Land of the Beautiful Dead (85 page)

“Mission accomplished,” she said breathlessly. “What now?”

“Now? Now I want you to sleep with me.”

“I can do that,” she said, holding out her arms.

He filled them at once, forcing her down into the rumpled blankets as he embraced her. His mouth closed golden on her breast, the very point of his tongue tracing intricate knots around her aching nipple. His scarred hands moved over her, not caressing as much as claiming, and she opened to it all, her body right at the edge of use and abuse, but still wanting more.

And then he covered her up again. He kept his hand on her, pinning the corner of the blanket to her shoulder as he kissed her, then settled himself beside her once more—his arm around her waist and the solid chill of his body pressed to hers, made tolerable only through the barrier of the blanket.

“You really meant sleep?” Lan asked, after a stunned second or three. Struggling up on her elbows, she caught his arm and gave it a hard shake. “You don’t sleep!”

“Very rarely,” he reminded her. “Seldom more than once a year.”

“And it has to be tonight?”

“Ah Lan, mercy!” he groaned. “I was making my bed ready when you found me. All this time since, I have been waiting, but the need has become intolerable. Why do you think I insisted that you rest the very instant we were back again within these walls? It was so
I
could rest!”

She wasn’t sure at first just what she was feeling. There were flashes of hurt—she’d only walked away the world to find him, after all, only had to beg him to come back—but what won out in the end was an echo of Azrael himself, saying what she said now, and in much the same smiling way: “You’ve never slept with anyone before, have you?”

“Never.” He reached out to brush his fingers along her shoulder and she let that feather-light touch lay her down again and bring him back against him. “And I confess I am not entirely at ease. But if…if we are moving on, my Lan, if there is any hope of that at all…I have to be with you tonight.” He frowned, eyes flickering. “I suspect it will be unpleasant.”

“You say that a lot.”

“I won’t ask you to stay with me all night. Just until I fall asleep. I’ll understand if you can’t touch me,” he told her, making an effort at a smile. “I’ll not blame you if you have to shift away, but if you can only bear to stay with me—”

“Don’t.” She put a hand to his mouth, pushing the offer back in before it could come all the way out. “Don’t sell it. Not to me, not to anyone. There’s always one piece you just don’t sell. Besides,” she said, now twining that arm around his neck and snuggling herself uncomfortably close, “I’m all done buying favors in your bed. I love you. Of course you can sleep with me.”

He rested a cautious hand on her hip and, when she didn’t throw it off, shifted her into the cradle of his arm, keeping the blanket between them. After a few tense minutes, she felt the strain begin to ease from his body. The light of his eyes faded, guttered, and died. Gradually, his breaths deepened and the terrible cold emanating from him thawed, as meat thaws, taking on the same dead temperature as the air in the room. If not for the wet, repulsive sound of his heart beating, it would have been like cuddling with a corpse, but she held him anyway, and when she did finally sleep, it was with him.

Not beside him. With him. And as unpleasant as it was (and it was. It really was), she was determined to believe that made it the best way to come home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

L
an woke too early the next morning in the throes of a violent sick-up. She had apparently been doing it for some time; Azrael was already holding her shoulders, trying to lift her out of the mess since she was oddly incapable of doing that herself. Over and over, she vomited, long after her empty stomach had given up the last drops of bile and she wasn’t doing anything but ripping her throat apart on air. At last, it ended and she fell back against Azrael, limp as a wrung rag, and just breathed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, untangling her from the bedding. “Oh my Lan, forgive me. I should have left as soon as I awakened.”

She could only shake her head, pushing a weak, “Not your fault,” through her raw throat, but she wasn’t sure she believed it. To think of all the times he’d slipped away from her in the middle of the night and how she’d hated it, but this was what he’d spared her. Even as he lay her carefully on Batuuli’s settee, she was hanging her head off the side and sicking up again.

“Don’t try to move,” he told her and left, snatching up Lan’s discarded towel to wrap around his hips.

Move, the man said. Like that was an option. She hurt all over, not in the way of a sunburn, but more as if her body were one giant pulled muscle. Her head, ears and eyes throbbed, like she had a hangover without any of the fun of getting drunk. Worst of all was the taste in her mouth—like bile, batteries and rotten meat all mixed together.

She lay, shivering and sweating at the same time, with scarcely enough strength to keep from spilling to the floor, until the door opened again and Azrael returned with a small army of accompanying footsteps. The lights came on, stabbing into eyes she hadn’t realized were open. She managed to get her hands up to cover them, only to have the cold hands of the deadhead doctor pry them away again. Elsewhere in the room, servants quickly and wordlessly stripped the bed and mopped up the mess; Serafina was among them, her voice shrill as she admonished this or that one to be careful, this was Egyptian cotton or goose down or cashmere, but even as sick as she was, Lan knew the real reason was that it was all Batuuli’s and probably ruined now.

“Bit of a sunburn,” the doctor remarked, feeling at the pulse in Lan’s wrist.

Lan dragged her eyes open and looked down at her herself. The pinkness she had noticed in the bath the previous night had not faded much and actually looked worse in a broad band around her belly…where Azrael’s arm had rested in the night.

“That’s what Serafina told me,” Lan said dully, although she still couldn’t remember the sun being terrifically present during their travels. “I just thought the bathwater was too hot.”

“A hot bath, you say? And did you have anything to drink?”

“Uh…”

“Sunburns can be enormously dehydrating,” the doctor informed Azrael. “And it’s clear from her overall condition she’s been malnourished for some time to begin with. Her handmaiden should have washed her down with cool water, treated her with moisturizing lotions, and seen to it that she had plenty to drink if she was going to leave her unattended for the night.”

Serafina, pacing at the foot of the bed where other servants indifferently scrubbed at the bare mattress, belatedly realized she had come under attack and turned around.

The doctor bent Lan over her knees and felt up her back with hands that seemed to have been made of nettles. “Was the bed turned before she was put in it, by any chance?”

Serafina’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut. “It was…covered! It was all perfectly…perfectly suitable!”

“I see. Sunburn,” he declared, “exacerbated by allergens present in unkempt conditions.”

Serafina made a strangled huffing sound and punched her fists onto her hips.

“It isn’t serious, my lord,” the doctor went on, having a last peep down Lan’s gob. “She should be moved to cleaner surroundings and perhaps assigned a more attentive caretaker—”

“Quit taking shots at my handmaiden,” said Lan as Serafina sputtered. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“—but she’ll soon recover. See that she drinks often, clear fluids only, and if you must feed her, she’s to have soft foods in small portions. And, ah…rest. Rest, most of all. So if my lord were to find another, ah, outlet for his…that is to say, perhaps one of his other companions—”

“Balls to that!” Lan interrupted.

Azrael silenced her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I understand.”

“Good. Don’t hesitate to call on me if her condition changes to any degree, but do be aware that there’s likely to be some small cosmetic changes over the next few days. Peeling and so forth. Nothing to be alarmed over. Sunburns are rather unsightly,” he called as he headed off, “but entirely treatable and, I dare say, entirely preventable.”

Serafina followed him as far as the door, impotently outraged, then turned on Azrael. “My lord, I didn’t…! I would never…! She needed a bath!”

Lan roused herself to a reluctant sense of loyalty. “I did.”

Azrael stroked her hair, which hurt, then must have gestured because the servants stopped bustling around the bed and removed themselves. Serafina trailed them out, sniffing and muttering, and then they were alone.

“And I’m not sorry,” said Lan, reaching for his hand. “So don’t you dare apologize again.”

He allowed her to pull him down to sit beside her and brought her in under his arm. The chill of his body immediately soothed the stinging ache of her skin, a better balm than anything the doctor could have given her. She began to drowse again almost at once, despite her still-churning stomach.

“This is not the homecoming I would have wished,” he murmured.

“Maybe it’s for the best. I’m sure you’ve got lots of people waiting to see you.”

“I’m sure,” he agreed sourly. “One would think I’ve been away half the year with the amount of petty reports demanding my attention.”

“And if I weren’t so sick, I’d probably be jealous of you needing to spend all your time taking care of it instead of rolling around with me. See how it all works out?”

“Truly evidence of a greater design.” He stroked her hair some more. “Shall I have you moved to my chambers?”

She shook her head and the world swam. She grabbed at her temples, squeezing her eyes shut until she stabilized, and finally managed, “No. Not until I’m sure I won’t sick up in it. And not the Red Room. All those stairs.”

“Where, then?”

“Here is fine,” she mumbled without opening her eyes. “Here is just…just fine.”

He shifted her, pulling her into his arms and rising from the settee, but she was asleep before he could lay her down again in bed. She had only the faintest impression of the smell of clean sheets—such a uniquely Haveny smell—and then she was falling through it and into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was a bad day, alternately choking tea down and choking tea up, but those episodes became fewer as the hours dragged on and the sleep that interrupted them gradually became rest rather than simply unconsciousness. When night fell at last, she slept all the way through and woke feeling whole worlds better the next morning, as different from the Lan of yesterday as she was from the Lan of last year. At her request, Serafina brought porridge with her breakfast tea and when Lan was able to keep it down, more foods cautiously followed throughout the day.

Feeling recovered enough to get bored, Lan wandered Batuuli’s chambers during her alone hours, investigating empty drawers and cupboards, and when Serafina returned in the evening with her tray of tea, broth and two triangles of toast, optimistically buttered, Lan declared she was fit.

“You do look better,” Serafina allowed with a grudging nod. “Relatively. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you, but you are very fortunate, you know, that our lord found you when he did or you might have actually become seriously ill.”

“He didn’t have to find me,” said Lan. “He was already here.”

Serafina paused, then rather too casually brought the tray over and set it on the table beside the bed. “What do you mean, already here?”

“I mean he spent the night with me. Part of it, anyway.”

“Here? You mean you…and he…in this bed?” Serafina looked at the bed in much the same way the knee-benders of Anglais-en-Port looked at their little chapel every time the town boys got a little too free with the wine and snuck in to draw boobs on all the Jesus-men—not just as something vandalized, but something desecrated.

“Sorry,” said Lan, not even a little sorry. “If it helps, it was fairly straightforward sex. Nothing oddjob. Unless you count a little Aussie kiss.”

“No, it doesn’t ‘help!’” Serafina snapped. “Eat your dinner! Or, if you feel up to it, our lord’s other companions are dining in the great hall?”

“Really? All together-like? I thought that was discouraged.”

“Things changed during the…the…” Serafina blinked several times, frowning, then occupied herself with setting up Lan’s cup and saucer. “The time that things changed.”

“The purge.” Lan took the pot before her handmaiden could pour something she wouldn’t even drink. “You can say it. If you could do it, you can say it.” And because that wasn’t fair and she knew it, even if she still at least sort of believed it, she forced a lighter tone to say, “So now we all eat together?”

“Mornings and evenings. Your days are still very much separate. Will you be joining them or…?”

“Is Azrael there?”

“He has been meeting with his advisors all day. He may attend, but I rather doubt it. He didn’t bother with breakfast.”

Lan sighed, but in truth, her hopes had not been high. The man had been gone a long time. If she saw him at all over the next few days, she ought to be grateful, but she reminded herself it wouldn’t last. He’d get his business sorted out and the dead would mire themselves comfortably in their new routines and all would be well in Haven. Until then—

“I’ll go to the dolly-party,” said Lan without enthusiasm. “Help me get dressed?”

Serafina went to the wardrobe and returned with one of her old gowns, a scratchy nightmare in a summery shade of yellow that Lan had always absolutely despised. It had that musty, unused odor of clothing that had been shut up and forgotten, but it wasn’t as if the mice had been at it or anything. She put it on, feeling very vaguely superior to the dead, who seemed to throw out any old togs that got the least bit torn or worn, only to discover that the smell got stronger as the fabric warmed against her skin and it really was intolerable after all. Maybe one of Azrael’s other dollies would be willing to lend her a dress until hers could all be aired.

Batuuli’s old dressing table was dusty, so Serafina had to stop and wash everything. Lan tried to help, got her hands slapped, which she accepted with good cheer, and thereafter stayed out of the way, drinking nasty tea and chatting while her handmaiden cleaned up. Then came the paints, which Lan promptly smudged by rubbing at her eye, ruining not only her made-up face, but her gloves as well. Her necklace was heavy and all over edges, but she couldn’t scratch at it. The lace of her sleeves tickled her arms, but she couldn’t scratch at that either. She had forgotten how much of being pretty meant sitting still and not touching anything.

It all took so much longer than she remembered. By the time Serafina declared her fit to be seen, she fully expected the meal to be over, but the doors of the dining room were open and Lan could hear the musicians playing. Even better, Azrael’s steward bustled importantly away as soon as he saw her, so there was a good chance she’d be seeing Azrael himself before too long.

So encouraged, Lan went on in, noting first how empty it was. Apart from the two pikeman guarding the door itself, there were none lining the walls the way Lan remembered, and only a few servants. Most of the tables had been removed, leaving just two on either side of the dais at the north end of the hall. Of course, it didn’t take more than two tables to seat Azrael’s dollies. There were only eight of them now, and the girl, who had sprouted up considerably after a year of sheltered rest and good feeding. But no, Lan saw with a start, there were nine after all. The flute-player was with the orchestra and not eating with the others.

The empty hall, with its tiled floors and paneled walls, had made itself a room of echoes; the other women could not have been unaware of her arrival, but they knew they were all themselves accounted for and the comings and goings of servants held no interest for them. The child spared her a glance, but her game of catapulting a cherry down the bodice of none other than Miss Mannerly-Buggery-Do proved more exciting than some new face in the hall. Lan had to walk past the orchestra before her presence registered as a sudden shrill note on a silvery flute.

All the musicians fell silent at once, allowing the flute-player’s voice to ring out uncontested: “You!”

Now they all looked up. Eyes went wide. Mouths dropped open.

Lan plucked at her skirt, which she supposed she would be stuck wearing until her new togs came after all. “So,” she said lamely, nodding at the dinner platters. “What’s good?”

The simple question sparked a small flurry of movement—not from the living, but from the dead. Attending servants scattered, two of them comically colliding in their hurry to fetch a chair and set Lan’s usual place at the imperial table, beside Azrael’s empty throne.