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The King pauses, his corpse mask lowers to leer at me. Through gritted teeth, he snarls, “What the devil?”
He’s not looking at me but at the floor where vines bud through the marble. Thorns from several blooming corpus roses harness the ends of the King’s robes. He freezes.
“A bone powder machination.” Allysteir shakes his head. “Fine joke, Aydon. I’ll have a word with him later.”
I purse my lips and swallow, squeezing my shoulders. Eventually, he will learn the truth about my floral followers. And my Nether-mark. But I’ll delay as long as possible.
Once he lowers me into the bed, I long to pass out. But my guard is up, gripping the bed sheets until my knuckles whiten. The King must notice because his hand wanders to my cheek. I flinch, and he tilts his head to the side. How much does he perceive beyond his mask? I gasp when he leans closer.
“Calm the fuck down, Isla,” he commands in an iron voice. “You are not my bride yet. We won’t be fucking tonight.”
I only halfway relax?enough to calm my breath and remove my slippers while he gathers the heavy blankets around my waist. Despite the burning hearth in the room, it does not chase away the Underworld’s bone-deep chill. Will the sunlight ever stroke my face again? Will I ever scent the damp earth as I shift the soil for flowers to grow? I bury my face in my hands and rake my nails through my scalp before hugging my arms around my chest.
“Breathe, damn you!” Allysteir curses with a groan. “I said I wouldn’t?”
“You saidwe,” I interrupt and arch my neck to hurl daggered eyes at him. “You meant you and Kryach, didn’t you?”
He pauses, his macabre mask’s unseeing soulless eyes fixed on me. When he doesn’t respond, I press, testing, striving for any trace of the King I met in the Skull Ruins, “How far will it go, Allysteir? Does he share his plans with you? Will he devour my soul in one gulp or will he violate it slowly as you rape my flesh?”
“Kryach will do whatever Kryach will. As I stated at the supper, Death is final, my Lady.”
“And you?”
Again, he pauses, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he touches his gloved fingers, featherlight, to my cheek. I suck in a deep breath, clench my hands into the sheets, then release as his glove descends to my throat, to his fresh scar. When his mask dips, I know he is studying beyond the scar, lower to my breasts through the translucent fabric of the gown. No, he won’t bed me tonight, but it doesn’t mean he won’t sample and allow Kryach to feed on his debauchery. I armor myself.
After what feels like hours with his masked eyes frozen upon my flesh, the Corpse King eases the blankets around my neck, leans in to peck my forehead with his mask, and commands, “Sleep, Lady Isla. I will return later and join you in your midday meal.”
“Does that mean you’ll feed from me again?” I wonder, biting my lower lip, remembering the pain before his venom plunged a fiery need within me.
“Perhaps...” he rises from the bed and taps my nose. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On how hungry I am, how appetizing you smell, and how healthy you are. Don’t want to drive myself into a feeding frenzy well before our wedding. I prefer to savor, Isla Adayra. Now, go to sleep. Dream of sweet heather and butterflies.”
I part my lips, stunned by his words, an echo of a song Mathyr used to sing when I was a girl. Is it all true? The shadow lullaby? His death shade seeking souls to reap? Will he reap my soul along with Kryach?
Regardless, I have no doubts: the royals are hiding something. I have a month to learn the truth. If there is a way to end this Curse or hope I survive the wedding night.
On his way out, the King’s black shroud of robes brushes my corpus roses. Once he’s closed my chamber door, I whimper. Because every rose wilts. I fall asleep to their decayed scent.
Kryach is too silent.
Thoughts of Isla plague my head, summon heat to my core, and pain in my jaw from how I’ve clenched my teeth throughout the night. Never in all my years has a bride irritated me more. Almost as much as the monarchs with their passive-aggressive chastisements, their egotistical bragging, and incessant pestering of my bride. I suppose I should thank them. After all, Isla’s curiosity is boundless and the gods will not tolerate a human learning the secret the Cursed do not know.
In the bed, she reminded me of how she’d pressed herself against the skulls with nowhere to run. Cornered prey on the verge of tears but with knuckles so pale because she was prepared to fight...with her teeth if necessary. Prey who turns predator in a heartbeat. Except she could never overpower Kryach. In the past five thousand years since the Curse origin, not one bride has.
He’s right: why should she be any different?
Still, no bride has ever challenged the royals. Nor myself. Brides in the past were too fearful of the God of Death. Isla must fear, too.
I huff through my shadows cloaking my figure as I meander Citadel hallways, evading notice.
How I long for the taste of her flesh, her blood scent, her body’s warmth, and I imagine the shape of her tears should she ever spill them. Lovely tears I would collect.
“Blood and bones, how she steals my waking thoughts and breath!” I growl into my mask, heaving warm puffs of air to flit away like white-dressed girls.
At least Kryach is far too preoccupied with harvesting souls, I have time before he returns to haunt me. The echoes of his power always remain.
