Chapter 10 The Hellion #4
Celise dismounted, swinging lightly down from Tempest’s saddle.
She landed on the soft earth with only the slightest sound, her feet cushioned by layers of moss and loam.
Feeling a bit useless, she picked up a stick and decided to check the Hellion’s hooves.
She had noticed the horse walking with an uneven gait.
She placed a hand on the beast’s withers and ran it down over the leg—the horse picked up its front foot automatically.
She found a large pebble lodged in its iron shoe and dug it out with the stick.
It felt satisfying to do something so simple and familiar.
Her hands worked automatically. She didn’t consider whether or not she was acting ladylike.
She had put away her father’s horses thousands of times before.
It was soothing, and slowly, her anxiety faded.
As she worked, she continued to wonder—why did the soldier talk so much about the ghost swords, as though he personally owned them?
“What are you doing?”
The soldier’s sudden question startled her. Finished sorting through his weapons, it seemed he had finally noticed her tending his horse.
“I was just checking your horse’s shoes. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Tempest doesn’t let anyone touch him.”
For some reason, Celise felt like she was in trouble. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’ve done loads wrong, my girl, just by being here tonight.”
Celise frowned. What did that mean? She tossed her stick onto the ground and stepped away from the horse. The man walked past her and began tying the bundle of stolen ghost swords to his saddle with a length of rope.
“The horse’s gait is uneven due to its wounded flank,” she explained. “I don’t want his feet bothering him, too. He probably shouldn’t be carrying all of that excess weight.”
“It’s a mere scratch. The bullet barely nicked him. Tempest has survived a lot worse.”
Celise began to feel frustrated. She glared at the soldier in the darkness. “If you keep treating him this way, he’ll go lame. You should care more about the well-being of your animals, sir.”
“My horse is well cared for,” the man snarled.
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“You challenge my word?”
“Yes!” Celise’s outburst surprised even herself. “You are a soldier—hardly better than that brute you sent over a cliff! I don’t believe you care about any animal’s well-being. What would a murderer like you know about tending a Hellion?”
A deprecating laugh ripped from his throat. “A lot more than a spoiled heiress! A lady such as yourself wouldn’t know about horses bred for blood and battle. That man was going to put a bullet between your eyes, little moonflower. I saved your life.”
Celise struggled for a moment, her fists clenched at her sides. “You took a life.”
“To protect your own. Now tell me, was my judgment in error? Would you rather I let the man shoot you?”
Celise was silent. She stared resolutely at the soldier’s feet, a humiliated blush in her cheeks. “No,” she admitted.
“Who are you?” the soldier barked. “What business do you have on castle grounds, dressed in your undergarments and bare feet? How did you come to be in the gardens with those thieves?”
“Undergarments?” She glanced down at herself, realizing how she must look. “I-I was searching for my birthflower. The Starlight Dahlia only blooms on a clear night, so I thought it would be a good time to look for it.”
“How romantic,” his voice sneered through the shadows.
“But I am not convinced. A lady wouldn’t leave her bed so late at night to stroll about the Zodiac Gardens.
Or perhaps I am mistaken—perhaps you are not a lady but a chamberflower running about her midnight business. Were you heading to a lover’s tryst?”
“I am not a whore!” Celise glared.
“Alright, then you’re a maid. I’m sure your master would like to know why his servant is sneaking about the grounds. Which house do you belong to?”
Celise didn’t answer.
The soldier cajoled her in a mocking tone, “Come now, my lightless girl. A highborn woman wouldn’t clean a horse’s hooves. Tell me the truth. You’re a chamberflower . . . or perhaps you are a spy?”
Celise felt a shiver of foreboding. She flinched at the word. “A . . . a spy? Why would you say that?”
A dark, brief silence fell between them, charged with a tension Celise couldn’t name. Yet, it was familiar. She remembered that sense of intensity from the Blackwood treasury.
A voice suddenly interrupted them—"Hail, fellows! Who goes there?”
Celise looked up. She saw a bobbing lantern through a fringe of pine trees at the top of the quarry. A group of soldiers was approaching.
Deftly, as an afterthought, the soldier whisked off his frock coat and handed it to her. “Put this on,” he said. “Make yourself halfway decent.”
Celise glared at him in the darkness. Still, she took the coat. She wrapped it around her small form. It almost fell to her ankles, and the sleeves were comically long. The man’s scent enveloped her—it was sharply familiar, the same pepper-vanilla cologne that had clung to her dress all afternoon.
A terrible, uneasy feeling passed through her.
She chanced a look at his face. Was he . . . ?
The soldier’s cap was pulled low, and he was turned away from her to greet the patrol coming down the hill. He wasn’t wearing a mask, so she couldn’t be sure of his identity. He had a firm jaw. A straight nose. But what about his scars? She squinted through the shadows, morbidly curious.
The patrol halted about ten feet away, a group of ten men and women in standard gray military uniforms. They wore unadorned forage caps without the silver star pinned to the front. They threw up formal salutes, and the soldier saluted back.
Celise was beginning to notice a vast difference between her soldier’s long military coat and the stiff, tailored uniforms of the foot soldiers.
In a clipped tone, he said, “I caught a group of thieves leaving the castle with a bag of ghost swords from the Blackwood treasury. They’re just behind me. I’ve secured them with daemon thread.”
“And the stolen items, sir?” one of the soldiers asked.
“I have the stolen pieces here—I’ll return them to my collection. Search the woods for any more of the bandits; I saw a large group of men, at least a dozen. They’re armed, so be ready. Leave one of your lanterns. It will be useful on the ride back.”
“Yes, sir!” The group of soldiers chorused and saluted again, then ran off into the woods. They left one of the oil lanterns on the ground. The gentle golden light cast soft shadows around the quarry.
My collection? Celise paled. Her heart began to pound at a furious pace, and she felt the urge to swoon again. Now she recognized that dark, raspy voice. Only one man at Gravenmere Castle would own a Hellion—not a mere soldier, but the commander of the Daemonguard.
How could she be so thick-skulled?
While the Mad Dog was distracted, Celise tried to slip away through the woods.
He noticed. He whirled around. Before she could pick a direction to run, he rounded the horse and snagged her arm.
Celise started to look up at his face, but she was too frightened.
She had heard too many rumors about his scars.
She kept her eyes half-shut and her chin pointed at the ground, avoiding his intense stare.
“The guilty always flee once they’re caught,” he growled. “What are you hiding? Tell me the truth. Who are you, and why were you in the Blackwood treasury this afternoon? How did you come across those thieves in the garden? Are you a spy for Sera’naya?”
Celise stifled a gasp. He had recognized her! When? Immediately? Or later, at the edge of the cliff? Her mind reeled.
“I was exploring the castle, that’s all!” Celise said as her voice threatened to vanish altogether. “It was a coincidence!”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because . . . because I helped you! Without me, those bandits would’ve made off with those swords. You’re lucky I was in the gardens! And I . . . I rescued your horse.”
“I suppose you want a reward then? A few silver dhrams for your trouble? Or perhaps I should send you home with a detailed report of our new skydust factories?”
“I’m not a spy!”
“Then why were you in the treasury? Why were you on the grounds past midnight? Give me a more compelling reason.”
Celise opened her mouth but caught herself once again.
A flurry of words died in her throat. Her mind flashed to Marcella, the Moongazer Tower, the locked bedroom, and the thinly veiled threat of selling her off.
If she revealed her identity to the Mad Dog, would he drag her back to her family?
It would be the final nail in her coffin.
Who was she more afraid of, Marcella or the duke?
As she hesitated, the Mad Dog groaned.
“Never mind. Don’t bother,” he said. “I won’t believe you, whatever lie you’re concocting.”
“I can assure you, I am not a spy!” she whispered, staring resolutely at the ground.
“I’ll believe that when you tell me who you are.”
Celise remained stubbornly silent.
“Don’t make me lock you up,” he snarled. “The sooner you tell me which family you belong to, the sooner I can verify your identity, and we can put this sordid business behind us.”
She said nothing.
“Don’t stand there cowering, girl. You weren’t afraid of me a minute ago. If you have nothing to hide, then raise your chin and look me in the eye.”
Celise finally raised her eyes. Standing face-to-face in the lantern light, both parties were suddenly illuminated in full clarity.
She finally got a look at the infamous duke.
Beneath his cap, his sleek black hair was darker than midnight, trimmed to his jaw and slicked back from his face with oils.
His sideburns were dusted with the premature gray of a stressful life.
His posture was straight, his chest wide.
He wore a conservative, dark blue vest under his military greatcoat.
A line of brass buttons ran down his left breast.