”
“Nonsense.”
“Why are you lying to me? Why don’t you want a doctor to come? What the hell is happening?”
He growls, but the sound turns into another cough. “This has happened before. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be all right. I just need to let my body fight this off. Perhaps don’t put that curry on the menu again.”
“I’ll ask you again, and this time, do not lie to me. Your eyes change colors. You have shadows spooling out of your mouth. What are you? The late Shadow King’s bastard?”
Mr. Tomaras said that wasn’t possible, but was he mistaken? There’s no ignoring those shadows.
Eryx goes rigid. “I’m not— How did you— No.” He grunts as another bout of pain takes him over.
He’s going to continue to refuse to give me answers? Fine.
I say, “I sure hope you’re not still sick by the time of the wedding. I’d hate for the Shadow King to see your abilities. He probably wouldn’t accept you as the duke, then.”
Eryx turns his eyes on me, and they are glowing a golden amber. He snarls at me, like an animal, and I see elongated canines.
Just like in my dream.
Argus and Dyson haul him back into the room before anything else can happen. The door slams in my face.
My heart pounds a rapid rhythm as I begin to walk away. What would Eryx have done if Argus and Dyson hadn’t held him back?
The man doesn’t have trauma from the war. He’s not a man at all. He’s something else entirely, and he’s got two hired hands to help him keep from revealing it. What would he do without them? Would those horns sprout from his head? Would he rip out my throat with those canines?
And what would the Shadow King do if he found out someone with such powers existed? Would he see the man as a threat?
Most likely.
I need answers.
Despite the fear and the uncertainty, I let myself into the room next door to the one Eryx is in. I press my ear against the adjoining wall and attempt to slow my breathing, though I don’t think he’s likely to hear it while in his state.
“What do we do?” Dyson asks.
“Nothing,” Argus says. “Just got to let the poison fight its way out of his system.”
“Must have been that bastard, Sarkis.”
Sarkis. That must be the name of the blackmailer.
Eryx groans again.
“This is ridiculous,” Dyson says. “He’s healed from bullet wounds faster than this is taking.”
“He’s not fighting off a concentrated attack. The poison is moving through his bloodstream.”
Another five minutes passes, and then Eryx’s breathing smooths. I hold my breath.
“You all right?” Dyson asks.
“I am now.” Eryx’s voice sounds perfectly normal.
“We’ll catch Sarkis,” Argus says. “That bastard will pay for what he’s done.”
“We have a bigger problem now. She knows.”
“She doesn’t know ,” Dyson argues. “She just knows something is off.”
“We should kill her,” Argus says, and I have to fight not to let a gasp escape me.
“No!” Dyson responds. “I like her. Besides, she’s too pretty to die.”
There’s a pause, where they likely turn to Eryx for his command.
“Don’t kill her. I’ll watch her closely at the wedding. She won’t say anything to anyone. Dyson is right. She doesn’t even know what she knows.”
“Fine,” Argus says.
Though I’m straining for air, I force myself to wait.
“She thinks you’re the Shadow King’s bastard. Maybe you should encourage that narrative,” Dyson says.
“That’s barely better than the truth,” Argus argues.
“It’s far better than the truth,” Eryx says.
Then the door to their room opens, and when I can no longer hear their footsteps, I draw in a deep breath.
I didn’t kill him. He’s perfectly fine.
He doesn’t suspect me, but I’m not necessarily safe.
Shit.
I can’t seem to catch on to a single thought. Not with Argus’s suggestion still begging for attention.
He wanted to kill me!
When I make it to my bedroom, I lock the door, then stare at it.
I debate calling for Kyros. I would feel much better with another body in the room, but I know I wouldn’t be inviting him into my bed for the right reasons.
Besides, two men barely restrained Eryx, and likely only because he doesn’t want to hurt them. I have a feeling Kyros wouldn’t stand a chance against Eryx if he really wanted in here.
He ordered his men not to kill me.
That has to be good enough for now.
While I lie in bed waiting for sleep, Eryx’s sounds of pain follow me into my dreams.