Forever and Never -- Peter Gundry
Cold was a temperature I didn't feel much anymore, unless I thought of the long night to come, Then the icy knife of fear would twist deeper than my stomach, into that empty space below, into that space that was mine, and sacred and not his to fill.
Fire, however.
Terryl's knuckles brushed my shoulder, not tender, not soothing, just a soft appreciation for the naked skin. I'd never been a girl who got tattoos. I did some of the henna art when it was summer and fairs were in full swing and I wanted a cute boy to see something prettier on my shoulder than acne.
With her hands she felt along the curve of my spine, pulled my hair to one side, tipped me forward gently until the map of my back had been laid out to her satisfaction. For several long seconds nothing happened; she must have been preparing the needle, returning the sharp tip to the well of her arm.
The sharpened needle sinking below my skin didn't hurt at first, not compared to what I'd experienced. It was a numb vibration over my shoulder, pinching, but not unbearable. The paint started when the needle dug deeper. It felt as though it had struck the bone of my shoulder blade, as if every jab splintered bits off the bone, as if it were possible to ink marrow. A humming throb pulsed through my spine. This was worse than permanent, I thought, as heat sizzled off my brow and I twisted instinctively away from her. This was forever.
The process, thankfully, lasted no longer than an hour. As I dragged my aching shoulder to the window sill, to let the kindly heat of the afternoon sun take its turn as I tried to catch a glimpse of my requested design, Terryl scuttled over. The needlelike forefinger shrank back into a human digit. She clutched at her new shirt, turned it inside out and back and draped it over her chest with an excitement she didn't need eyes to express. I helped her slide it on with a friendly, 'You like it?"
Her pale chin dipped into an enthusiastic bobble. She rubbed her cheek against the hem.
"Looks very nice on you," I continued, fluffing out the shirt around her bony waist. I tried against to see the tattooed skull that now marred my shoulder, but there was nothing but the edge of black lines and irritated plump skin. "You did a good job," I told her anyway.
The two of us sat together for the rest of the afternoon, Terryl, probably because she had no choice, listening to stories of my hometown and Alaska. The adventures were nothing like the ones in this half-hell, but she was young and something about her hollowed eye sockets made me feel horrible, and guilty and awful. I wanted to tell her something, that I was sorry, maybe, but the only thing I could do was talk about my cattle and my mom and Ajax and happier times.
As the rich emeralds of twilight settled over the distant landscape, and the pallid creature below started up its hoarse crooning, the King returned.
He did not enter as he had in the past, simply dropped his clawed hand on the sill. Terryl, in her new clothes, crawled up eagerly. She was visible for a moment longer, then his rotted talons curled firmly around her and a new, empty paw was presented for me.
One gargantuan eyeball peered over the sharp talons. Immediately his paw retracted to swipe tiredly at the tattered feathers across his snout. "Honestly," he hissed, setting his paw back against the stone, a paw after all this time I was almost eager to jump into. "Your bare hide would be better than throwing on the grunt's rags."
But if he saw my bare hide, I had a feeling he'd leave me here in the Tower, impending wedding-be-damned. I rubbed my aching shoulder and glowered back at him. It wouldn't do to let him in on that secret yet, wouldn't do to show him that I was relieved to be going, not home, but the closest thing I had to it.
And I could tell he liked how I looked, from the way that reptilian gaze lingered on the tight pull of an undersized shirt across my chest. I clambered into his palm with all the reluctance I could manage, and flicked off a stray talon lifting the shirt off my shoulder.
"No peeking," I said.
"You did a bad thing, haven't you?" he drawled, lifting Terryl in his other hand. "You just can't follow a single piece of tradition, can you?"
The color flushed right out of my face. "No," I told him stoutly. "And that's on you if you weren't smart enough to stop me."
The King laughed, a dry cough of a sound. Smoke sputtered through the holes in his throat and nostrils. "That's alright," he decided, and I could heard good cheer bubble through his voice even as he squeezed my waist to the point of my pained gasping. "Go on thinking you can play this game. I'll find out what you've done and assess the punishment tomorrow evening."
I glanced down toward the distant canopy, where the pale face of the creature had emerged. Its lanky arms shook the branches. It hooted, apelike and wild, throwing rocks at the King. Gravity always took control before any stone had even the barest hope of reaching the dragon, and when the King's head snaked toward his assailant, the thing ducked into the leaves, little eyes glinting like beetles.
"Take your rat back," he hissed, powerful wings flexing, the rotted muscles and mattered feathers finding flight regardless of their condition. And then, before I'd even realized what was happening, he opened his other paw. Terryl, silently, her shirt billowing towards the sky, dropped like a rock through the canopy.
The creature, pausing to look from the sneering dragon to the smashed branches a few meters beside it, threw one more rock then dropped out of sight, too.
"What the hell was that for?" I yelled at the King. His head had turned toward the castle grounds, and he would not speak another word.
We reached the castle just after dark. There was enough light left in the sky to make the hollowed craters and blistered stone of the King's tantrum seem blacker than the shadows of the Malumbrian Oaks. There was work being done already to cover the damage, new stalls erected in the shambled ruins, fresh flowers and luminaries strung through the courtyards and beyond. There were, after all, several weddings to attend in the morning.
The King smartly did not leave me alone or in the presence of someone I might be able to manipulate. He set me in his personal chambers for a bath, a fine dress, and a dour-eyed teenage boy who could've walked off the set of The Omen. Careful not to lose sight of the little monster, I changed with my back against the wall. He watched me, not like a normal, hot-blooded young male getting a free glimpse of boob. He watched me like a wolf hungry for flesh.
I hustled away from that kid as fast as possible, so fast water dripped off my shoulders and onto my dress. It was a lovely thing, truly, though I didn't know much about dress types and designs. This one was all the thin, light layers of a Grecian goddess, sleeveless with a silky, embroidered collar that covered the chest with just enough layers of sheer fabric to trend elegant rather than dressy hooker. As it left a good swath of shoulder exposed, I fished through one of the King's drawers for a cloak. It was dusty and smelled like the bloody forest roads, but it would do. I'd pinned it over the beautiful clothes and hurried out to the hall, where the King was waiting.
"I like you wearing my clothes," he'd said at once, "But you cannot wear that this evening."
"I'm not yours yet," I told him, and again came that dry cough of amusement.
"Alright," he said, and all at once I felt uneasy about his acceptance. I stared hard at him, at the black-gloved hand awaiting mine, then up at his face. "You'll get hot."
There was nothing of him to see, except the faint orange rim of his eyes. I should've guessed from his voluntary seclusion in the Tower that he was not a man to walk the halls as any other. He was buttoned and elaborately adorned as a gaunt, mildly putrefied Henry the Eighth, the blue veins of his hands covered in gloves, his bald, misshapen head covered by a lush feathered hat. But it was his face that bothered me, covered by an ornate mask, solid gold studded with precious gemstones, some hideous beauty of a plague doctor's mask, altered in form just enough to give the beak a draconic sneer.
I refused to take his offered hand, but then he pulled the other around, and in it was a delicate gold mask with bright crimson feathers blossoming from one corner.
"Kinky," I said, and pushed it back at him.
"Columbina," he replied, holding the mask by one black ribbon. "So I can keep my eyes on that pretty mouth of yours."
Not wearing said mask wasn't an option; I didn't know how I knew that, but something about the way he spoke, a hollow, muffled command through his own mask, suggested that this was not the land to die over. I turned obediently, let the cool mask settle against my cheeks as he tied it neatly. As he finished, he pulled a strand of my damp hair gently onto my shoulder.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Just perfect."
"Isn't this a dinner?" I asked, almost surprised that his hands were up for such a delicate task, that he could be so light and gentle as he offered his arm again.
"They've already eaten," the King continued. "They're waiting for us, for our blessing, to begin the reception."
"But we haven't—"
"This isn't your half-baked human idea for how a wedding should run. There's a lot more brides needing their beds broken in. We celebrate in advance, so that the deeds of tomorrow receive the proper attention and dedication they deserve."
As we walked arm and arm down the corridor, my heels clicking uncertainly in the silence, the sound eventually faded beneath layers of . . . music.
A cello's warm pitch and then, as I listened, it was joined by a few other instruments.
The dining tables of the great hall had been cleared of tables and anything that may get in the way of this evening's celebrations. The enormous stone architecture had been turned into the fairytale ballroom that would have been crafted only if a demon were put in charge of the decorations, and one likely had. The hall was both deeply beautiful and horribly wrong. We'd entered from a nondescript door behind the throne, and the King walked the stairs to his chair with me trailing behind, turning my head left and right, trying to see everything at once.
It was a monstrous carnival, a masquerade of bone and autumn, of all things death and dying. Yellows, reds, and oranges, flowers and wide leaves and drapings mixed with filigreed bone. The air smelled of wine spilled on a funeral home carpet- sweet and floral with a vaguely chemical undertone. There were monsters and things that looked half-human, and demons in their human skins, courting and dancing and talking as I had never seen before. The masks were the only connection from one to the next, as the monstrous beings were wild and naked as animals, and the humans-types had pulled on the clothes of the period and style they preferred. There were suits and ties and grander outfits than the King's in that crowd.
In the old life of mine, the one where I had gone on to New York and designed special effects, a ball like this would have been a fascinating dark paradise.
Now, such a thought left a haunted space in my heart.
There were women here tonight, cleaned and beautiful and scattered among those monsters. I couldn't tell from where I was standing who anyone was or if they were frightened like me, but they didn't act scared.
I wondered what lies they'd been fed.
"Your Highness," came a familiar gruff tone. The Walrus trundled up in a harlequin suit that stretched and rippled with his blubber. The mask he wore had the longest nose I'd ever seen on it, and it pressed his ruddy beard into his checkered belly. "Lady Wilson," he said with a wink and a bow. "Been wondering where you'd sallied off to."
With a glance at the King, who'd settled back in his throne beneath the shadow of a wreathed, antlered skull, I eased carefully between a harvest of potted flowers and, still unsure about the orange eyes within the plague mask, offered the Walrus my hand. He lifted his mask to kiss the back of it.
"How is everyone?" I asked him as he returned my hand with a gentle pat.
"Better than you, I suspect. What did he do to you?"
"Nothing," I said, fingering the lip of a goldenrod lily. A tiny, jeweled butterfly had been glued to the blossom. "That's the frightening part. What's he gonna do?"
"I don't dare try an answer that, lest he one up my reply," the retired warrior said, following my gaze to the flower.
"Where is everyone?"
"Making friends with their new neighbors, I'd wager. Getting to know the brides-to-be. 'Cept that blonde bomb of yours. She's set me to watch you this evening, but I was thinking that's because she doesn't want me watching her."
I frowned. "Watching her why?"
But the King had had enough of my chit-chat. He called me into his lap. Again, I hesitated, but again, I obeyed, if only because the trouble I was about to get into would be far worse without any further instigation. "Lady Wilson," he began as I settled onto his bony knees, folding the cloak carefully underneath my legs to ensure he didn't peel it back from my shoulder. The King's arm curled around my waist and that big beak nuzzled my hair.
A boy poured us a couple glasses of wine, and for the next twenty minutes I was the King's lapdog as various Lords, but never Chiro or anyone I recognized, approached to offer congratulations. When I'd finished my glass (the King had tipped it up for me to ensure I had), I let my cast cast over the glow of flames and masks and twirling bodies, and curled my fingers in the King's.
"May I say a few words?" I asked him. "About Dot?"
He nodded, waved his hand at the Walrus, who shouted a very nice, "Fucking shut up. Your Queen is speaking."
At that, I leaned to the King and laid a soft kiss on his bill, and patted his head as if he were an upstanding child. "Deal with me tomorrow night," I said under my breath, and stepped in front of him.
The audience waited, upturned eyes and ghastly jovial faces. There were far to many jokers in this crowd, far too many round dark faces frozen in laughter. It made my skin crawl, looking at the horns and swishing tails and reptilian appendages that curled around the slight frames of the poor ladies lost to other Hunters.
But not every women looked kindly upon me, either, as I stood at the edge of the stairs, picking up a wild rose to keep my hands from betraying my nerves.
I took a deep breath, started once, then again after someone yelled to speak up. "If I have not made it abundantly clear, I will do so now. My women are free women. If you hurt them, who or what you are will not save you." I gave it a moment to sink in, and then flashed a cheerful smile. "With that said, I would like to report the sorry news that one of the free women has gone missing. We'll work on getting her information available to you, but in the mean time, I would like to announce a reward for her safe return. You see, unlike you fools who went chasing white dresses, I caught myself a Lord, a Prince, actually."
A ripple of laughter broke through the audience. A ripple, and one sharp scream.
I hadn't known where Chiro was, but I had a fair inkling now as the crowd broke around a fallen man. The glossy handle of a knife jutted out his back as he screamed curses and the woman beside him huddled (perhaps inadvertently) against the firm body of a lord. Not one for much mess, Chiro waited for the screams to drop to a muted burble as the demon healed, then collected his knife and wiped it neatly on the man's suitcoat.
"Anyone else?" he said, standing sharp and tall in a dark vest and slacks that were, I was happy to note, more my century. He wore a mask unfeathered but similar to mine, just over the eyes, just enough that it didn't scare me like some of the stiff faces turning from him to me. He dropped the knife to the floor and the sound echoed up to suspended skeletons along the ceiling. Grey eyes calm and measured, he rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves. "Anyone else?"
My heart thrummed in my chest as I scanned the rest of the audience for a potential challenger, but none came. No one had figured him out, yet. The beasts still believed he was one of them.
Without giving others too long a chance to decide that a fight may indeed be worthwhile, I lifted my chin higher and snapped a sharp, "Stand down, Chiro."
The Prince met my gaze. "Lady Wilson," he said in a clipped tone. "Tomorrow you marry the King. Those lands will no longer belong to you."
"By right of conquest they do," I continued, letting my eyes linger on his, "and through marriage, my Prince, they will remain as such. I offer them up, except a small portion on which the free women will have sanctuary, to the one who brings Dot home." A murmur moved through them now, and when eyes turned back on mine I was fiddling nervously with the feathers in my mask, trying to tuck the flower next to them or some shit, I didn't really know what my hands were doing. I cleared my throat, dropped the flower, then clasped my hands together and beamed at the grotesque assembly. "That will be all. Enjoy your evening, if it at all possible."
The music struck up with an off-tune violin as the crowd closed around Chiro and the deman he'd floored.
The King's shadow came to stand beside me. I took his once-again offered hand and we began to dance. One hand held mine, and the other, my waist. "Marriage," he said, the sharp point of his mask cutting against my cheek. It wasn't a question, but a threat.
"I'm not getting tricked out of his land by you or him or anyone else."
The beak tilted faintly toward my shoulder. The hand on my waist found its way beneath the cloak. Even though the cushion of thick gloves I could feel the knotty bones of his hand. "What did that inkrat inscribe?"
I batted his hand away. "You'll find out tomorrow," I hissed.
"I hope our child has that spark of imbecility tampered by reason and good judgment. Marriage to a stump water kitten was not an option for you."
"It is in under the eyes of the Marrow Witch." He did the little warding gesture, and, after a moment of watching the Walrus, I followed suit. "Chiro will hunt Dot for sure now that I'll have a firm hold on his land. And that's all I want a firm hold on. Trust me when I say, the less dicks, the better."
The Walrus gave a jolly, snorting laugh. The King, if he had any expression, reserved it for the confines of his mask. The song ended. I stepped away from the pair of them. Hadn't gotten more than a few paces when the King's hand fell on my shoulder. I tugged myself free, and then the colorful Walrus had bounced between us.
"This time tomorrow you can touch her as you please," he rumbled. "Let her go tonight, Your Highness." I was pretty sure his accent had mangled the word to something akin to 'heinous'. The King's nod came reluctant, but it came. I flashed a grateful smile at the pair of them, more the old warrior than the rotting darkness that was to be my husband, and slipped away into the revolving sea of masks.