Page 43 of Jailer to the Death God
He’s wearing his human coloring, but I find myself craving the satiny jade skin of his godly aspect, wishing for the antlers or the four horns, longing for the giant ebony wings. He would fill this room with his nightmare glory, and these men would crumple and worship him. What a sight that would be!
Arawn’s frown is softening while I gaze at him. Quickly I rein in the admiration that must be showing on my face. “Still,” I say, clearing my throat. “I suppose you may stay, even if you weren’t invited.”
“Yes, stay,” echoes Lord Venniroth, eyeing Arawn. “Some of us have questions for you.”
“Questions later,” Arawn says. “First, a dance with the Queen.”
He holds out his hand, his body stiff. Cautiously I place my palm over his, and he cups my waist. We move back into the flow of the music, and I’m pleased to find that he understands the steps, though he remains rigidly aloof.
“Did you accomplish your—business?” I ask in an undertone.
“I did.”
“And is all well back home?”
“Not exactly.” A muscle ticks along his jaw.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it. But you know I can’t spare you often.”
“And I’d rather not leave you again unless I have to.”
A quivering thrill pierces my heart. But then he adds, quickly, “Because the contract between us makes it uncomfortable for me to be apart from you for long. I begin to feel a strong pull, and then pain.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Hm.” Arawn angles us away from the others, toward the far end of the ballroom where three pairs of narrow doors open onto the garden. The doors are closed, their window panes frosted over.
“So you’re going to marry one of these drones, or that diabolical lord with the murderous eyes?” he asks.
“Not him.” I shudder. “Not Venniroth, though he is the Council’s first choice. No, I must find someone more kind-hearted, more malleable—”
“I’ll test their worthiness for you,” Arawn offers. “It will be the work of a moment.”
“No!” I clutch his fingers tighter—long, strong fingers, wonderfully shaped male fingers. “No, you can’t go around touching everyone’s forehead. And I can’t dance with you any longer—I need to speak with the candidates.”
“Very well.” He releases me, turning on his heel and offering his hand to a blushing noblewoman.
I allow myself to be swept away by first one lord, then another. I dance with Captain Yerron, nibble potato dumplings with Lord Jestin, and indulge in two glasses of wine with Master Ward, all the while eyeing Arawn and his ever-changing carousel of giddy partners. He dances with a few men, too, and they seem just as awestruck as the women. If they’re questioning him, he must be satisfying their curiosity adeptly.
I haven’t drunk more than half a glass of wine in months. Foolish of me to drink two glasses tonight. The warm haze of the alcohol spreads through my body, swims in my brain. My skin heats, burning beneath my layered clothes.
Air. I need cold, fresh air.
The musicians dive into a livelier tune, and amid the clapping hands, jigging feet, and jostling bodies, I’m able to slip away. My bodyguards are watching Arawn dance with two lithe, rosy-cheeked women—he’s bright-eyed, smiling, almost laughing.
I don’t care to name the sour, sick creature that crawls around my heart, tightening with every sly smile Arawn casts over the two women.
I will suffocate if I stay in this room a moment longer.
My fingers find the handle of a door—it gives way, and I slip out into the dark, frosty air of the garden, closing the door swiftly and quietly behind me.
The cold bathes my heated skin as I walk between the dry, papery stalks in the flowerbeds. My dance shoes slip a little on the ice-glazed cobblestone of the path. Bare trees stretch pale crooked limbs up to the dome of the black sky, where a glowing white moon hangs low and round. Flurries of snow dance through the crystallized air of the night.
No one has lit the lamps in the garden. We have to conserve fuel. The thickly clustering shadows might make me uneasy on any other evening, but tonight I’m too wine-blurred and wobbly to care.
Dimly I know that I shouldn’t be out here. I should be in the ballroom, cozying up to my potential husbands. There are a few I think I could stand, but whenever I focus on one of them and imagine being married to him, a sick dread churns in my stomach, sending a swirl of panic through my chest.
I don’t want to be trapped in a marriage to someone I don’t love. Why can I not simply be myself, alone and enough, until I am ready to choose a partner?
