To Sleep With Evil Read online

  "Jacqueline," Marguerite protested, "I have no idea what you're talking about. And I truly think—"

  "We'll talk more of this in the future," Jacqueline interrupted. She tipped her head toward the door. "When things become clearer, you may find we under­stand one another better."

  Lord Donskoy had returned to the hall. A smile flickered across his face; the stormy mood appeared to have passed. Before returning to the head table, he stopped to talk with some of his associates.

  Marguerite looked at the woman beside her, but Jacqueline did not return the glance. She was smifing sweetfy in Donskoy's direction. Without turning her gaze, she said, "Are you happy here, Marguerite?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "And do you sleep well? No bumps in the night to awaken you?"

  "I have slept well for the past two nights."

  "You have heard no strange creaktngs, Marguerite?" Jacqueline spoke softly, and she continued to smile in Donskoy's direction. "No unearthly shadows have come to hover about your bed?"

  "Mothing has disturbed my sleep," Marguerite said. She did not add that the only unearthly shadow she had seen had been lurking outside the keep, on the day she arrived. "Why do you ask?"

  "No reason," Jacqueline said, still not looking at Marguerite. "E find Donskoy's castle somewhat . . . bothersome at night."

  Donskoy gave a hearty laugh, then turned away from his associates. As he approached the head table, Jacqueline's smile became coy, and she leaned closer to Marguerite. "I'm glad to hear the castle treats you better than it does me," she whispered. "A good night's rest is what you need to stay fresh."

  Sensing that it would not to do to probe further about Miss Montarri's troublesome nights, Marguerite sighed with exasperation. Fresh. Why must everyone speak as if she were a item growing stale in the pantry? Why must everyone be so eccentric?

  Donskoy took his place behind the high table. "What we need now," he announced loudly, "is the entertainment!" He motioned to Ljubo, who was standing at attention near the men's tables. "Alert Ekhart," he commanded. "And fetch the hounds."

  This development took Marguerite by surprise. She tried to imagine what would follow, daring to hope that the strange, somber banquet might give way to a more traditional celebration. In the castles of romantic tales, a feast never ended without the awe-inspiring turns of a juggler and acrobats, and the cheerful songs of a minstrel. Perhaps Donskoy was keeping them in the wings. Marguerite shook her head; it seemed unlikeiy. But what then? In Darkon's fortress Avernus, she had heard, "noble" guests often debauched themselves in the company of the castle guard, creating an obscene frenzy of pain and plea­sure for the amusement of the great lord Azalin.

  The door at the rear of the hall opened, and Ljubo reappeared, preceded by a hobbled beast that dragged itself forward on the ground. A leather hood concealed its head, but the rest of the body was exposed. It possessed the features of several animals, mostly bear and boar. A naked gray tail curled over its dark, bristly back. The slender rear legs, small for its immense bulk, ended in tiny hooves that clacked sharply against the smooth stone floor. The forelegs, covered by black shaggy fur, terminated in a pair of great bear paws. Its left front leg had been twisted around and bound against its flank with a barbed tether. Though Marguerite could not see the creature's face, she could hear it breathing heavily inside its hood. The nervous beast was swinging its head back and forth, from side to side.

  The associates leaned forward at their tables, their eyes flickering with anticipation.

  Marguerite was filled with pity and fear. "What is this abomination?" she whispered to her husband.

  "Have you never seen such an animal?" Donskoy asked lightly.

  "No."

  "You have led such a sheltered life, my angel. This creature was a gift from a Lord Markov, a boon for a favor I once paid him. In fact, it is one of three such creatures he awarded me."

  Marguerite wondered what had become of the other two, but she did not voice the question; she had no desire to hear the answer. Doubtless, she would see for herself soon enough.

  Ekhart entered the room with a trio of black hounds, securely leashed. He reached forward and cut their tethers.

  The hounds scrambled toward the prey. When they came within striking range, they moved slowly into position, circling. The hooded beast swung blindly. Still, it landed the first blow, drawing five red iines across a dog's shoulder. The hound did not flinch, pressing forward to receive another wound. The maneuver gave its companions opportunity; they moved in behind the beast and fixed their jaws on its hind legs. The beast turned wildly, but it was too late; its attackers had already ripped its tendons to bloody shreds.

  The creature toppled, then struggled to right itself, its useless legs sliding back and forth and painting the floor with red streaks. The hounds circled, darting in to snap at the pitiful beast until the thing, too exhausted to flail at its attackers any longer, lay still and panting, its neck fully exposed.

  Drooling, the dogs began to gather near the head of their prey. The creature's great barrel of a chest heaved slowly and painfully, and Marguerite imagined she could hear its drumming heart.

  Donskoy raised a hand. Ekhart whistled, freezing the hounds. Whimpering and whining, they returned to him.

  "Azroth shall have the honor," announced Donskoy.

  The man nearest to the high table left his seat and walked over to the beast. With his short sword, he slashed at the back of the creature's head. It was not a killing blow. As the beast writhed, Azroth snatched at the hood, now bloodied but free, and removed it.

  Marguerite gasped. The creature had the head of a boar, but the eyes were unnatural—like a man's eyes, she thought. Its gaze, filled with fear and supplication, fell on her, silently pleading for mercy from the one soul who might grant it.

  Marguerite winced and turned away.

  She heard Azroth's sword strike again. The creature gave a sharp cry.

  Marguerite did not look up, but she felt a string of moist droplets strike her face, then she saw the tiny red stains upon her gown, a spray of blood. Azroth had struck an artery.

  "Sweet Marguerite." Donskoy gentty wiped the blood from her face with a cloth. "So innocent and gentle. Does this sport pain you? You said yourself the creature was an abomination."

  Marguerite did not offer an answer, nor, she knew, did her husband really expect one. When she looked up, Ljubo was dragging the bloody carcass from the hall.

  Donskoy rose. "The feast has ended," he announced. "All hail my bride."

  "Hail," droned the men, voices bare of enthusiasm.

  "All hail the renewal."

  They raised their palms to the ceiling and snapped their fingers.

  "Come, my dear," said Donskoy. "Let us leave them. I have eaten well, but I am still ravenous." He turned to Jacqueline. "Entertain yourself as you wish. Ljubo and Ekhart will assist you in the morning."

  "You are too kind," said Jacqueline. "Marguerite, it has been a pleasure to meet you."

  Marguerite merely smiled.

  The man who had slain the beast spoke up. "And is this all for the entertainment, then, my lord?" His voice sank low with subtle menace. "You promised us more."

  Donskoy chuckled. "Yes, of course. And I have kept that promise." He nodded to Ekhart. "Show them to the dungeons." With a gracious wave, he added, "Gentle rogues, faithful friends, your prize awaits."

  They filed out slowly, the men's faces twitching in childish anticipation.

  Marguerite mustered the courage to ask the ques­tion that had formed in her head. "What prize awaits them, my dear husband?"

  Donskoy looked at her beneath lowered lids. "That is not your concern, my dearest. You must concen­trate on the prize that awaits you."

  SEVEN

  Donskoy led Marguerite to the foyer. Wicked laugh­ter drifted up from the depths of the castle, distant and muffled. His men were enjoying their prize.

  The couple crossed into the sitting room where they had first
spoken. Now the hearth was cold, the black embers void of life. A small arched door lay in the cor­ner. Donskoy withdrew a key and opened it, and with a bow and a flourish of his hand, he motioned for her to enter.

  Marguerite closed her eyes and steeled herself, half-expecting to enter some chamber of horror—a gallery filled with a contorted and unnatural menagerie, stuffed yet animate; a dank closet with a soiled pallet and darkly stained manacles, where "unfresh" wives were left to rot. She swallowed hard to regain her composure; her imagination was running amuck.

  As she crossed the threshold, she exhaled sharply, her relief mingled with awe. She had stepped into a strange and lovely dream, a fantasy in red. One by one, the heavy thoughts that played in the back of her mind and weighed on her spirit simply melted away— the crude men, their pox and their disease and their wicked games, her fear that Donskoy's tastes might run in similar veins. Soft opulence enveloped her.

  No other room in the castle had coverings upon the stone or wood floors, save for herbs and straw, and the occasional pelt. Here in this small chamber, layers of ornate red tapestries and plush fur rugs cloaked the polished planks, leaving only the outer rim of the floor exposed. Long swaths of crimson velvet hung from the paneled walls, pooling on the dark, gleaming wood. The ceiling was low and divided into gilded squares, each housing a carved rosette, tinted scarlet. A single chandelier dangled in the center of the room. It resembled a large, ornate cage of gold filigree, imprisoning a circle of wax candles carved in the shape of doves. Long strands of red glass beads dripped from the bars of the cage like sparkling droplets of blood. They tinkled softly, stirred by the soft breeze that rushed through the open doorway.

  The room was lush, lavish, and decadent, unlike any place Marguerite had ever seen.

  "My private salon," murmured Donskoy. "My oasis from decay and despair. I hope it pleases you." He peeled off his jacket and tossed it thoughtlessly onto the floor.

  Marguerite nodded.

  "I am glad," he continued. "I do not extend the honor of a visit to just anyone."

  He watched as she continued to survey the room and its furnishings—the plush red divan, stretched languidly before a pair of low round tables; the throne-like chair and stout square table sitting beside it, each resting proudly on lion's legs; the profusion of red vel­vet pillows scattered across the floor. A warm fire­place glowed on the left side of the room, with a chimney and a golden hood to keep back the smoke. n exotic water pipe rested on the floor nearby, its glass bowls red and as round as a spider's abdomen, the long hose coiled beside it like a patient black snake with a slim silver head. A row of white marble pedestals stood along the opposite wall—the kind that displayed busts in a gallery, though they were head­less at present. On the rear wall loomed a fruitwood cabinet with gleaming inlaid panels and carved rosettes that echoed the pattern in the ceiling. Mar­guerite realized she had seen similar designs once before, though in a smaller piece—a chest her father had imported from Lamordia, a northern land noted for its craftsmanship.

  Donskoy settled himself on the floor beside the water pipe, lighting it with a slender stick from the fire. "Sit." He motioned toward the divan. "And let your­self relax."

  She obeyed, at least the first command. His second wish would be harder met.

  Donskoy pressed the tip of the black hose to his lips, inhaling deeply. Marguerite stared. When he exhaled, she noticed that the silver tip was shaped like the head of a cobra; the artisan, too, had envisioned a serpent and conjured its likeness.

  "Have you never seen a hookah?" Donskoy asked.

  Marguerite shook her head. "It comes from Sri Raji."

  Marguerite had never heard of this place. "It sounds exotic."

  "More like a steaming pit. I no longer travel abroad, of course, but it is one place I do not miss. There is a smalt present on the table before you," said Donskoy. "You may open it."

  On the table rested a silver tray with a decanter of plum brandy-wine and two blood-red goblets. Beside the tray lay a small, square black bundle. Marguerite picked up the package and released the gold cord

  that bound it. The silk wrapping fell away to expose another shimmering cord and another ebony layer. Beneath it lay yet another. Donskoy smiled with amusement as she peeled away the wrapping, ventur­ing ever deeper. At last, she held a small, square wooden box, lacquered and gleaming. It appeared to have no lid.

  "How do I get inside?" she asked.

  "Try," he responded smoothly, taking another deep draft from the pipe.

  She wrestled with the impenetrable block, stroking and prodding, shaking it lightly and pondering its muffled rattle. She searched its surfaces repeatedly for any sign of a hinge or latch,

  "ft is a puzzle," he added.

  "So I gathered," she said, her stomach fluttering like an excited child's. She struggled for several min­utes. Then it dawned on her that this might be some kind of test, which she might be failing. Her brow fur­rowed at the thought.

  "Perhaps I am glad you cannot open it," Donskoy said gently. "It marks you as without guile."

  He took the box from her hands and fondied it until it slid it apart in two pieces, one cantilevered over the other. Then he returned it to her hand.

  Nestled in the bottom half was a brooch—a circle of gold, two arms bound by an entwining ribbon, upon which a message was inscribed.

  "What does it mean?" she asked.

  "Forever," he said darkly, as if making it so*

  "It's beautiful. Shall I put it on?"

  "Please do."

  She pressed the pin through the bodice of her gown, and as it emerged from the other side, it pierced her fingertip. She gave a little squeak, then lifted the fin­ger to her lips, but Donskoy was faster—moving to her hand and taking it in his own gloved grasp.

  "Allow me," he said, gently sucking the blood from her wound. "You taste so sweet."

  Despite herself, she blushed, and her jaw tensed.

  "But you are too cold," he added. "Your hands are like ice. I can fee! it even through my gloves." He reached for the decanter of wine, filling the glass. He settled back into the cushions beside the water pipe and gazed upon her, continuing his smoke.

  His stare was unsettling. Marguerite could almost see the busy whirl of thoughts behind his eyes, but she could not read them. They sat quietly. She sipped the wine, then gazed at the small hands wrapped around the glass, her skin smooth and blue-white. What is he waiting for? she thought. Though she felt no desire for him, she did, at least, desire the consummation. The silence was palpable, swelling around her. A log erupted on the fire. The sparks drifted like red falling stars onto the hearth, dying on impact.

  "The brooch is beautiful," she offered at last, aware that she had repeated herself. "Thank you."

  Donskoy made a little ring with his lips and blew out a slow, long puff of smoke. "As are you," he said from beneath hooded lids. He drew his tongue across the stiver tip of the hose. "Drink the wine and let me look at you. It is not necessary to speak."

  Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. "Recline, if you would," he murmured.

  She put down the wine glass and pulled her legs up onto the divan, nestling her back against a pillow. Donskoy threw another log onto the fire; the edges of his fine linen shirt reflected the flame, defining his sil­houette with a faint red glow.

  He kept his back to her, still facing the hearth. "I do not wish you to be anxious," he said. "I cannot tolerate an unwilling wife. I have had my fill of it. Do you understand?" His voice was low and level, yet it car­ried a desperate, nervous note. Perhaps that was it: he was nervous. She could not read him.

  "Yes," she said quietly. She retrieved her glass and sipped at the wine.

  "I will not make the same mistake twice," he mut­tered, slumping onto the pillows. Still, he did not look at her.

  In time, he repeated, "I will not make the same mis­take twice. To drag a black-haired hellion into my bed only to see her cold and withered, spewing bile at my touch. I
dreamed she would yield in time. Beware of your dreams. Marguerite, for they shall lead you into the deepest pits of despair."

  He shifted and stared at the ceiling, attached to his pipe as if it were a lifeline. He seemed unaware of her presence entirely.

  "It had to be done," he said firmly, eyes red and swollen. "And I was , . . " He laughed sourly, then coughed, choking. *, . . triumphant." His eyes rolled; the whites rose like twin moons. "Perhaps ..."

  He was long silent after that, apparently drifting, asleep, though his eyes remained partly open. Mar­guerite wondered how much she couid trust his delir­ium. An hour passed, and she too began to flirt with unconsciousness. She shook herself awake and stud­ied Donskoy's still body, then realized she could not make out the rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be dead. A short mar­riage, after all. And then what?

  She walked to his side, gently nudging him. "My lord?" she said softly.

  He gasped and flung an arm across his brow as if to shield it from a blow. His eyes widened, white with ter­ror. "Who goes there?" he rasped. His face had twisted into a hideous mask, contorted beyond recognition.

  "Your wife," she whispered with alarm. "So!" he hissed. "The wretched succubus returns. See what you have wrought!" He snared her wrist in a crushing grip and bared his teeth wildly, as if ready to attack. She winced and struggled to wrench free.

  "Lord Donskoy," she pleaded. She knew he did not see her. "It is I, Marguerite."

  The white blaze slowly faded from his eyes, and his entire countenance melted into a boyish grin. "Ah, Marguerite," he said lightly, as if they had just encoun­tered one another on some bucolic garden path. "Have I been neglecting you?"