Cursed

The retinue entered Brynmor at a fast trot, quickly bypassing the village on the way up to the lord’s keep. The surrounding town was in shambles, barely starting to recover after an attack by a raiding hill tribe. Most of the buildings were nothing but smoking ruins. Hard-faced women directed droves of dirty children with soot-streaked faces as they picked through the ashes for anything of value that might have survived the infernos. Most of the men had been killed by the raiding party; only a few elders survived to see their lives reduced to rubble.

Near the front of the party, one of the conscripted mercenaries watched this with a veiled gaze, black eyes taking everything in and making note of it all. He had been brought in on this job as a consultant as well as a fighter. He’d quelled four hill tribes on various campaigns, all without resurgence. His expertise was needed according to Earl Gethin; the man had paid a pretty price to Arianrhod Kan Amrit for the use of her demon slave to prove it. He’d also paid for a full garrison of fifty men from Caer Kan Amrit until the tribe was put down.

They rode over the first drawbridge, then the second, and through the gatehouse into the courtyard. Brynmor Keep was a triangular, double-moated castle. It housed maybe thirty personal guards alongside the lord’s small family. All in all, it was well fortified, and could easily withstand siege for as long as the water and food stores lasted. It was the town below the keep that presented the problem. There was no protection whatsoever for the peasants. The earl’s livelihood was directly dependent on the survival of his workers. Without them, his money would dry up, and he’d eventually be ruined.

For all their barbaric techniques, the hill tribes weren’t stupid. They knew exactly where to strike to shut down the nobles. They were quick and deadly assassins, ruthless in their campaigns.

Earl Gethin met the party in the courtyard, waiting patiently to greet them. The demon dismounted and tossed his reigns to one of the other men under his command before making his way over to the stocky, dark-haired man.

“Welcome,” the lord said, smiling to show off yellowed teeth. “I greet you warmly, Nhyrfau of the Demons. Your mere presence eases my worries.”

Grimacing, the demon fought back the urge to correct the man’s mispronunciation of his name. These bastard humans couldn’t seem to wrap their tongue around the language. They all had a tendency to pronounce it ‘ner-foh’, something akin to the Sidhe language, but it was ‘near-fow’.

Putting on his most sincere smile, he nodded, murmuring, “Your hospitality is most appreciated, Lord Gethin.” He couldn’t help but wryly note the differences in their stature. He fairly towered over the portly little man. Where the earl was soft, Nhyfau was rock hard. He could easily crush this man with one swing of his fist, and yet he was forced to be polite and pay homage. It rubbed him the wrong way, even more so than being a slave to Arianrhod. She, at least, was powerful enough to control him; she had earned the right to exact his service. This man merely paid for what he wanted and cowered in the dernier ressort* until the danger passed.

The demon sniffed a bit at that, turning from the human to direct his men. Before long the horses were stabled and fed, the gear properly stowed away. The earl directed them into the great hall after they’d done with their ministrations to the animals.

He was very excited as he spoke with Nhyrfau about the festivities he’d planned for their stay. “It’s a celebration,” he explained, eyes alight when they paused before the doors to the great hall. He threw them wide to display the roaring fires and the spitted hogs sizzling over the pits, the performers doing acrobatics and various tricks in the center of the room. “Come, come!” he commanded with a jovial laugh, directing the men to the tables that lined the room. He brought Nhyrfau with him to the dais where his personal table was situated, seating the demon in the place of honor at his side.

As soon as the earl had taken his place, a trail of servants entered the hall bearing a variety of foods. They set trays of bread at intervals along the tables, followed by fresh fruits, sliced meats, and even a hot porridge. After Gethin had taken his pick of the trays, everyone else was allowed to take their share.

Nhyrfau selected a small loaf of bread and a few pieces of the meats, forgoing the fruits. His palate was more accustomed to live food, but Arianrhod had accustomed him to some cooked things. Fruit just didn’t settle well no matter how much he was forced to eat it, though.

While they ate, the performers split apart into different acts. The first they saw were performances of speed and agility. Intricate dances of leaps and bounds between two young girls. They wove around each other, diving between legs without touching the other, somersaulting over each other in amazing displays.

After them a song and dance troupe performed. It was a peasant’s song that described the folly of infidelity, a rather comedic bit. Nhyrfau couldn’t help his laughter as the actors performed the piece to perfection, the man reeling at the hearty slap that caught him across the cheek when his wife caught him between the sheets with another woman. The performance ending with a warning to be faithful—or at least discreet. The demon applauded heartily, thoroughly amused by the show.

Still chuckling every once in a while, he returned his attention to his plate, sawing off a few bites of meat. He chewed thoughtfully as the next performance started. A cloaked figure was led into the room, the form shrouded in a thin, black blanket. It allowed the viewer slight glimpses of the person beneath. All of a sudden a drum beat sounded, starting off a slow rhythm to which the figure jerkily responded. The movements pulsated in time to the beat, picking up when the sounds quickened, and then the cloak was suddenly thrown away with a flourish to reveal a Midnight Fairy.

The rest of the musicians picked up and the fairy twirled and danced, her long black locks creating a dancing curtain to mimic the movements of her body. Her outfit was a shredded, multi-layered dress that easily caught air and twirled when she did. Every so often she would flutter her black wings, lifting her body from the floor to continue the dance aloft for a few moments before drifting gracefully back to the floor, the layers of the dress wafting gently about her legs.

All of a sudden the music changed and a man entered the pulpit, circling around the young fairy until she was dancing in front of the closed doors of the great hall. The beat became ominous, something that made one’s heart plummet to the stomach and then up to the throat. And then the tension broke when the man threw a knife at the girl.

Nhyrfau almost came out of his seat, but she quickly spun out of the way, the knife striking the wood where her head had been. He relaxed somewhat, forcing himself to sit still and watch her perform, though he couldn’t help that his hands clenched tightly on the arms of the chair each time a dagger flew at her slender form. Each time she ducked and dodged, slithered just a hair’s breadth shy of being killed. It was a heady feeling to watch such a deadly dance, and the demon could feel something inside him stirring; he wanted to taste her.

Her performance continued for some while, each feat getting more and more harrowing, before it reached a death-defying climax. The man held four tiny daggers in his hands, displaying them aloft for the crowd to see while the girl continued to dance. And then he threw them one after the other in quick succession, chasing her flight along the doorway. She dodged each one with four quick spins, ending in a very low curtsy to the thunderous applause of the audience. The man took her hand and led her to the center of the floor, presenting her to the lord’s table.

“Excellent, excellent!” Gethin cheered, applauding wildly. He stood and inclined his head to the fairy, obviously enthralled by her performance.

The man next presented her to each of the tables in turn, and then they left the hall. The festivities of the night dwindled down as the lord slowed the flow of food and ale, not wanting his guests to be ill-equipped to do their jobs the following day. When he excused himself for the night, the room soon emptied of all but the mercenaries. They were to sleep in the hall during their stay. Nhyrfau had made sure each man wore a thick cloak to protect against the cool damp of the castle. He watched as they marked out niches along the walls as their own, avoiding the offal of the night’s feast that littered the crushed rushes.

Nhyfau entered the kitchens soon after, knowing the entertainers would be enjoying their own food for the night before bedding down. He immediately caught sight of the fairy where she sat on one of the tables, eating an apple as the other performers congratulated her on another great performance. She inclined her head graciously and complimented them each in their own right.

The chatter soon died down when they realized there was an outsider among them, but knowing smirks lit their faces when they realized who it was the demon watched so intently. The head of the troupe separated himself, extending a muscled arm to Nhyrfau in greeting. “Welcome,” he murmured, as the demon grasped his arm. “You would like to speak to our star?” he wondered, winking with a slight chuckle.

Shaking his head at how transparent he was being, Nhyrfau had the grace to laugh back at the man’s teasing. “I would,” he confirmed, waiting as the man went to speak with the fairy. He wondered why it was that this woman set him aflame, made him abandon all of his reserve. Arianrhod was a beautiful woman, deadly in her own right, but she didn’t compare to the beautiful creature before him.

The fairy nodded at the man’s whispered words, smirking when she jumped off the table and advanced on Nhyrfau. “We were hired for your benefit,” she told him as she neared. “I suppose I owe you thanks. We’d have starved for a week on the road to a new town had Gethin not brought you here.” She extended her hand to him, a sparkle of irony lighting her violet eyes. “I am Crescentia.”

He took the hand, grasping her forearm firmly, as he would when greeting an equal. “Nhyrfau,” he responded, smiling warmly. “I had wondered if we might speak…privately.” He knew he was being forward, but in his lifestyle there was no room for formalities and playful innuendo. He had a limited amount of time to exercise his freedom among Gethin’s retainers. Once he returned to Caer Kan Amrit, it would be to a life of slavery and celibacy. Arianrhod would not afford him the courtesy of a bedmate.

Some of this must have been communicated to Crescentia, or maybe she just recognized the spark of admiration and lust in his black eyes. Whatever the case, she smiled knowingly, winding her fingers through his. “Follow me,” she murmured, leading him from the kitchen and into an adjoining hallway. She fisted her hands into his tunic, carefully leaning back against the wall and pulling him down to meet her lips.

The touch was searing in its intensity and Nhyrfau quickly lost himself in the sweetness of her caress. Reaching up to wind his hands in her hair and deepen the kiss, he silently admitted he could easily get used to this.

***

Sighing, the woman crossed her arms more tightly under her breasts, hugging her body as she stared out the tower window into the courtyard. Her face was set in a frown, the smooth white skin marred by her annoyance. Arianrhod wondered not for the first time what her sister was up to. Branwen had found something in one of her boring books and refused to share. It wasn’t right that a coven of witches—a group of SISTERS—couldn’t be honest with each other. Arianrhod hated secrets, and she especially hated that they were being kept from her.

Down by the stables, Branwen was mounting her white horse, obviously preparing for a long journey. Her saddlebags were bulging with supplies, and the witch even wore her traveling cloak. With a loud cry, she kicked the stable-hand away and tore out of the keep, riding hard on the winding cliff road that led to the nearby town of Aberfeldy.

“And so she leaves,” she intoned coldly, spinning from the window with a flourish. Her long, white-blonde curls whipped around harshly with the force of the movement. The flowing sleeves and skirt of her black satin gown were caught up by the speed of the motion, as well, fluttering in a graceful arc before settling.

The demon attendant that stood respectfully behind her didn’t open his mouth at her comment, merely watched her pace back and forth in front of the window. It was obvious she was two steps away from a full tirade. He wondered what she would break this time, which foul curse she would level and on whom. Someone always felt the wrath of Arianrhod Kan Amrit’s rages.

Cursing, the small woman threw her hands up in righteous indignation, obviously frustrated with her ignorance. “Come, Nhyrfau,” she commanded haughtily, snapping her fingers as she brushed by him and left the tower. Her slippered feet whispered down the stone steps that wound down to the lower levels of the castle.

She threw the door to her room wide, not caring when it smashed against the wall, ruining a priceless portrait. She was on a mission and hadn’t a moment to waste. Branwen would arrive in Aberfeldy shortly, and Arianrhod wanted to know exactly what the woman was doing. Digging through the chest at the foot of her bed, she negligently tossed silks and implements aside until she found what she was looking for near the bottom.

“Come,” she commanded Nhyrfau again, motioning him to her side. She pointed at the heavy silver mirror in the bottom, saying, “Take it out for me.”

As he bent over and grabbed the mirror, Arianrhod couldn’t help but admire her demon slave. A harsh smile tugged at her lips as her eyes roved over his lithe form from head to foot and back again, lingering lovingly on the enchanted bronze collar that encased his neck; large, curved, red hematite spikes ran around the collar, framing his lovely neck to perfection and setting off the short white-blonde locks of his hair. His cheeks were covered with a few days worth of beard, the light stubble creating a stark contrast against his gray skin.

Her gaze moved downward, enchanted by the heavy slabs of muscle that covered his large frame. His back tensed, the muscles cording up as he lifted out the mirror. A low purr of approval tickled at the back of her throat, but she held it back, reminded of the task she’d set herself.

Dark brown eyes narrowing in determination, she directed, “Hold it up before me. And keep it still.” The threat of punishment if he failed hung unspoken in the air. Arianrhod knew she didn’t have to speak these things to him anymore; he knew well what failure meant.

Nhyrfau carefully stepped over the strewn clothing and tools, making sure not to touch any of it with his boots. She was allowed to destroy her things, but if he so much as smudged one of those satins, he knew she’d make him pay. He braced himself, tilting the mirror back until she motioned for him to stop.

“There,” she confirmed, nodded as she twisted a string of pearls around her fingers, eagerly staring into the polished silver plane. “Show me Branwen,” she commanded, blonde eyebrows winging up in anticipation.

The mirror swirled from a reflection of the young woman, filling with a colorless mist, and then settling into a hazy image of Aberfeldy. Branwen was just riding into town, her long hair trailing out behind her in a strawberry-blonde banner of streamlined curls. She pulled the white mare to a skipping halt in front of one of the many shops littering the small, coastal town. She entered the shop, seeking out the keeper. Arianrhod was surprised to see she’d merely entered the book shop. When she would have brushed this away as inconsequential, however, she realized that her sister had leveled a silencing spell. None who eavesdropped would be able to hear the ensuing conversation between witch and book keeper.

Eyes flying wide, Arianrhod screamed incoherently and made a swiping motion with her hand, clearing the mirror of the image. “Useless!” she raged, fisting her hands into her curls and tugging insistently. She released the hold on her hair to grab the nearest object—a silver music box—and toss it at the window. The window shattered, the haunting sound of a child’s lullaby wafting up to them before the box smashed onto the cobblestones below.

Belatedly, Arianrhod realized she’d tossed a present her mother had given her, and a horrified look crossed her face. That seemed to calm her somewhat, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap, eyes filling with tears. Damn her temper! She never could keep calm. It was no wonder Branwen refused to share secrets with her.

Nhyrfau carefully returned the mirror to the chest before crouching before her, black eyes boring into her face. He sometimes forgot that she was nearly two hundred years old. She had the face and the temper of a child. Quietly, he wondered, “Does Mistress require anything?”

Sniffling, she lurched forward and nestled against him, rubbing the hard muscle of his pectoral with her wet cheek. “Pet me,” she commanded him, wrapping her arms around his middle, and continuing to cry against his gray skin.

The demon did as he was told, running his hands carefully down her silk-covered back, over the soft waves of her hair. He would give anything to have the luxury to sigh and roll his eyes at her antics. It seemed like centuries since he’d been free to do as he pleased. In reality, the witch had only called him from Svefnlyf Látlaus ten years earlier. Svefnlyf Látlaus was the home of many of the demon races, his own thunder brethren included, a parallel plain connected to the mortal realm by the most tenuous of magic links. His kind didn’t belong amongst these races for extended periods of time. The mortal plain weighed him down, and each year he could feel his link to the homeland growing weaker. Soon, he wouldn’t have the power to return, and all for one witch’s greed and pride. He had resigned himself to this fate, looking forward to the times she hired him out as a mercenary to the local warlords. Even that respite was rare, though. The last time he’d seen action outside of the walls of Caer Kan Amrit had been seven months prior.

Arianrhod soon relaxed against him, unaware of his thoughts. Her mind was still centered on Branwen’s secrecy. Voice heavy with emotion, she murmured, “She can’t keep her secret forever. I will know what it is she’s doing.” Nodding at her conclusion, she extricated herself from her slave’s body, standing to smooth her gown and wipe the tears from her face. She was a Kan Amrit, and they weren’t weak. She didn’t have the luxury of tears.

A knock sounded on her door, interrupting her thoughts. “Enter,” she called on a sigh, fussing with her hair, rearranging curls so they fell just so.

The young woman entered, curtsying politely. Holding that position, head bowed, she said, “There is someone here asking to see the demon, Mistress.”

The blonde’s eyebrow winged up and a dark smile lit her face. “Someone to see my darling slave?” she wondered, bringing a finger up to tap against her chin. “Come, my demon,” she intoned mockingly. “Let us meet your friend, hmm?” She swept from the room, rudely pushing past the servant on her way to the forestair and down to the great hall, not even looking back to see if Nhyrfau followed.

When she entered the great hall, she was greeted with a wholly unwelcome sight. A Midnight Fairy roamed the room, studying one of the many tapestries that hung on the wall. The particular piece she was looking at depicted the rise of the Kan Amrit through a bloody war against a sorcerer’s cannibalistic coven. It was a gory piece, and the fairy looked disgusted by what she saw. It was apparent in the way her pouty lips curled up, marring the smooth beauty of her very white skin. Her eyes widened as she reared back from the wall hanging, pert nose wrinkling up, black hair ruffling with the movement. Her black wings fluttered a bit, revealing a silvery sparkle around the edges of the thin, fibrous membranes.

Arianrhod could fairly taste the sex appeal rolling off of the creature, and it made her furious. Without a word being spoken, she knew what her precious slave had done. She felt her blood boil at the realization of Nhyrfau’s idiocy. Coupled with the obvious fact that the fairy was more beautiful than she, it was enough to send her into a rage. It wasn’t that she wanted the demon for more than a role of slave; it was the fact that he had stepped outside of her control!

The fairy turned as she sensed someone else in the room. Her surprised violet gaze met with Arianrhod’s angry brown eyes. She then shifted to take in Nhyrfau where he stood behind the small blonde woman. “We need to talk,” she informed him gravely, hands automatically stealing to the hitherto unnoticed bulge at her middle.

Eyes widening, Nhyrfau wished desperately that the fairy hadn’t come, and he wished even more desperately that she hadn’t revealed their affair. He and Crescentia had met when he was hired by one of the local lords as a mercenary. The fairy had been a street performer at the time and she’d caught Nhyrfau’s eye. They had a torrid four day affair before the campaign was settled and he was sent back to Caer Kan Amrit, back to Arianrhod’s control. He’d thought he’d never see the girl again, but now here she stood, proof of his child swelling in her belly. His mistress would not like this at all, and she wouldn’t hesitate to punish Crescentia for it.

“Indeed,” Arianrhod cut in, once more capturing the girl’s attention. “If you have something to say to my SLAVE, you may address it to me.” Her voice was snide, the tone overwhelmingly condescending. She didn’t want it to escape the creature’s attention that SHE was the lady here, and the demon had no say in anything unless Arianrhod said he did.

Dark brows furrowing, the fairy crossed her arms under her breasts, face distorting harshly. “Slave or not, his child grows in my womb. I have a right to speak with him about this.”

“So sorry,” the witch shot back in mock sweetness, “but you don’t. He is my property and will not speak unless I give him permission. I don’t see what you could possibly ask of him, my dear. He has nothing to give you, and I will not release him to father your bastard child.” Smiling wolfishly, Arianrhod straightened her spine and leaned back into the demon’s chest, taunting the girl with her closeness to him. “Your best option,” she told the fairy, “would be to hire a midwife to mix a few herbs and rid you of the burden.” She prayed her words struck the whore right in the heart.

Her eyes widened at the harshness, a gasp leaving her. “I could never do that to my own child!” she exclaimed indignantly, hands protectively fastening over her stomach. “You are a soulless wretch,” she muttered harshly, shaking her head as she went to move around the woman toward the door.

Eyes flaring, Arianrhod snatched the fairy back by her arm, forcing the taller woman backward onto the feasting table. She glared down into the fairy’s shocked face, leaning down to whisper into the prone woman’s ear. “Fear not, my dear. I will not harm YOU.” That sharp smile came to her face again, and her free hand trailed up the fairy’s thigh and hip before settling against her stomach.

A warm, burning sensation settled into her guts, and the fairy cried out in anguish, trying to curl up around the pain, but the witch’s body prevented that. She was forced to lie back against the table while it felt like her insides were burning away. She convulsed against the agony, managing to demand through gritted teeth, “What are you doing to me?!”

Arianrhod shushed her, placing a little kiss against her chin. “Hush, darling, this will be over soon.” And then she crouched before the woman, hands placed on either side of her distended belly as she whispered, “Can you hear me, Child? I place a curse upon you and all you spawn. You will have the worst of the demon aura.” Eyes lighting with an inner fire, the last of the bane came out in a sibilant hiss: “Blood lust!”

The fire in the great hearth hissed and popped, roiling higher as the level of energy in the room sparked. The fairy screamed, rolling into the fetal position as the agony multiplied tenfold. Even Nhyfau felt the witch’s power coursing through his body, exciting his own blood lust. He threw his head back, basking in the feeling of warmth that raced through his veins. His fangs ached to settle into something alive and struggling, and his mouth watered with the sudden need to feast.

He knew his eyes had to have gone orange and gold; he could feel his own power rising. Electricity sparked around the room, but he held it back with an iron tight grasp. If he lost control now, Crescentia would die. He would never forgive himself if he killed an innocent. Turning from the two women, he placed his hands on the wall, breathing deeply through his nose and out his mouth to calm himself.

Arianrhod laughed gaily, clapping her hands together once, and then spreading them to encompass the screaming girl and aroused demon. “You two make quite the pair,” she teased mercilessly, loving that she’d caused them both discomfort. When the fairy kept shrieking, the witch curled her lip in distaste. “Put her to sleep, Nhyrfau,” she demanded, the tone of her voice brooking no refusal. “I don’t like that sound.”

Body quivering as he fought for control, he jerkily pushed away from the wall and walked before Crescentia. He placed his hands at her throat and closed down the veins on either side of her neck, closing his eyes against the terrified look in her expressive violet gaze. Her shrieks soon died down to moans and then nothing at all. “Just stay asleep,” he whispered desperately, touching her mind with a bit of his own power to soothe her pain. He forced himself to let go and back away, hiding his hands behind his back so he didn’t reach for her again and try to take her blood.

His mistress made a small sound of approval and then made a dismissive motion with her hand, as if to cleanse herself of the whole affair. “I’m bored of this,” she drawled lazily. “I feel like going for a ride. The sea air will do us both good.” She strode from the room, paying no attention whatsoever to the silent form sprawled across the table; in Arianrhod’s mind, Crescentia no longer existed.

Nhyrfau was loath to follow, but he had no choice. The witch owned him and he could no more deny her than he could his need to breathe. By the time they returned, he had no doubt that Crescentia would be removed from the keep and left somewhere until she reawakened. This would be the last time he saw her, and it made his breath hitch at all of the hardships visited upon her. He wasn’t even able to tell her what to expect from her coming child because of Arianrhod’s brutality. His mistress was right; the best thing she could do now was get rid of it. The child would be a bane on its mother and everyone else it came into contact with. The blood lust would rule its life to an extent never seen among the demon-born; it would destroy everyone it touched should it be allowed to live, and that was partially his fault. There was nothing he could do about it now, though. He didn't even have the power to rid her of it without killing her. With regret in his eyes, he forced himself to turn away from her and follow Arianrhod to the stables, a piece of him dying inside at what he'd done.

[Brynmor Keep is modeled on Caerlaverock Castle. You can see a picture here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Caerlaverock_Castle_from_the_air.jpg

*Dernier resort – last refuge in a fortress]