Moonless (11 page)

29

Hate 

Kiren froze at the locked door, cringing under her repressed sob. She must think him a monster.

He pulled a hand through his hair, fighting the need to throw the door open and wrap her in his arms, to apologize and promise to do whatever she asked of him. But how would she respond? She didn’t want any part of his world.

He swallowed.
Yes, Alexia, you are the wiser of us. Cling to your hate. It will save you, save us both.

Edward could be here by first light. Edward would alter her memory so no trace of this experience remained. Tomorrow he would restore her peace and send her away.

30

Going Free

Brilliant fog encircled sleeping Alexia. The haze pulsed, condensing into a solid form. Gleaming clear skin caught the light . . .

A hand fell over Alexia’s mouth. Her eyes popped open.

“Shh.” Bellezza’s face came into view, glossy white against the dark room.

Alexia sat.

The girl grinned. “Let’s go.” She stepped to the open door, glancing back and forth out into the hall. She returned, tossed an arm around Alexia’s waist, and braced her, alarmingly strong. “We don’t have far.”

“How did you—?”

The child’s glare stopped her.

Out of the room they staggered, into a narrow, dark hall. They arrived at a shadow-strewn and very treacherous stairwell.

Alexia gasped. She’d never left the old Stark house. They stood on the second floor, the one she’d neglected to explore.

Bellezza stepped down the first incline and Alexia had no choice but to follow. They progressed slowly, eventually reaching the final step. The girl pushed the exit open to the white stones and ghostly thin grass of the once stately patio.

“Good luck to you, Alexia.”

“Come with me. You do not have to stay here.”

“But I like it here.” The imp-child smirked. “There is a gap in the east wall. Tread lightly.” She disappeared into the house.

***

The unnerving Miles found Alexia wandering the streets beneath a sliver of the moon and delivered her to the inn Sarah had been staying at since she disappeared.

Her aunt squeezed the life out of her. “I have been so frightened! What happened to you?”

“I fell.” She indicated her knee.

“And?”

Her lips snapped tight. What would Sarah do? Send men out to the house of Stark? Beat down the doors and seek to imprison the occupants? And how many of them would end up dead at Bellezza’s whims?

“I am sorry, Sarah. I have been unconscious.”

Her aunt’s brows drew, mouth squeezing in frustration, in disbelief. She shook her head. “After two days of searching, I sent a letter home. Charles will be out of his mind! We must return immediately.”

Alexia shuddered. Yes, take her away—far, far away and never let her come back. She had no desire to be anywhere near that house or face the terror of moonless nights, especially if it meant never having to see
him
again.

Her heart throbbed.

***

They arrived home a week later to Father’s diminished trust. He had eyes on Alexia at all times. If not him, Maurine kept her company, and at night he posted a servant outside her door.

She watched her parents closely, but it was as she’d believed. There was nothing uncommon about either of them—so that made Bellezza a liar.

She dreamed repeatedly about
him
, waking either in dread or earnest longing. Every time he had come, every time she had seen him resulted in pain or tragedy: the baron’s death, her attack in the woods, the house in Wilhamshire . . . The only exception was the once when he turned away on the night of her birthday.

Whether she feared him or not, she couldn’t forget his magnificence, and it shamed the rest of her dull world.

Maurine poked her head into the room, brown eyes wide.

Alexia sat up. “What is it?”

“The gentleman,” the servant panted, “the one what made an offer for your hand, the one what your father favors, he’s come!”

Alexia leapt to her feet. She hurried down the hall, reaching the top of the stairs as the study door opened. She hid behind the railing.

A gray-headed man backed out, halting in the doorway to shake hands with Father. The suitor held his thin frame with dignity, a true gentleman. His dark jacket had been embroidered with a fine floral pattern, the kind of vesture kings wore. She could not discern his conversation, but he spoke with a directness befitting the highest caste. 

She shivered. At least he had a full head of hair, even if he was old. No, she had to find someone, someone she could be happy with.
Old
was not an option.

There was always Rupert . . .

The man turned to go, and she caught a glimpse of even-set and smiling eyes, a straight nose, and a proud chin. In his youth he must have been quite striking. He was still, for being old. And she had seen him before—though they’d never met. He’d been one of the unfamiliar faces the night Baron Galedrew disappeared.

He escaped her line of vision, and she returned to the quiet of her room. Could she settle for old?

***

Social events terrified Alexia. Young men who showed interest at a neighbor’s picnic lacked a hunger-inducing set of blue eyes. At church, old men vying for her attention wore such lecherous gazes that she claimed the ancient chapel induced sickness and refused to return. Company of any sort felt drab in comparison to
him
, as if he had leached all the color out of the world and drawn it into his own being.

The loneliness weighed on her. She wrote Rupert. She apologized for her slight and expressed that she missed him and hoped he excelled in his training.

“You look positively sick,” Maurine observed as Alexia sat in her room, again pondering the facts.

She smiled up at the maid. “I am well.”

“You can be well and lovely and sick in the heart at the same time.”

Alexia lifted her book on fifteenth century France before her childhood nanny could assess her health more.

“What you need is to travel instead of burying your head in these silly books. Have you no friends? No place to go? What do normal girls your age do with themselves?”

Normal
. She cringed at the word, gaze darting to the bureau where his card hid.

“There must be some young gent who’s caught your fancy.” Maurine edged closer, her brows scrunched down.

Alexia’s grip bit into the book as she recalled him kneeling before her, his face turned up to hers, consuming eyes begging her to accept his help.

She gasped and pulled her finger away from the book, a drop of blood rolling from a paper cut.

The nanny wetted a handkerchief and wrapped the cut. “That’s the look of a woman in love.”

“I am not—”

“Why not send an invitation for your father’s ball?”

She blanched. Ask him here?

Maurine lifted an elegant invitation, not yet addressed. “I can scribe your father’s hand. Even he can’t tell the difference.”

Alexia dropped her book and stepped to the bureau. She slid his card from the drawer, her fingers caressing the faded ink. She must either surrender to Father’s match and accept that she would be the wife of a stranger, commit herself to a loveless marriage with a friend, or open herself to the truth and fight for an alternative.

She wanted to fight. She would not be forced into a match like Sarah’s or steal away what future happiness Rupert might know. But mostly, she
needed
to see him again.

Disgusted with herself, she offered the card to Maurine. “Make it a good counterfeit.”

What injury, what pain, what difficulty or calamity did she welcome now?

31

Allies

August. Tonight was the night. Alexia paced the upper halls, attempting to keep the horror at bay.

He wasn’t coming.

He wouldn’t come.

He couldn’t come! She really shouldn’t worry.

The bell rang.

“A caller, my lady!”

She took a deep breath and aimed for the study. Of course there’d be at least one futile attempt to woo her before the ball.

Confident shoulders faced the window, supporting a crisscrossed costume, hands clasped at his posterior. Light brown hair ended in a fashionable tail, head turning as she approached.

“Rupert?”

“Hello, Alexia.” He bowed, hazel eyes dancing merrily. He’d thickened in a very masculine fashion and finally succeeded at growing a mustache, though it seemed ill-fitted.

She curtsied absently, too astounded by the changes.

He leaned as if wanting to approach, but stayed his ground, gaze bouncing to Maurine as she entered.

“How was military training? When did you return? Are you finished with your service? Will you attend tonight?”

His mouth fell open, but nothing tumbled out.

“I am so glad you came!” She threw her arms around him. Maurine cleared her throat and Alexia realized, self-consciously, her mistake. They belonged to the adult world now. They couldn’t interact as freely as they once had. She let go.

Ru stood stiffly, cheeks brilliant.

“Did you receive my letters?” she asked quietly.

“All two?” His brow rose. “Yes, I have them.”

This was also taboo. His tone evidenced he felt the weight of her inappropriate behavior. A young woman had no business soliciting a man’s attention, not without formal parental involvement.

“Oh, Ru, I am so sorry.” Alexia blushed. She ached to divulge the reasons for her thoughtlessness, but found her maid’s constant eyes too stifling. “I feel like I have not seen you in ages!”

And then a new thought: she recalled how they last parted, his proposal—and here he stood, as a caller in the private study with no interference from Father. She reprimanded herself for not realizing sooner what this must mean.

“How is Abby?”

“She is in Kingston,” he reported.

“Kingston?”

“Taking care of our great aunt.”

“Oh?”

He grimaced. “Our parents hope the old bat will die and favor her with property.”

“Poor thing!”

He smiled. “I know.”

Alexia remembered the couch and sat. He joined her.

“I have not written her once this summer. Does she hate me?”

Ru looked away.

“Well, I probably deserve it.” He attempted to protest but she cut him off, leaning closer.
 “You would be wise to keep your distance as well.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “Why should I do that?”

She studied her hands.

Rupert lifted her chin. “We are friends, Alexia. I will not ever abandon you.”

Maurine cleared her throat from the chair by the window. Rupert’s fingers fell away.

Alexia spoke even more softly, “Can I trust you with a very strange secret?”

His brow crinkled. “Haven’t you always?”

She took a deep breath. Indeed they had always confided in one another, but this confession would test the strength of their bond.

Alexia nodded and told him of Bellezza, Baron Galedrew’s death, her attack in the woods, the house in Wilhamshire, and the two beings she’d heard talking. She related the legends of moonless killers, her confinement, being healed, and her escape. She confessed everything—the understanding she was different, her suspicion about Sarah fitting the same category, that there were others, dangerous others. She even included her embarrassing bewitchment. It felt so good to have a co-conspirator! She didn’t know if he believed her, but sensed he wanted to.

Skepticism tweaked Rupert’s frown. “This man from the baron’s, you expect him tonight?”

“I do not know.” They sat quiet a moment. She shivered.

His hand landed on top of hers. “If he attends, I will be here to protect you.”

Alexia debated pulling her fingers away, but the relief of having someone to trust stopped her. Rupert had always been there for her.

His eyes darted to Maurine as the maid’s head drooped. He slid closer and placed an arm tenderly about her shoulders. “Powerful or not, a bullet will stop any man, especially if he tries to hurt you.”

A year ago she’d have mocked him for this show of bravery, but in their current status, it fit. He was a good man.

She took a breath. “Thank you.”

“My offer . . .” He reddened sheepishly. “. . . it still stands, you know.”

“I know.” Alexia smiled. “But I cannot accept any offer before living through the night.”

“And if you do?”

“Ru . . .”

“Right.” He bobbed, his blush spreading. “We will wait and see.”