Armstrong Kelley - [Women of Otherworld 05] - Haunted.pdf - Women of Otherworld - sysia1544

HAUNTED

Women of the Otherworld 05

Kelley Armstrong

Also by Kelley Armstrong

BITTEN

STOLEN

DIME STORE MAGIC

INDUSTRIAL MAGIC

HAUNTED

A Bantam Book/June 2005

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

Cover design by Jamie S. Warren Youll

Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are trademarks of

Random House, Inc.

ISBN 0-553-58708-0

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

www.bantamdell.com

To my daughter, Julia.

Like Eve, I know I'll have to start letting go soon

but I'm not quite ready yet.

Acknowledgments

As always, I'm deeply indebted to everyone who helped get my book from that first spark of an idea to a

complete novel. Heaps of thanks to my agent, Helen Heller, and my editors: Anne Groell at Bantam US,

Anne Collins at Random House Canada, and Antonia Hodgson at Time Warner UK.

A special thanks this time around to my Web site moderators, who've really helped ease the workload

on my burgeoning discussion board. To Ian, John, Julia, Katrina, Laura, Raina, Sonny, Taylor, and Tina.

Thanks so much—without you guys, I'd never have time to actually write .

France/1666

MARIE-MADELINE LIT THE FLAME UNDER THE BOWL. A draft through the empty fireplace

blew it out. She adjusted the metal screen in front of the hearth, then moved the bowl and tried again. As

the flame took hold, smoke swirled through the room, filling it with the acrid stink of burning hair and the

sweet smell of rosemary.

" Entstehen, mein Nix," she said, tongue tripping over the foreign words. She recited the rest of the

incantation. The air rippled.

"You have failed… again," a woman's voice whispered.

Marie-Madeline's fingers trembled around the bowl. A few red-hot cinders tumbled out, and scorched

her hand. "It isn't my fault. You aren't giving me enough. This—it isn't easy. I need more."

"More?" the voice hissed, circling her head. "This is not one of your potions, witch. You cannot drink

until you've had your fill. What I give you is the power of will, a finite quantity of that which you so sorely

lack. Whether you choose to use it is your own decision."

"But I want to use it. Gaudin must have his revenge, and I must have my freedom."

The Nix's voice sounded at her ear, words blasting on a stream of hot air. "You are a fool, Marquise. A

mewling little worm of a woman who stumbled upon that spell to summon me, then lied to me and wasted

my time. You do not want resolve. You want deliverance. You want me to do this thing for you, to

absolve you of the responsibility and guilt of patricide."

"N-no. I'd never ask—"

"I will grant it."

Marie-Madeline went still. "You will… grant it?"

"You are not the only one to dabble in arcane magics, witch. I have a spell that I have been waiting to

use, waiting for the right vessel—a worthy vessel. With it, you can allow me to possess your body, carry

out this deed, and have my reward. Then you may claim the credit to your lover."

"What is the spell? Tell me now. Please. Gaudin grows impatient."

The Nix's chuckle wafted through the air. "As do I. Listen carefully, my Marquise, and we will be done

with this thing before daybreak."

The Nix opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor. Candles blazed all around her, their light so harsh it

made her blink. The smoke filled her nostrils. She coughed instinctively, then jumped, startled by the

sensation.

She lifted her hands. Human hands, soft and bejeweled. The Marquise's hands. She flexed, then clenched

them. The long nails drove into her palms and she gasped. So that was pain. How… intriguing. She dug

her nails in deeper, letting the pain course down her arms. Blood dripped onto her gown. She reached

down and touched it, lifted her finger to her nose, inhaled the scent, then stuck out her tongue and tasted

it.

The Nix pushed to her feet, wobbled, caught her balance. She'd taken on human form before, but never

like this, inhabiting a living being. It was very different. Awkward… and yet interesting.

She lifted her head and sniffed the air. Dawn was coming. Time to get to work.

She carried the soup to the Marquise's father, bearing it before her like an offering, luxuriating in the heat

that radiated through the bowl. It was so cold here, the stone walls leaching drafts at every turn. She'd

commanded the staff to light more fires, but they'd only mumbled something vaguely obeisant, then

shuffled off and done nothing. Such insolence. If she were their master—but this was only a temporary

inhabitation, to test the spell.

As she stepped into the room, she looked at the old man, seated with his back to her. Then she glanced

down at the bowl of poisoned soup. The dose had better be right this time. Marie-Madeline had tested it

on her maid, Françoise, but the girl hadn't died, so her lover, Gaudin Sainte-Croix, had adjusted the

dosage. But rather than try again on a fresh subject, they'd declared the mixture sufficient.

Lazy, imperfect humans, and their lazy, imperfect half-measures. Like the servants who didn't wish to

venture outside the castle walls and chop more wood for the fire. What lessons she could teach them!

Perhaps she would. As she crossed the floor, looking down at the bowl of soup, she realized, with a jolt

of surprise, that the next move was hers. She could give the poison to Marie-Madeline's father or she

could feed it to the lazy servants who had ignored her command. For once, she was the actor, not the

spectator.

For three hundred years she'd had to sit by and hope humans used the resolve she gave them. Her

reward was pain and suffering and chaos. But if they failed, she was left hungry—as helpless as a starving

street urchin, begging for a crust of bread. That was what the humans had called the offspring of the

Nixen—urchins—as if they knew and laughed at the power they wielded over these demi-demons. And

yet, here she was, bearing in her hands the power of death, to deliver as she saw fit. She smiled. Perhaps

she would stay a little longer than Marie-Madeline intended.

Hearing her footsteps, Marie-Madeline's father turned. "You didn't need to bring that yourself."

She curtseyed. "It is a daughter's duty, and privilege, to serve her father."

He beamed. "And it is a father's joy to have such a dutiful daughter. You see now that I was right about

Gaudin Sainte-Croix. You belong with your husband, and with your father."

She bowed her head. "It was a passing fancy, one that shames me all the more for the shame it brought

on my family."

"We will speak no more of it," he said, patting her arm. "Let us enjoy our holiday together."

"First, you should enjoy your soup, Father. Before it grows cold."

For the next four days, d'Aubrey suffered the agonies of a slow death. She stayed at his side, genuinely

doing all she could for him, knowing it wouldn't save him, using the excuse to linger and drink in his

suffering. At last, he lay in her arms, a hairsbreadth from death, and he used his last words to thank her

for everything she'd done.

"It was my pleasure," she said, smiling as she closed his eyes.

It took six years for the Nix to grow bored of Marie-Madeline, and exhaust the possibilities of her silly

little life. Time to move on, to find fresh opportunities… but not before she had wrung the last bit of

merriment from this one.

First, she'd killed Sainte-Croix. Nothing personal in that. He'd been a fine lover and a useful partner, but

she had no more need of him, except to let him play his part in the last act of the drama. He'd died in his

laboratory, an apparent victim of his own poison, his glass mask having slipped off at an inopportune

moment.

After anonymously alerting the police about Sainte-Croix's death, she'd rushed to the commissary and

demanded the return of a box from the sealed laboratory. The box was hers, and must be returned

unopened. Naturally, that only guaranteed that the police would open it. Inside, they found the bond

she'd given Sainte-Croix for the poison used to kill the Marquise's father, plus Sainte-Croix's legacy to

her—an assortment of poisons the likes of which the French authorities had never seen. She'd fled Paris,

and taken refuge in a convent. The trial came and Marie-Madeline, having not appeared to defend

herself, was sentenced to death.

And so it was done.

The Nix returned to Paris, where she knew Marie-Madeline would be swiftly apprehended. Taking a

quiet room in an inn, she lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and recited the incantation for ending the

possession. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and lifted her hand. Still human.

With a grunt, she closed her eyes and repeated the spell. Nothing happened. She snarled, gathered her

spirit form into a ball, and flung herself upward, saying the words again, voice rising, filling with fury as her

soul stayed lashed to this human form. For two hours, she battered herself against the flesh walls of her

prison.

Then she began to scream.

Nicolette peered out across the crowd amassed in the courtyard, praying she'd see no one she

recognized. If her mother found out she was here—she shuddered, feeling the sting of her mother's

tongue. Death is not a spectacle, she'd say. Nicolette should know that better than anyone. Yet she

wasn't here to see the Marquise de Brinvilliers die… not really. It was the spectacle surrounding the

spectacle that drew her, the chance to be part of something that would be the talk of Paris for years.

A young man pushed through the crowd, hawking pamphlets describing the torture of the Marquise.

When he saw Nicolette, he grinned as his eyes traveled over her.

"A pamphlet, my lady," he said, thrusting one at her. "With my compliments."

Nicolette glanced down at the paper he held out. Across the front was a crudely drawn sketch of a

naked woman, her body arching as if to a lover, limbs bound to the table, a funnel stuffed into her mouth,

face contorted with agony. Nicolette shuddered and looked away. To her left, an old woman cackled.

The pamphleteer pressed closer to her, mouth opening, but a man cut him short, and sent him off with a

few gruff words.

"You should not be out here, my lady," the man rumbled near her ear when the pamphleteer was gone.

"This is no place for you."

No, her place was up in the balconies, where she could watch with an unobstructed view, dining on

cakes and wine. Nicolette had tried to disguise herself, to blend in with the common folk, but they always

knew.

She was about to move on, when the prison doors opened. A small entourage emerged. At its center

was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall, her dirty face still showing signs of the beauty she must

have possessed. Dressed in a plain shift and barefooted, she stumbled forward, tripping and straining at

the ropes that bound her, one around her hands, one around her waist, and a third around her neck.

As the guard yanked the Marquise back, her head rose and, for the first time, she saw the crowd. Her

lips curled, face contorting in a snarl so awful that the old woman beside Nicolette fell back, hands

clawing for her rosary. As the Marquise snarled, her face seemed to ripple, as if her very spirit was trying

to break free. Nicolette had seen ghosts before, had been seeing them since she was a child—as did her

mother and great-uncle. Yet, when the Marquise's spirit showed itself, everyone around her fell back

with a collective gasp.

Nicolette snuck a glance around. They'd seen it, too?

The guard prodded the Marquise into a tumbril. No horse-drawn gilt carriage for this voyage. Her

conveyance was a dirty cart, barely big enough to hold her, filthy straw lining the bottom. She had to

Armstrong Kelley - [Women of Otherworld 05] - Haunted.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: