He’s smart. Brilliant, in fact. And insightful, especially when it comes to the emotional turmoil of our favorite fictional characters. I enjoy our conversations more than I should and have tried my best to keep my own responses, and the feelings he stirs in me, to a minimum.
But tonight, as I'm about to drop my robe and step into the steaming water, the custom tiles warm under my feet, I stop him before he leaves. "Alaric, don't go. I'm lonely for company. Once I'm in the water, could you come and sit with me? Maybe read to me again?"
His back is to me, and he's frozen, his muscles stiffening, tension rolling off his shoulder. "You wish for my company?" he asks. "Here?"
"Yes." I slide into the water, the rose petals and foam hiding my nakedness. "You can look now."
He turns, his gaze clearly avoiding looking into the water as he takes a seat near the tub. He pulls out the book I knew he'd have in his housecoat and opens to a random page to read aloud.
I close my eyes and lean back, letting the hot water and oils and salts work their magic. His voice lulls me into a calm relaxation, and in that dazed state nothing matters but this moment, the here and now.
And then, a hot bucket of water is poured into my bath. I open my eyes, thinking it will be Alaric, but there is no body attached to the bucket. It is flying of its own accord.
I gasp, and splash to standing position, unconcerned with modesty as the bucket sets itself back where it was.
"What the snow-capped nightmare was that?" I ask.
But Alaric isn't listening to me, his eyes are glued to my naked body, and I suddenly realize how exposed I am.
I cover myself with one hand and hold out my other. "My robe please?"
He blinks, pulling out of his stupor, and averts his gaze, doing as I asked.
I shrug into it and tie the waistband as I step out of the water.
Alaric still won't look at me as he leaves the bathroom and enters my bedroom. "Dress yourself with warmth in mind. There's something you should see."
He doesn't look excited about the prospect of showing me whatever this secret is, but if he's asking me to dress warmly, it must mean we are going outside, and I am desperate for some fresh air. I've never spent this much time indoor in my entire life, even counting the month during the autumn equinox that my magic fully manifested and I became sick from it.
He waits in the hall while I dress as quickly as my still-healing body will allow. My original clothes have been cleaned and hung in the wardrobe, which also holds a variety of styles and sizes of dresses, trousers, tops and cloaks. I run a finger over them, and the hairs on my arm stand on end. I feel dizzy for a moment, and then it passes, and I reach for my clothes and slam the door shut, anxious to rid myself of those feelings.
I haven't forgotten about the floating bucket. He will answer me, one way or another. I have noticed a lot of strange things about this castle since I arrived. Fires stoking themselves, things moving when no one was in the room, footprints in the carpet in front of the fire when I was alone. I need answers.
Once dressed, I meet him in the hall, and he offers his arm. I would refuse, but I still feel weak, and this is the longest I'll have walked since the attack. I don't want to risk falling.
The potion I've been giving myself has helped me tremendously, but it's been a true lesson in self-discipline to not speed up my healing with my other spells. My right arm and neck still ooze and need regularly cleaning, and they hurt constantly. My left arm had the shallowest bites and is healing much faster, providing at least one semi-useful limb.
We make our way through long hallways decorated in silver and white, with splashes of blue in paintings and crystals. There are no portraits of Alaric anywhere, I notice, but I don't ask him about it. He becomes quite melancholic when pressed about his own life, so I've learned to tread carefully.
I find myself having to remind myself to stay focused on why I'm here. My dedication has been slipping the more he and I spend time together, but I can't allow that to happen. I've tried looking for opportunities to slip the poison to him, but he never eats or drinks in my presence. I asked him about it once and his cryptic reply was, "I do not have desirable table manners," and that was the end of the conversation.
And since I haven't left my bedroom until now, I've had no chance to look for a knife, but now I scan every hall, every corner we turn to see if anything could be pocketed and used as a weapon later.
Even as I consider this, I feel a twinge of guilt in my gut.
Can I really do this? Can I truly kill someone in cold blood who has nursed me back to health and fed me and been kind to me? But I remind myself that as soon as I'm well enough, he will dine on my blood and leave me for dead. Just like he did my parents.
It seems one of us must die in this relationship, and it needs to be him, to save everyone else.
This hardens my resolve, and he must feel me tense, because he tilts his head to glance at me. "Are you feeling ill? Should we stop?" he asks with so much care I want to punch him.
"I'm fine. Show me what's so important."
He frowns at the ice in my voice and my clipped manner, but doesn’t comment on it, so I don't either. We walk in silence down the spiral stairs and through the foyer, a large sitting room, a formal living room and finally to a back door.
The moment we step outside, I inhale the fresh cold air like my life depends on it. A witch without access to nature is a shell of herself.
Alaric pauses and watches me take deep breaths as I tilt my face up to the moon.
"You look beautiful under the moonlight," he says, so softly it takes my mind a moment to process his words.
I don't know how to respond directly to his compliment, so I sidestep it and ignore the warm glow his words light in me. "I've always loved the moon. She is a mystery who holds her secrets close to her, and yet shares her magic and wisdom with all who step under her beams."
"I have been apart from the sun for so long, I don't quite remember what it feels like. All I know now is the moon, and I think you are correct, she shares her magic, but never her secrets."
We walk together down a cobbled path, ice crunching beneath our feet, until we reach a hidden garden enclosed behind a tall stone fence.
Alaric approaches the door and uses a key from his pouch to unlock it, swinging the heavy wooden door inward.
Apprehension weighs on me as I approach, and my senses are on alert.
When I enter, I notice first the white vines growing over the walls, covered in tiny red flowers. Throughout the garden, everything is red or white. White barked trees with red leaves, red flowers with white stems, snow coating everything.
And in the center, row after row of gravestones.
I suck in my breath, my head spinning. "What is this place?" I ask through clenched teeth.
"It is my tribute to my victims. It is where I bury the dead."
My heart falters, and my legs grow weak.
If this is where all of his victims have been buried, then that means my parents are here too.
Chapter 6
The graveyard might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so tragic. Some of the stonework has faded with age and even more are overgrown with the vines that crawl across every inch of the wall bordering the space. Gray stone markers indicate first names only, and I wander from marker to marker, searching for the names most familiar to me. Near the back, I’ve almost given up when I spot them.