To Sleep With Evil Page 6

  Feeling a sense of achievement, she rose, brushing herself off. It was time to head back to the castle, She did not want Ekhart to discover she was missing and then come looking for her—especially not if he were to be towed by some beastly pack, as Zosia had sug­gested. Marguerite could almost hear the hounds now, whining and baying, eager with anticipation.

  But it was not baying that she heard.

  !t was someone, or something, screaming.

  The high-pitched sound was distant and muffled at first, filling the trees all around her.

  Then it came again, sharp and chiiling- It cut into her suddenly like a barb, tugging and tearing at her nerves. She gasped and held her hands to her ears. The sound echoed in her skull as if she had trapped it there.

  Marguerite dropped her hands and forced herself to listen. Someone might be hurt, after all, and need assistance. The third cry struck her like a black wail— strange and spectra!, unnatural and cold. She had never heard or felt such a thing before.

  She began to run.

  Whether she stumbled toward the sound or away from it, she could not tell. She simply felt compelled to run, to keep moving, and that compulsion led her ever deeper into the forest.

  When at last she stopped, she had no idea where she stood. She was hopelessly lost. She scolded her­self. She had allowed her imagination to run away with her—literally. In all likelihood the sound had issued from an animal. Death was common in a for­est and usually as unpleasant as it was natural. When seized by a hawk, a rabbit could scream like a frantic chiid. The hapless victim she had heard was something larger, perhaps, but probably an animal nonetheless.

  She listened carefully to the sounds around her. No scream came. If only she could hear the sound of the falls, she might find her way back. But the breeze had picked up; all she heard now was the wind sighing through the canopy overhead, and the occasional creak of protest from a winter-chilled branch.

  She stood, turning all around. The trees pressed in, blocking the horizon. She crouched and studied the ground. It seemed that she had run downhill, rather than up, but the terrain had rolled, so she could not be sure. Marguerite took her best guess and started walk­ing, scanning her path for landmarks.

  In time she entered a part of the forest where a few naked beech and oak trees intermingled with the pines. Occasionally she saw a dark form flitting between the trees alongside her—a raven perhaps, but too large. She kept on.

  The forest floor grew tangled. Her pace slowed as she struggled to keep the brambles and scrub from tearing at her hands and face. She had stopped to wrestle her cloak free of a thornbush when she spot­ted a dark gray shape about twenty paces away—an abandoned hunting shack, she wondered? Or a dove­cote"?

  She neared the structure.

  To her amazement, it was an old, rotting vardo—a gypsy wagon—cloaked by a web of leafless vines. In its prime, it must have been elegant. Pale, weath­ered streaks of gilding were still visible upon the swirling patterns that had been carved in the pan­eled base. Ornately turned braces still adorned the eaves of the barrel-shaped roof, though half had fallen away. An octagonal window was fitted in the rear door; remarkably, its wine-colored glass remained intact. It was etched and hand cut; a single wild rose sprouted within.

  The vardo reminded Marguerite of a skeleton she had discovered long ago in the woods of Darkon. A stag had caught its leg in a mass of brambles and had died. Ondisturbed by predators, the deer had remained on the bed of thorns until its flesh had dissolved and the brambles had woven a tangled grave over its bones. Like the stag, the sight of the vardo touched Marguerite with sadness; her chest and throat tight­ened in sympathy. A thing of grace and motion had been rudely stilled. The vardo should have been burned rather than abandoned. In this passive, undig­nified state, it appeared unnatural.

  How long had this wagon been here? she wondered. Certainly more than a decade. She could see no sign of a road or a rut that would have carried it to this spot.

  Something rustled softly in the trees. Marguerite paused, scanning the area around her. She had the strangest sensation that she was being watched. She smiled. She was imagining things. One always feels a surge of paranoia upon discovering a treasure, a mystery.

  She moved in closer, pulling the vines from the rear of the vardo. She stooped down and looked beneath the wagon. The wheels had well-turned spokes, and these too had once been finely gilded. A shallow, painted black box with tiny holes was stilt strapped to the bottom. Though the paint had faded, Marguerite could still make out the design of a great, coiled serpent with golden scales.

  A man's deep voice spoke behind her. "It's a snake charmer's vardo."

  Marguerite scrambled to her feet and turned, and found herself facing a tall, slender figure in black—the gypsy who had passed her on the road, just before Ljubo and Ekhart had come.

  He smiled, fixing his dark, luminous gaze upon her. Marguerite sighed with relief. Then she recalled the screams, and a horrifying image leapt into her mind. Perhaps the victim was human after all. She started to run—or tried.

  The Vistana's arm caught her wrist and tugged her back with tremendous strength. He pulled her against him, clamping an arm firmly around her shoulders. One hand covered her mouth.

  "Promise me you won't cry out," he said softly, "and I'll release you"

  Marguerite nodded. She intended to break the promise just as soon as the hand left her mouth—but then she realized it might only serve to anger the gypsy. After all, who would hear her but him?

  He loosened his grip and turned her to face him, one hand on each arm, pressing them to her sides. "Don't be afraid."

  "I'm not," she lied, whispering hoarsely. She stiff­ened her jaw in a semblance of dignity and defiance, but her legs trembled beneath her. She hoped it wasn't obvious.

  He studied her. When he spoke, his tone was conde­scending. "Let me relieve you of your fear. I have no intention of spoiling Donskoy's bride before the wed­ding night. If such games interested me, I would have seized you yesterday on the road."

  Marguerite was silent. What he said was true. "Then why have you seized me now?" she blurted.

  He released her arms. "To prevent you from bolting like a fool again. As I said on the road, these woods are not safe."

  "As you are living proof!" she replied. His answer had surprised her, for it meant he had not simply come upon the vardo and discovered her. "How long have you been watching me?"

  "Since you invaded my solitude by crashing past," he replied smoothly. "In fact, it is I who should be affronted by this meeting."

  "This is my land," she retorted. "I'll do as I please here."

  He smirked. "Your land?"

  "Donskoy's land," she corrected herself. "What are you doing on it?"

  The Vistana shrugged, then replied lightly, "I wish only to help you."

  "Your help I can do without."

  "Are you certain? Perhaps you should think on the matter."

  "I am certain," she said emphatically. "And you still haven't answered my question." She looked around, then softened her tone. "Did you lose your horse?"

  "No," he replied.

  She waited for an explanation, but he offered noth­ing more.

  'Then where is it?" she asked.

  "Do you intend to question me like some backwater constable? Yes, I can see that you do. To ease your mind, I will be patient. My horse is roaming freely. It will return when I have need of it."

  "How convenient for you," she said tersely. "So, if you didn't lose your mount, why didn't you continue with the rest of your tribe?"

  "They are not my tribe," he answered smoothly.

  "But you traveled with them—"

  "As did you, but you are not one of them."

  "And you look like them. A little bit anyway."

  He exhaled sharply, as if in disgust. "To the crude eye of giorgios, most Vistani look alike."

  "Arturi and his caravan refused to come so near to the keep. Why did you?"
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  "We have already established that I am not of his caravan. They do as they are paid to do. I do as I am compelled."

  "That's an odd choice of words. From your behav­ior, I imagine you do as you please."

  "I admit that I do not shun pleasure. Nor, I imag­ine, would you, if you were not shackled to a gior-gio's notion of etiquette. Nonetheless, we all must face unpleasantries from time to time. As Donskoy's bride-to-be, you are doubtlessly acquainted with that concept."

  She scoffed. "It's highly improper to insult my lord while trespassing on his land."

  "I am not the best judge of propriety. What seems to you an insult is to me a statement of fact. Mow, if you do not wish my help, I shall leave you."

  "We have already established that I do not need your assistance," she said sarcastically.

  "No?" he answered. "I thought certain you were lost and wished for someone to guide you back to the castle. Apparently, I was mistaken." He turned and began walking away. The air was heavy with mist; tiny droplets of water coated the fine, wooly hairs of his dark jacket, forming a glistening skin.

  Was this a trick? she thought, or some manipula­tion? If she asked for his assistance, he would gain the advantage. Reluctantly, she had to admit that he already had the upper hand. Without his help, she had little chance of getting back to the keep before night­fall. She was lost, and to make matters worst, the glowering sky threatened rain. While there was no guarantee this man actually knew the wayt he repre­sented her best option.

  "Wait," she called.

  He stopped and turned, offering her a thin, self-sat­isfied smile. "Yes, Marguerite?"

  She exhaled sharply, struggling to abandon her pride. Then it struck her that he had used her name, though she had never offered it. "You seem to know a great deal about me."

  "Arturi and his caravan described you freely," he replied.

  "No doubt they misinformed you, though my name is indeed Marguerite. What is your own name, then?" she asked. "I do not enjoy the disadvantage."

  "Ramus," he answered. He tipped his hat.

  "Well, then, Ramus, I would indeed be grateful if you would simply point me in the right direction."

  "That wil) not be sufficient," he replied. "Follow me, and I will escort you back to your well-cut walls."

  She began to protest, but he had already turned. If she did not follow, she would lose him.

  The Vistana carved a meandering path through the underbrush. It was difficult to converse as they walked, but Ramus seemed uninterested in speaking further. She remained a few steps behind, studying him. He walked gracefully yet with strength, penetrat­ing the undergrowth with ease. He seemed to know instinctively when to wend left or right around each obstacle, never leading her toward a snag that would force their retreat. She halted briefly to adjust her cape, and realized that nearly all the snapping and thrashing had been caused by her comparatively clumsy gait. Ramus seemed to her like a great cat, a panther. Suddenly she felt awkward and ridiculous by comparison.

  As a girl she had fancied herself skilled in the woods. It was a private pride, of course—ladies did not "go a-loping," as her father said. "The only women who wander are gypsies, whores, and sell-swords. Stray too far from home, and you'll meet with danger or disgrace." How ironic that in the end, he had been forced to send her away in the hands of the gypsies he privately insulted, into the arms of a man no one knew.

  At last she coutd see the dull glow of a clearing ahead. A light rain was falling, but the trees protected them from its full force. Ramus turned to her. "We are nearing our goal," he said. He let her pass him just near the edge, then reached out and held her arm, pulling her back into the obscurity of the woods. "Mar­guerite," he whispered.

  She steeled herself, thinking that some advance on his part might follow. Instead Ramus pointed into the clearing, where Ljubo was walking. A livid and bloody shape hung over the plump man's shoulder. The Vis-tana pulled her gently to the ground, so that they crouched together, watching as Ljubo made his own way across the field. Through the heavy veil of branches, Marguerite struggled to see what he was carrying. Was it a sack stained with blood? Or a torso of some kind? She shuddered.

  "Perhaps it is your damsel in distress," Ramus said quietly, answering her unspoken query. He leaned in closer, speaking in her ear. "Perhaps it's the tender meat you imagined suffering beneath my lecherous, murderous hands." He laughed softly and gently kneaded her arm with his fingers. "Yes, she proved to be a bore, so I took my revenge on her."

  Marguerite flinched, then saw that Ljubo was hauling the carcass of a large swine. Oddly, the rear legs of the pig had been severed, and they now swung from Ljubo's belt. "A boar," she said dryly.

  "Very funny."

  "The pig might disagree," the gypsy replied. "Isn't it remarkable how fear of the blade binds men and ani-maJs together? Horses, pigs, giorgios—when they stand at the brink of death, nostrils brimming with their own blood and fear, the screams sound very much alike."

  They rose together, and she turned to him in amazement. "What a vulgar description," she whis­pered hoarsely. "And i notice you did not include Vis-tani in the equation."

  "Vistani fear one thing more than the blade," he said.

  "Oh, do tell," she replied. "What might that be?"

  "Confinement. When the alternative is being trapped or held captive, a swift death is sometimes merciful."

  Marguerite recalled the series of screams. "I don't think the pig's death was so swift," she said quietly.

  "No," Ramus answered, "maybe not. But no doubt you wili soon be tasting its succulent flesh, and think­ing only of your own belly's pleasure. The kill por­tends a celebration. When is your wedding to occur?"

  "Tomorrow."

  The Vistana sniffed. "He is wasting no time," he said. "But that was expected."

  Before Marguerite could reply, Ramus gently cov­ered her mouth to silence her, pointing toward the clearing again. Marguerite gasped. Ekhart was strid­ing across the clearing after Ljubo, behind three hell­ish black hounds. Had Zosia betrayed her? The animals had hulking, muscular bodies with massive chests and low-set haunches. Froth and drool dangled from their lips as they strained at their tethers. Ekhart halted them in the center of the field, then turned toward the woods where the refugees hid.

  The gypsy's lips brushed her ear. "Hot a word," he whispered, in a voice like a breeze. " Yekori-akiri. Let me shield you."

  Marguerite felt a strange surge in the air around her as Ramus's other arm slipped around her shoulders and drew her back into the shadows of the trees. She stared at the hounds as they sniffed the air. The dogs remained silent.

  But Ekhart had not paused to scent the couple in the wood. A third figure entered the scene. Mar­guerite's heart sank; it was Donskoy, riding toward the castle. What was he doing here? Hadn't he planned to be away until tomorrow? Evidently, plans had changed.

  Donskoy reined in his mount before the tall, thin man. Distance muffled their conversation, but Don-skoy's annoyance was obvious. He circled his horse around Ekhart, growling at him, berating him with some unintelligible tirade. The horse's hooves loosened muddy bits of turf, flinging them about. Donskoy raised his crop, swinging it through the air about Ekhart's head. The old man never flinched, but the great hounds sank to the ground, cowering. The sky grew darker, lowering, as if to reflect Lord Donskoy's wrath.

  Ramus stood behind Marguerite as she gaped at the scene. He whispered into her ear. "When you face Lord Donskoy, I would not tell him about our meeting or reveal how far you wandered into the woods. It would not be wise."

  "I have no interest in your advice," she hissed, not turning to meet his gaze. Anxiety lent a steel edge to her voice. "You take me for something I am not. A vir­tuous woman does not keep secrets from her hus­band—certainly not to protect the interests of another man."

  "Another burst of propriety?" Ramus mused. "You slip so easily into the role. I pray you are as good an actress with him. It's true that a noble wife doe
s not converse with strangers about personal matters. Of course, a good giorgio wife also does not meet with unfamiliar men under circumstances such as these."

  "This is hardly my fault."

  "Isn't it? Who dragged you into the wild? Protecting my interests is the least of your concerns. And you are not Donskoy's wife—not yet."

  She felt Ramus's eyes burning upon the back of her neck. She had no reply. SureJy Donskoy would not be angry with her about the situation, she thought, attempting to conjure hope. The day's events were such a small matter, a trivial transgression. What had she done but go for a stroll? Perhaps he was upset about something else. Then she remembered his capricious changes in mood, his firm attempts to con­trol her movement. A simple fact remained: she had ignored his wishes. She knew in her heart it would not go unnoticed. As to Donskoy's response—and as to whether he would refuse her hand because of this transgression—she had no idea.

  Marguerite stood silently, watching the two men as they headed through the drizzling rain toward the castle and disappeared through the gate to the stables. Ramus was right. She had put herself in a compromising position. She had not let Ekhart accompany her, and she had wandered too far. Time had galloped on; night appeared to be approaching. Certainly Zosia had encouraged her lark, but she alone was responsible. She had risked everything. And it was too late to change it.

  When she turned to say goodbye, Ramus was already departing. His black shape slipped silently between two trees; then he was gone.

  Marguerite bolted across the clearing toward the main entrance to the keep. The wind whipped through the air above the turf, creating clouds of fine, stinging spray. She made a plan as she raced. She would go directly to her chambers. If Donskoy confronted her about her wandering, she would not lay the blame on Zosia—it was a feeble excuse anyway, and it might only serve to bring the old woman's wrath upon her. She might say she left by the front door, meaning only to walk the clearing, then foolishly succumbed to the lure of the forest. Contrite and apologetic, she would admit to having lost her way; that much would be obvious from the circumstances. But as to Ramus, she would not mention him.