crossed the courtyard to the stables unaware of the mud slinging on his boots. He wore no hat; his hair clung to his face, wet and disheveled. He knew without proof his eyes reflected the blackened sky above.
He ducked under the roof of the stables, breathing irregularly. He could feel Cheshvan upon him, crushing him. He could feel control of his body peeling away. He had to meet the angel by midnight, or the pain would spike to become unbearable. Part of his oath was to turn his body over freely. The first year, Chauncey had gone to meet the angel, having no idea what was in store. The second year, wiser and hardened, he’d forced the angel to come to him. Chauncey had passed out from the pain before the angel had even arrived. There were still lines down the walls of the château where he’d raked his fingernails in agony.
The one-eyed groom limped out of the shadows, frowning.
Bracing his hand on a beam, Chauncey gave a terse nod in the direction of the stalls. He hoped the groom was smart enough to interpret his gesture. He was breathing with difficulty and had no desire for speech.
The groom blinked his good eye. “But it’s nearly midnight, Your Grace.”
“Horse.” His voice sounded rough, strained.
“It will take a minute, m’lord. I—I wasn’t expecting you. That is to say, it’s rather late—”
“I haven’t got a minute,” Chauncey snapped.
A bolt of lightning crackled through the sky. The groom lifted his eye and quickly crossed himself. Chauncey glowered at him. The insolent man was still standing in place, fearing God more than him.
Chauncey sank suddenly to one knee, panting. The ground was spinning. He felt bile surging up his throat. The pain was so bright it clawed from the inside out.
The groom cautioned a step forward. “M’lord?”
“Horse!” he choked, thinking he would have wrung the groom’s neck if it were in reach.
Minutes later, Chauncey rode from the stables, whipping a gelding to breakneck speed. He headed straight for the forest, feeling the groom’s good eye follow him to the edge of the trees. Feeling the groom’s fear lie thick on his back.
The angel was on time. He sat on an ornate headstone in the rustic cemetery sheltered deep in the forest. His hands were clasped between his knees, his dark eyes watchful but not nervous. His hair was damp with rain, and despite the chill in the air, his shirt was open at the neck. His mouth curved up on one side, a pirate’s smile, easy and ruthless at once.
“Where is she?” the angel asked.
Chauncey flinched. Did he mean Jolie? This wasn’t how he’d planned their conversation. He’d anticipated being the one to tell the angel that Jolie Abrams was locked away somewhere between here and Paris, with limited food, and unless the angel cooperated, she would inevitably die. He’d left Jolie with more than enough food, but didn’t allow himself to think on it, fearing the angel had some way of deciphering his mind. “Good luck finding her in time,” he replied, almost calm.
“I’m going to ask once more,” the angel said quietly. “Where is she?”
Chauncey sneered. “I hope ... she’s not afraid of rats?”
A muscle in the angel’s jaw jumped. “Her, for my word not to possess you?”
Adrenaline itched under Chauncey’s skin. Was he asking? Agreeing to bargain? Could it be that simple? Chauncey had anticipated some kind of struggle.
Chauncey shook his head. “I don’t trust your word. Release me from my oath. You’ll never take possession of my body during Cheshvan again. Anything less, and the girl dies. I’ve heard starvation can be quite painful.” Chauncey raised his eyebrows, as if asking the angel’s opinion on the subject.
The angel’s eyes were so black, the night seemed to pale in comparison. Chauncey held that gaze with wariness stirring in his stomach. Had he spoken too soon? Had he asked too much? But it was his body, his life!
“Your final offer?”
“Yes, it’s my final offer,” Chauncey growled impatiently. Was the angel backing out? Was he so depraved he’d let the girl die? Chauncey felt midnight squeezing down on him, the pain twisting every ounce of patience and sanity from him. He clenched his teeth, swearing he would kill the angel if he laughed at him for this humiliating twitching and jerking.
The possession happened all too fast. Chauncey was slammed up against a tree with no way to escape. He ordered his legs to run, but it was as if a great wall of ice separated his mind from his body. He tried to move his head, to see where the angel was, but his stomach sickened with the truth.
It was happening all over again. The angel was not there. The angel was inside him.
The angel slammed Chauncey’s body against the tree a second time, stunning him. Another time, and another, and another, until Chauncey felt blood trickling down his face. His shoulder throbbed. He felt bruises sprouting all along the battered side of his body. He wanted to scream for the angel to stop, but his voice wasn’t his to command.
Next, the angel shoved Chauncey’s fist into the tree. There was a ghastly crunch, and Chauncey saw bone protruding from his skin. He howled, but it was a silent sound, trapped inside him. He knew what was coming next and tried to brace himself for the hot torment. The angel forced Chauncey to kick the tree, over and over, until the bones in his foot snapped and Chauncey felt himself wilting in shock. He screamed and blubbered, but it was ripped from him. He was nothing but reason and feeling. He couldn’t act; he was only to be acted upon.
Just as quickly as he’d lost control, he was breathing on his own again. He lay crumpled on the ground and instantly cradled his broken hand against his chest. The angel stood over him. He gave a significant look at the tree, now painted with Chauncey’s blood.
“I’ll never tell you where she is!” Chauncey spat.
Chauncey felt the dizzying torment of the wound on his thigh being ripped open. The angel was in control again, using Chancey’s hands to whip his leg with a branch. The wound opened, and blood blossomed across his velvet breeches. Chauncey’s temples throbbed with panic, the smell of terror leaking from his skin.
Chauncey collapsed, swimming in and out of consciousness; one half of him yearned for the darkness of slumber, the other half feared the loss of control. What if he revealed Jolie’s location in his sleep? He couldn’t. He couldn’t...
With his cheek cushioned by icy dirt, Chauncey’s eyes fluttered. He thought he saw the angel jogging away. Chauncey tried to smile. Going to search the countryside for Jolie, was he? His mouth formed the words
But this time...
Even if the angel correctly guessed Jolie’s whereabouts, by the time he went to the château and back, it would be too late.
He’d miss this Cheshvan...
Chauncy’s eyes rolled back in his head. He had been through this kind of pain many times before. He wouldn’t die, but he’d lose a great deal of blood, and would sleep—even as long as a week or two, depending on the severity of his wounds—while his body slowly stitched itself back together and became whole once again.
Chauncey woke in the cemetery. He was slumped against a headstone, the cold slate seeping through the back of his shirt. Between the slits of his eyes, the world was black and silver. A few snowflakes drifted down, melting as they hit his breeches, his shirt, his bare hands. He turned his hands over, back and forth, staring at them, nearly weeping that they were in his power. He dragged himself upright and knew it was over. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but the icy morning and transformed scenery made him guess several days. He’d escaped Cheshvan. He’d defied the angel. A certain stone that had hung inside him all these years cracked, turning to dust. If he could do it once, he could do it again.
He grinned at the trees, not caring that his clothes were torn and soiled with blood, or that he reeked of his own unwashed body. He dragged his hands down his face, blinking at the morning. Everything was fresh. He
