To Sleep With Evil Read online

  Donskoy did not acknowledge Yelena's actions. He stood, raising a glass toward his associates. "I present to you my bride, Marguerite," he bellowed. The men lifted their mugs and gave a half-hearted hail. Mar­guerite nodded politely, but few met her gaze. The men's attentions had turned to the rear of the hall, to the sound of large doors opening.

  The white-skinned woman from the chapel entered. She swept in as if she herself were the keep's mis­tress, well acquainted with every nook and shadow. Marguerite frowned. The men rose from their seats and they lifted their mugs again, this time toward the new arrival. The woman's traveling cloak was gone, displaying a sleek gown of dark green silk. It fit snugly to the hips, then flared to allow movement. The wide neckline boldly exposed her neck and shoulders, while the tight bodice thrust her round white breasts up toward her collarbone. Yards of black lace dripped from the gown's snug sleeves and trailed from the waist like a tail. As she crossed the floor, the dress rustled and hissed. Like a snake through autumn leaves, thought Marguerite.

  The woman slithered up the aisle, nodding to each associate in turn. Pearls had been woven in the plaits of her raven hair. She stepped onto the dais, and draped her pale white hand across the table to Don-skoy, who pecked her fingers stiffly.

  "Jacqueline," he said, "may I present my wife, Mar­guerite Donskoy, nee de Boche."

  Jacqueline nodded to Marguerite. "Delighted, I'm sure." She darted her pink tongue ever so slightly between her scarlet lips, which echoed the color of a velvet ribbon encircling her neck. "Your bride is quite striking, Milos," she added. "An unusual sort of beauty. Those huge dark eyes against that pale amber hair. I never imagined you could unearth such a spec­imen from the piddling corners of Darkon."

  "I beg your pardon?" Marguerite was incredulous.

  "Is Darkon not your home?" Jacqueline asked coyly.

  "Yes, but—"

  "Oh, I meant no offense. You must tell me all about your roots then, Marguerite. Later."

  Donskoy bade them sit. Jacqueline took her place at the end, where she enjoyed a vantage of both her companions. As Donskoy extolled the quaint rituals of the wedding and the lovely quality of his fresh bride, Yelena shuffled in with a tray, presenting a pair of fin­ger bowls to the women. The servant's cheek was still marred by the long weal that looked like a leech suck­ing her vitality—what little remained to her.

  Jacqueline toyed with a curl of her black hair, inspecting it carefully. "It was indeed an entertaining ceremony," she said, not bothering to look up. "I'm so pleased I couid attend."

  "And I am pleased to see you are feeling better," Donskoy replied, a faint chill in his tone.

  "Thank you, my friend. Your kindness warms me."

  "Were you ill?" asked Marguerite. "Then surely you should not have traveled."

  Jacqueline smiled condescendingly. "How sweet of you to worry. It is nothing serious. I am prone to headaches, which can be maddening, but rarely fatal."

  Marguerite noticed a faintly bruised band of flesh that rimmed the woman's neck ribbon, and wondered if perhaps the fabric had been drawn too snugly.

  "But I haven't a glimmer of pain now," Jacqueline continued, stroking a pale finger thoughtfully along her jaw. The nail was short but pointed, and stained red with henna. She brightened. "Indeed I feel like a new woman, thanks to Donskoy's generous gift. I couldn't wait to get home before I opened it."

  From the dim corners of her memory, Marguerite recalled the black box—the crate that Arturi had unloaded, and that she had last seen lashed to the back of the woman's carriage. Marguerite wondered how this could possibly have effected a cure. She was about to inquire when Donskoy interrupted.

  "Yes, the new gown becomes you, Jacqueline. And home is where I thought you were destined. What has prompted your return?"

  "You did, I thought," she answered sweetly.

  "And how might I have done that?" he asked.

  "Soon after we parted, the road became impass­able, blocked by timber."

  Donskoy seemed surprised.

  Marguerite found the entire exchange quite curious. "How could that have been Lord Donskoy's arrange­ment?" she asked. "Are you suggesting he scurried out beforehand and felled the trees himself?"

  Donskoy smirked.

  Jacqueline smiled knowingly. "The unconscious will," she murmured. Her emerald eyes flashed, reflecting the shimmer of her dark silk gown. "One should never underestimate its power."

  "You speak too dramatically," said Donskoy.

  "And you underestimate yourself," replied Jacque­line. "There is very little in this domain that does not reflect your wilt, my friend, or bend to your wishes."

  Donskoy gave a low chuckle. "Except women, per­haps." He patted Marguerite's hand. "You see, Mar­guerite, my land tends toward self-destruction, especially during the spring, when one might expect just the opposite. But I am surprised to hear of it now."

  "Well, if you doubt it," Jacqueline replied, "you must see for yourself."

  "That won't be necessary," Donskoy said. "I will send Ljubo and Ekhart with a few associates to clear the road for you tomorrow."

  "A few fallen trees is hardly self-destruction, Lord Donskoy," Marguerite offered. "It must be a common occurrence when the soil is saturated and the roots are weak. Really, such attributions make things seem grimmer than they truly are."

  "Take note, Jacqueline," Donskoy replied. "Already she offers a fresh perspective. She'll bring renewal to this land yet, you shall see."

  "Yes, I shall," said Jacqueline, smiling smugly. "And I shall enjoy the spectacle."

  An awkward pause ensued. Then Ljubo and Yelena entered bearing the first course: two peacocks, cooked fully feathered. Their brilliant turquoise and emerald tails had been spared from the heat, then reattached with skewers to stand aloft. The necks, too, had been wired erect. Yelena strained under her load, but Ljubo waddled contentedly as usual, bob­bing so that the bird's feathers waved before him like an exotic many-eyed fan. Marguerite suppressed a smile. He made a perverse sort of harem girl, she thought. For that matter, he made an equally unsa­vory eunuch. The peacock's loose head nodded in agreement on its spike. Ljubo had made an effort to formalize his attire, meeting with some success; he wore a clean black woolen tunic over his tattered trousers, and his ragged fingers had been freshly wrapped in crisp white bandages, already soiled by the juices of the bird.

  It occurred to Marguerite that she had assumed the castle harbored a few other hands to serve Donskoy— that somewhere, in the keep's foreboding recesses, lurked chandlers, chamber maids, pantlers, foot­men—not many, perhaps, but certainly a few. Now she began to wonder if the foursome she had already met maintained the castle in its entirety. Even given the genera! state of decay, it seemed impossible. She looked around for any sign of Ekhart or Zosia. Neither was present; perhaps they were employed behind the scenes.

  Ljubo plunked his platter directly in front of Jacque-line, who sneered at him, then teasingly blew him a -;ss. Ljubo chortled as he and Yelena retreated.

  "A toast," said Donskoy. "To my bride,"

  "To new faces," added Jacqueline, lowering her eyes to cast a knowing look at Donskoy. If he reacted, Marguerite did not notice.

  As Yelena and Ljubo brought forth other dishes and bread, the feasting began. Donskoy carved a piece of the peacock and placed it on Marguerite's platter. "It is my pleasure to serve you, my dear"

  "Take note of that, Marguerite," cooed Jacqueline. "Such words rarely come from his lips. You may never hear them after tonight."

  Donskoy ignored the remark, a fact that annoyed Marguerite even more than the comment itself. She fought to keep the heat from rising to her face.

  "You mentioned home," said Marguerite, intent on taking the high ground as hostess. "Where is that, Jacqueline?"

  "Barovia. My estate lies there."

  "Is it a difficult journey?"

  "It can seem that way at times, especially for some­one who lacks my resourcefulness."

  Jacqueline wi
thdrew a dagger from somewhere under the table; Marguerite assumed it had slid from a sheath on her thigh.

  "Always carry your own blade," said Jacqueline, relieving the bird of half its flesh. "It's an old rogue's adage. Most hosts fail to supply something suitable, though Milos is, of course, an exception."

  "A rogue's adage?" Marguerite asked. "You don't look the type."

  "Really . . , And how does the type look?"

  "More utilitarian in dress, perhaps. Less fragile."

  "I assure you," said Jacqueline, "I am not so fragile. But I will take that as a compliment. It has indeed been many years since I had to struggle amongst sav­age company to maintain myself. Many years, in fact, since mutual interests led me to Donskoy. Do you still remember that night, Milos?"

  "I do," he replied.

  "Those times were perhaps rougher," said Jacque­line, "yet in many ways richer. As I recall, Milos, you were flush with the rewards of a successful venture."

  "Yes," he replied, smiling. "Highly successful. And, as I recall, you intended to share in those rewards— without an invitation."

  Marguerite intervened, fearing their reverie might soon become a wait that encircled them completely. "What kind of venture"?" she asked.

  Jacqueline merely smiled, and Donskoy sat chew­ing, as if to consider his reply before answering.

  "Does it surprise you, Marguerite, to learn that I was not born to this so-called grandeur?" He waved his hand at the room.

  "No. I suppose I knew it."

  "And how is that?"

  "No mention of family, perhaps, no coat of arms, no portrait gallery. I'm not certain."

  "Perhaps I simply prefer to keep my ancestors well-buried."

  Marguerite pondered for a moment. She had known that Donskoy was not born to this castle. Then she recalled. "I believe Ekhart told me you were not the keep's original owner, and you yourself said you 'came'to this place."

  "Indeed, that is possible. It would seem my lovely bride harbors a deep memory, as well as a clever wit. I II have to take care what I say."

  "I wish you wouldn't," Marguerite replied. "A hus­band and wife should share all things intimately, and thereby build a fortress, and let no others assault it."

  Jacqueline chortled. Donskoy silenced her with a lancing gaze, but a smirk pulled gently at the corners of his lips.

  "You've been reading the Good Woman's Primer, I wnagine," he said with some amusement. "And of course you are correct." He stroked his goblet against Marguerite's cheek, letting it drop to her collarbone. She felt a trickle of spilled wine and quickly dabbed her chest with the edge of the tablecloth. "But do not trouble yourself," he whispered. "Later we shall share things intimately."

  Marguerite tensed; clearly her husband's demeanor was getting loose. "So," she said, "you were telling me about a successful venture."

  "Was I?"

  "Please do. I want to share in all your successes, past and future. What sort of venture was it?"

  "How shall I put it... ?"

  Jacqueline chimed, "May I assist?"

  "You may not," Donskoy said firmly. He patted Mar­guerite's hand. "I have played many roles, my dear, but at the time in question, I was a procurer—no, a kind of savior. I made it my business to fulfill certain special and difficult needs of those who had the means to pay well. Great lords in name, some of them, though of course I was their equal by right. If not their superior."

  "Don't you mean by rite. Lord Donskoy?" quipped Jacqueline.

  Marguerite did not catch the meaning.

  "I do not," he growled in disgust. "Such are your own concerns."

  "Forgive me, Donskoy," said Jacqueline, in a voice as smooth as melted butter. "I could not resist the pun."

  Donskoy sneered. "There is very little you resist."

  "Touche, mon cher."

  Donskoy added, "Besides, to linger on events long past is a mark of weakness. This is a time for looking forward."

  "I agree entirely," replied Jacqueline. "The future is rich with possibilities."

  Marguerite wanted very much to hear more about Donskoy's history, but she decided not to press the matter. Staring at Jacqueline's young face, she could not imagine that this woman had seen anything "long past"; Jacqueline was remarkably well preserved, doubtlessly by some dark magic. Donskoy steered the conversation toward more banal topics, such as the quality of the wine, which he described as "a recent import." The feast progressed; eventually the great pig arrived. It offered an obscene amount of meat. When Marguerite commented as much, Donskoy sug­gested she learn to enjoy such excesses, then informed her that Zosia had a way with old flesh; it would hardly go to waste. The body of the pig went to the associates. Ljubo planted the boar's head on the lord's high table. The mouth was stuffed with the ani-mal1s own heart. As Jacqueline and Donskoy smacked their lips noisily, Marguerite sipped at her wine, trying not to meet the boar's shriveled stare.

  "So, Marguerite," ventured Jacqueline. "You are from Darkon."

  "Yes, from a village near Martok."

  "I've heard an interesting legend about Darkon," said Jacqueline. "Do you know it?"

  "How could I," quipped Marguerite, "when you haven't described it." She felt emboldened by the -ine.

  "They say that Darkonian soil leeches memories from those who tread upon it too long."

  If they were correct, we'd all be amnesiacs."

  'But how would you know?"

  “I beg your pardon?"

  "How does a man know what he has forgotten, after he no longer knows he knew it at all?"

  An interesting point." Marguerite paused for a moment. "But an amnesiac understands his plight because he knows what he should recall, even though he can't recall it."

  "You two are boring me," said Donskoy. "Since when did peasant lore and superstitions become the stuff of polite discourse? I visited Darkon many times, and I remember every moment."

  "And are they pleasant memories?" asked Marguerite.

  Donskoy drank heavily from his goblet, then let out a sigh. "Some . . ." he murmured.

  Both his companions awaited his next comment, but Donskoy had fallen silent, immersed in his own thoughts.

  Jacqueline dabbed her lips, then cleaned her dag­ger and retired it. "Well," she said to Marguerite, "I have not visited Darkon, and I should like very much to go. I've heard that Castle Avernus, Lord Azalin's keep, holds many treasures that could turn one's head."

  "No doubt," answered Marguerite dryly, thinking that Jacqueline would fit well with Azalin's reputed decadence. "But Darkon lies quite far from here. One needs the assistance of the Vistani to traverse the ter­rain with any certainty. And I'm not sure I could rec­ommend the trip. My own passage was not very pleasant."

  "It pains me to hear it," said Jacqueline, with only a trace of sincerity. "But then, in the hands of the gyp­sies, one wonders how you survived at all."

  Marguerite laughed. "I understand your attitude. Yet I can't forget that it's the Vistani who brought me to Donskoy's attention. I think a few sinister caravans color the reputation of the entire race."

  "You're much too generous. In my experience, the only useful caravans are those who swear fealty to gold. And Donskoy finds even their stench so strong he can barely abide it. Both he and I know just how deep the Vistani treachery can run, and what kind of misery they breed."

  Donskoy slammed a fist on the table. Marguerite jumped, then stared at him, agape. The associates, who had been content to enjoy their own conversations, ceased talking as well. The hall fell silent, but for the crackling of the fire and the creaking of wood. It was as if the scene had frozen. When at last Donskoy spoke again, his voice was strained yet even. "Jacqueline," he said deeply. "You must choose your topics more care­fully." His pale blue eyes had turned to ice.

  Jacqueline arched a brow but said nothing, For a time, no one spoke at all. Then Donskoy excused himself from the table, saying that he would return momentarily. He strode out of the hall, and the associ­ates resumed thei
r rumbling.

  Jacqueline smiled sweetly at Marguerite. "Touched a nerve, I guess. But he'll recover. He always does."

  "What did you say to set him off?" Marguerite asked. "What treachery did he endure?"

  "None but his own," said Jacqueline cryptically. She glanced furtively toward the men at the nearby tables, then leaned in close to her companion. "May I speak freely with you, Marguerite?"

  "Of course." Marguerite braced herself for an indeli­cate comment.

  Jacqueline's voice remained honey-sweet. "You think of me as a threat, do you not?"

  "Why, no—"

  "But you do, I fear. You think of me as some kind of competition. You mustn't, though. Donskoy desires a son. Moreover, he has become obsessed with the notion of sowing his seed on pure ground. It has been many years since I fit that description, and I can assure you, motherhood doesn't interest me in the least, nor does a permanent residence in this grim and primitive palace."

  "And precisely what are your interests?" asked Mar­guerite boldly.

  Jacqueline laughed. "Yes," she said. "Perhaps a more direct approach is best. May I share a secret with you, Marguerite?"

  "If it pleases you,I' said Marguerite cautiously. She did not trust this woman any farther than she could sneeze. And certainly any "secret" this snake-woman shared would be some kind of lie, a manipulation.

  "Do you not wonder how I came here?" asked Jacqueline.

  "[ assume you came in a carriage."

  "How quaint. Yes, of course, in a carriage, But when the mists are heavy, it's very easy to lose your way. Some time ago I acquired the means to navigate almost as well as the Vistani themselves—the means, yes, but unfortunately not the mastery. I have spent many years trying to understand my treasure, tapping the finest minds in my pursuit. Mow I dare to hope my skills are improving."

  "How nice for you," said Marguerite. "But I'm not sure I follow your story."

  "The point is, it could be nice for you as well," replied Jacqueline.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Business, Marguerite. That is my interest. Your husband hopes to achieve a kind of spiritual renewal through you. I, on the other hand, would like to effect a more tangible renaissance—one that is measured in gold. Lord Donskoy once reveled in his business, but no more. Oh, he still dabbles, but he will never see things reach their full potential again. I, on the other hand, have both the means and the desire. Donskoy once relied on certain Vistani tribes for his mobility. Soon I could fulfiil the same role, and more. All I require is his support. And of course, the benefits would flow to him as well as to you."