10
Gideon heldher hand as he led her down into the lower levels of his castle. He carried a lit lantern as he descended the stairs, holding it aloft to light their way. She stayed close to him, her hand tightly clutching his. She was afraid.
She should be.
She very much should be.
He should be overjoyed. She accepted his darker nature without barely missing a beat. She was already calling him Gideon and seemed to empathize with why he had lied about his past to the court. She had kissed him for the very first time.
But it was not happiness that burned in him. It was a strange kind of anger. Everything was going so well. And now…now it will all be ruined.
Perhaps it could be salvaged. Leopold knew nothing of consequence to jeopardize the house of cards that he had built. Summoning his soul from the beyond would be a painful reminder of his loss that would hurt Marguerite’s progress of dealing with her grief. Or, perhaps, it might aid it. There was something to be said of saying goodbye.
No, it was not over his endangered plans that he was angry. Because that was not the only emotion that twisted in his stomach.
It was shame.
He had lied to her.
After promising that he would not, after giving her his vow, he had lied.
Yes, Marguerite. I commanded Leopold’s father to kill him. And I am furious that he failed. For if he had succeeded, you would have gone through the rest of our eternity together believing your friend had merely abandoned you.
And if you knew that I commanded the man who sired your friend…then it is an easy leap to deduce that I am responsible for the death of your father.
He had to lie. There was no other option. To tell her the truth would be to end all his careful work in bringing her here. He would tell her someday, long in the future when she was immortal, her love was his, and they were bound together as one. When he was certain she could forgive him.
But it hurt him to speak false when she had looked at him with such vulnerable hope and trust. It had hurt him deeply. Killing her father, and killing her friend, were means to an end. He did not wish them ill for personal reasons. But he had spoken true to her in every other regard. Most importantly, when he told her that he had to have her. She had to be his. He could not continue through the world without her at his side.
And so…they had to die.
And he had to keep his influence in it a secret.
When they reached his basement laboratory, he passed her the lantern, fished the iron key from his pocket, and undid the heavy lock that held the wooden door shut. Swinging it open, he retrieved the lantern from her and stepped inside. Taking the lit candle, he began to illuminate the stone chamber.
She stepped inside after him, clearly eager not to be lost in the all-encompassing darkness of the windowless stone hallways. As his far more secret and private place of study came into focus as he lit the candles, he heard her gasp.
Yes, he supposed it would be something to see. He was simply used to it. The center of the room was dominated by a large white circle painted permanently on the surface. It allowed him to change the shapes within and alter the magic as he saw fit, but the circle was constant, so he opted to paint it.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked several high, stretching up to the stone ceiling overhead. They were not only lined with books…but with the tools of his trade.
Skulls. Bones. Knives. Needles and thread. Jars of dark liquid that he could identify as blood, but she would likely only be able to guess at.
And a large birdcage sat in the corner—an aviary of sorts. When the creature within shifted, ruffling her feathers, Marguerite let out another loud gasp.
“Oh—Oh, God.”
Shrugging his robes from his shoulders, he placed it on the back of his chair. It was too warm in the room with no ventilation. Picking up a scrap of dried meat from his main desk, he walked to the aviary and reached a hand through the bars. “Hello, Eurydice,” he murmured to the undead vulture. “Forgive me for leaving you here alone for so long.”
His familiar ripped the dried meat from his hand and swallowed it down. It was clear the undead, rotted bird was irritated. He did not blame her.
When he heard footsteps, he turned to his bride. He had expected her to flee from the room—racing into the pitch-black darkness of the basement and screaming until unconsciousness took her. But instead, she was creeping toward the aviary. Her eyes were wide as disks, and she was clearly terrified.
Yet slowly, step by step, she approached the cage.
And with each cautious movement closer, his hope for her swelled.
Eurydice turned her head to peer at the young woman, the empty socket holding no eye with which to see. But it did not stop her from seeing all the same. Marguerite jolted in shock as the creature moved, and she hesitated, but then took another step closer.