Belladonna by Anne Bishop
She lowered her eyes, then gave him a flirtatious look through her lashes. “I’ve just recently come to town and don’t, as yet, have any particular friends.” But if his purse matched the quality of his suit, he might become a very special friend.
“Then, please. Allow me to escort you back to your lodgings. A lady should not be walking alone after dark.”
It seemed a bit odd that, having mentioned a lack of introductions, he hadn’t offered his name or asked for hers. But she pushed that thought aside. He was the first man who had shown interest in her, and he looked like he could afford to be generous.
“Maybe we could go somewhere first since it’s such a pleasant evening. I would like to get to know you better,” Doreen said, smiling. If she could talk him into buying dinner, she’d save a little off her room and board.
“Yes,” he said, returning the smile. “I think we could do that.”
Another footfall. A scrape of boots on cobblestone. Something sly about the sound.
The round little merchant tightened his hand on his walking stick. He didn’t have a packet for the home safe tonight. Didn’t even have enough coin to stop in a tavern and have a pint. Not that he would since that would make him late for dinner, and his wife had told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t waiting dinner for him again. If he was late, he could eat what was left and eat it cold.
So he was going home at the proper time. Plenty of people on the street. But…
That sly sound. A heavy footfall trying to stay quiet.
Plenty of people about. Plenty of carriages on the streets, taking people home or taking them to some evening social engagement.
Nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear. Nothing…
The footsteps stopped. Vanished. Then something laughed.
He stood frozen as the sound crawled over him. As the light from the streetlamps became oddly veiled. As the sounds of carriages and ordinary life faded.
Then he heard another sound, more an exhalation than a word.
“Pleeeease.”
Turning slowly, his leg muscles protesting the effort, he realized he had stopped at the mouth of an alley. There was something in the alley, just beyond the light thrown by the streetlamp.
Was that a woman’s arm? Perhaps one of those mannequins that some of the clothing stores had imported from another country. The wife and some of her lady friends were talking about setting up a committee to protest the use of such things in store windows, claiming the sight of limbs caused unseemly thoughts in young men.
He didn’t think all the young men in Kendall had two thoughts between them when it came to artificial limbs, female or otherwise, but saying that to his wife might make it sound as if he’d had a thought or two about the matter. Which he didn’t. Except to envy the merchants who could afford such an extravagance.
Yes, it was probably a mannequin’s arm, left here as a schoolboy prank.
Nothing artificial about the sound, something whispered. Someone could need help.
He shuffled his feet, uncertain about what he should do. Then he looked down as the toe of one shoe tapped an object and made it rattle.
A box of matches. And a candle stub lying next to the corner of the building. Wouldn’t provide much light, but it would be enough to see if there was reason to shout for the constables.
He crouched down, puffing a bit as his belly got squeezed but unwilling to get his trousers dirty by kneeling on the cobblestones. He used up three matches—and there were only five in the box to start with—before he got the candle lit. With his walking stick tucked under one arm and a hand shielding the flame, he walked into the alley.
A filthy trick! A filthy, dirty, awful trick to play on people, leaving something like that for an innocent man to find. Why, he almost soiled himself from the fright of seeing such a…
“Pleeeease.”
He stood there, staring stupidly, while his mind accepted the horrible truth: Not a trick. Not a mannequin. Not red wine or red paint staining the alleyway. The severed leg, the bone stabbing out from the flesh looking too jagged to be the work of an ax or saw. And the torso. Cut up. Torn up. Wounds too desperate for any surgeon to heal. It was a wonder the woman was still alive.
“There there, my dear,” he said, going down on one knee in the blood and the dirt, tears running down his face unnoticed. “Everything will…” Be what? Not all right. Never all right. This was even worse than those killings that had occurred around the docks not long ago. But this wasn’t a prostitute, just a young woman.
“Dooooreeen.” Her voice sounded thick, clotted. “Fooooggy Doooowns.”
“Doreen from Foggy Downs,” he repeated. “Yes, I’ll tell your people. I’ll send a letter out, express. You won’t be left to strangers, my dear. I’ll see that you get home. I promise.”
No more words. No more breath.
As he stumbled out of the alleyway, calling for help, he heard the jagged sound of soft, inhuman laughter.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Stop here,” Michael said to Torry. Then he turned in the seat to look at Glorianna. “What do you think?”
There was a look on her face. Pleasure? Pride? He couldn’t tell. “It was a dark landscape,” she said softly. “Fog obscures.”
“I remember,” he said just as softly, ignoring the amused yet confused look Torry was giving both of them.
“Left to itself, this place would have attracted dark hearts or dark natures—maybe even a demon race.”
“What?” Torry said.
“Hush,” Michael said, laying a hand on the younger man’s arm.
“They made a choice, those people who first settled in this place,” Glorianna continued. “Maybe there was a Guide with them originally. The people might have stories about their ancestors that could provide a clue. Those original settlers chose to quiet the Dark and feed the Light. They brought love and laughter and anger and sorrow and all the messy tangles that make up a human life. And they kept this a daylight landscape that leans toward, but never surrenders to, the Dark. Every day, simply by living here as they do, they make the choice to hold on to the Light.”
He looked at the village of Foggy Downs spread out below them. Good people with heart. That’s why he’d wanted her to see this place. He’d thought, hoped, she could help them. Do something with this landscape he couldn’t do. But he understood now her pleasure and pride as she looked down at the village and considered the people who lived there. As she looked at him.
“So the music does make a difference here,” he said, not sure if he was making a statement or asking a question.
“It makes a difference in all your landscapes, Magician,” Glorianna replied. “Our connection to Ephemera is the reason our ancestors were shaped to walk in the world.” She looked at the land spreading out before them. Then she smiled and sat back. “Let’s go down and meet your people.”
“She called you a Magician,” Torry said out of the side of his mouth after giving the horse the signal to move forward. “You feel easy about that?”
“Yes, she did,” Michael said, smiling. “And yes, I do.” Because something about the way she said the word sang for him right down to the marrow in his bones, he focused all the luck-bringing skill he had into a single wish: Let her have a day of light and laughter, a day of simple pleasures. Let her have a day to be a woman instead of a warrior. Let her have a day when Glorianna can dance.
Michael brushed his hair, then straightened the vest. Good shirt, embroidered vest, good trousers. Yes, he did clean up well and would turn a few female heads.
But was it enough to turn Glorianna’s head? They had the bed and the candlelight he wanted for their first lovemaking.
He sighed. And they had a village full of chaperones. Added to that, Shaney’s wife had put Glorianna in the room that had the squeaky floor, so a man couldn’t even approach the door of the damn room without everyone in the main room below knowing about it. Hadn’t he learned that for himself when he
How did she expect him to get on with it, with her standing there tapping one foot and looking stern?
Sebastian probably could have gotten on with it.
“Put the ripe bastard right out of your head,” Michael muttered to himself. “He didn’t fare so well against his own auntie, now did he?”
Cheered by that thought, he left his room, considered tapping on Glorianna’s door, then went down to the main room to spare Maeve another run up the stairs since she seemed to be the one keeping guard.
A day of simple pleasures, of light and laughter. A day when Glorianna could dance.
So far, she’d had the light and the laughter. Now he’d give Glorianna Belladonna the music for the dance.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” Glorianna said as she helped set the tables.
The Missus, as everyone seemed to call Shaney’s wife, just tsked. “It’s no trouble. Besides, we probably won’t see either of you again until after the wedding.”
Glorianna bobbled a dish and decided she’d helped enough. Besides, her knees had gone weak. “Wedding?”
Maeve glanced at the Missus, and they both gave a sharp head bob.
“Liked his kisses well enough, didn’t you?” Maeve said. “He’s never been careless when it comes to the girls, but you have to figure a man like that has learned enough to know what to do when he’s between the sheets.”
They were both looking at her expectantly. “Ah…”
“Where did you say you were from?” Maeve asked. “Aurora, wasn’t it? A fair piece from here would you say?”
“Um…” Most likely it was a fair piece from here. Or as close as crossing a bridge. She just wasn’t sure she should be the one to try to explain that. Especially now that she realized all the little comments about Michael that Maeve and the Missus had been tossing at her since she came downstairs weren’t just little comments. More like what she’d expect doting aunts—or horse traders—to say when they were trying to sell a favorite nephew to a potential wife.
Which was exactly what they were trying to do.
Then she caught a movement on the stairs that led up to the rooms. Her legs folded, and it was sheer luck that she ended up halfway on a chair. “Oh, Guardians and Guides.”
No, she hadn’t seen him to advantage. Even during the evening they’d all spent in the Den, she hadn’t seen him for who he truly was.
He’d shed the scruffy, friendly stranger along with the worn shirt and trousers he wore for traveling. He’d shed Michael in the same way she sometimes shed Glorianna, the part of her that had family and friends.
The man who slowly walked toward her wasn’t Michael. This was the ill-wisher, the luck-bringer who could command the currents of power that flowed through Ephemera. The Magician.
The voices around them faded. Or maybe she just stopped paying attention to anything but him.
I did this, she realized as she looked into his blue-gray eyes. I uncovered a veiled mirror and gave him a clear look at what he was, at who he could be. Guide of the Heart. I showed him the path. Now it’s up to him to move on to the next stage of his journey.
She stood to meet him. “Magician.”
People around them sucked in a breath, but he nodded. “That is what I am. Ill-wisher. Luck-bringer.”
“The one who keeps the currents of power balanced in your pieces of the world. The spirit who opens the Door of Locks. That’s who we are, Michael. That’s who we came from—and that’s why we are still here, walking in the world.”
A tingle in the air between them, as if something was trying to get in.
“It’s time,” Glorianna said softly.
“It’s time,” she said, and her music was so beautiful and so bittersweet that it broke his heart.
It was time but…Not yet. A few more hours. Just a few more hours.
He shook his head. “First there’s the music—and the dancing. You’ll dance with me, Glorianna Belladonna.” He raised a hand, brushed a finger down her cheek. “You’ll dance with me.”
Shaney—or maybe it was the Missus who had made the decision—closed the tavern, shooing the last man out as the families who had been invited to the covered-dish dinner began coming in. The others would be back in an hour or two, when Shaney opened the doors again. Then the room would be packed. Not for the music or the dancing. Not tonight, although they would get both. No, tonight they wanted a better look at the woman who had walked into Shaney’s with him, the woman who came from a distant land. The woman who had called him “Magician” in front of them and had given the word a different meaning. Magician. The one who helped maintain the balance between Light and Dark for the sake of the world. The one who, by helping one heart open a door, might help so many.
The one who, by helping that particular heart, would burn the budding promise of his own life to ash.
So he held on to everything that was her. The sound of her voice, both amused and puzzled, as she gave Maeve straightforward answers about home and family that made no sense unless a person had seen Glorianna’s part of the world. The scent of her beneath the milled soap the Missus only put out for special guests—a ripe scent that could get a man drunk before he’d gotten a good taste of her. The way her green eyes filled with a child’s glee when she’d gotten her first look at an Elandar drum—and the way she’d looked when she’d been taught a simple rhythm and had played a song with him, just him, while the other musicians sat quietly and smiled or winked at him.
He held on to the way it felt to dance with her, both of them laughing as she learned the steps, both breathless with desire as they circled, their eyes seeing nothing but each other. Then he kissed her, long and slow and sweet, lifted up by the laughter and applause of the people around them…
…until the tavern door crashed open.
“Lady’s mercy!” the man said, swaying in the doorway. “Almost had to give it up. I’d swear the road kept disappearing on me, or I would have been here hours ago.”
A chill ran down Michael’s spine as he watched the exhausted man stagger toward the bar. He recognized the badge on the man’s coat. Express rider.
He’d asked for a day—and Ephemera, the wild child who liked his music, had done its best to give him that day. So a road had turned elusive in order to delay a message.
“Have a seat, man,” Shaney said, hurrying behind the bar. “You’re done in.”
The man shook his head. “Horse could use some care. Poor beast is almost run off his legs.”
“I’ll see to the horse,” one of the men called.
“There now,” the Missus said. “Sit on that stool there and we’ll get you fixed up with a bit of food and drink.”
Michael slipped an arm around Glorianna’s waist and waited.
Then Shaney finally recognized the badge as he set a glass of ale in front of the rider. “Who would you be looking for?”
“Don’t rightly know. Anyone here know a woman named Doreen?”
A shudder went through him for no reason he could explain. He wasn’t going to hide what he was anymore, so Doreen couldn’t do him any harm no matter whom she chose to tell.
“She used to work here,” Shaney said warily.
The man drew the letter out of his pouch and handed it to Shaney. “Then this is for you.”
Shaney stepped aside as the Missus put a bowl of stew and a plate of cheese and buttered bread in front of the rider.
No one spoke as Shaney broke the seal and read the message.
A broken song of pain and grief—and a little guilt.
“She’s dead,” Shaney said. He looked at Maeve, not his wife, when he said it. “M
“Lady of Light, have mercy,” Maeve murmured, sitting down heavily. “We’d had enough of her and wanted her gone, but no one wanted this.”
The Missus burst into tears. Shaney wrapped his arms around her and swayed.
“Where?” Glorianna asked, looking at the rider.
“Kendall,” he replied. “Started out from Kendall late last night with several express letters. Would’ve been here sooner, but I couldn’t find the damned road.”
Michael bent his head and whispered in Glorianna’s ear, “Wait for me by the stairs.”
It’s time.
Yes, he thought as he moved through the crowd to have a word with Shaney. It was time.
Had they been lovers? Glorianna wondered as she waited by the stairs and watched Michael talk to Shaney and Maeve. No, not lovers. Not even friends. But there had been something between them.
The party was breaking up. Families were gathering up their children and going home. No more music, no more laughter. Not tonight.
It’s time.
He came toward her, his face tight with grim sorrow—and resignation. She’d seen that look on her mother’s face. Had seen it in a mirror often enough over the years.
Landscaper, Guide, Guardian, Magician, Shaman, Heart-walker, Heart Seer, Spirit. What difference did the name make? The feeling was the same. Sometimes you opened a door, revealed a path, provided that moment of opportunity and choice—and that choice, despite all its promise, turned bitter, turned tragic. Turned to sorrow.
“Michael?”
He shook his head, cupped his hand under her elbow, and guided her up the stairs. When they reached the door of his room, he stopped. “We need to talk.”
“About Doreen.”
“Not so much.”
He opened the door, then stepped aside, letting her enter first. When he came in, he locked the door. The sound scraped her nerves.
“I think that monster is back in Kendall,” Michael said. “The letter…It was a hard death, Glorianna. Doreen wasn’t a kind person, but no one deserves that kind of death.”