breathed in the intoxicating scent of the forest, held it, let it go. For the first time in his life he stood mesmerized by the harsh beauty of the world slowly freezing. He spun circles until his mind reeled, whooping and shouting with joy, and when dizziness overtook him, he fell back in the half-frozen mud, laughing.
He lay that way for quite some time, basking in the forest—which no longer felt like his enemy—feeling immeasurably happy, until his eyes flew open.
Jolie. The château. The dungeons.
His feet were already carrying him in a run.
Chauncey could not remember the way.
Gripping the torch, he splashed through the water pooling at the bottom of the tunnels, swallowing his boots.
“Jolie!”
His voice echoed like a disembodied spirit’s.
With an impatient grunt he forged ahead, letting the spool unravel in his free hand. He came to an intersection, turned left, and a length of thread caught him in the navel, bringing him up short. He’d already come this way. He was creating a web of circles. Around and around, nearer or farther from Jolie, he didn’t know. He leaned back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing heavily. He had to think. He had to remember. If he could just push aside the darkness and remember the maze.
“Jolie!” he yelled again.
He wondered if she would answer. He was the tyrant who had locked her away. She could be down this tunnel, or the next, listening, but hiding in fear.
“Don’t die on me,” he muttered.
The angel. He couldn’t stop thinking about the angel.
Hang Cheshvan! The angel would launch a full-scale war if Jolie died down here. How long had it been? Days and days, but how much beyond that? He’d sent the servants away, and there was no one to ask. And where the hell was Elyce? He was paying her to keep watch. Had the food lasted? Had Jolie stayed warm enough? He’d woken in the cemetery frozen solid, the weather far colder than he’d expected with winter still weeks away. He should have planned better. If only he’d had more time!
Chauncey turned and turned again, crashing through the tunnels. He came around a bend, and there it was. The door stood at the end of the passageway. The iron bar was still in place, locking Jolie inside. He flung off the bar and threw the door wide. Rats scuttled lazily into the shadows. Two silver trays were overturned on the floor, but the food was gone, replaced by a thick covering of rodent droppings.
Chauncey saw the body on the cot, but his brain was muddled, unable to make sense of it. He blinked as if he weren’t seeing properly. The girl was covered in a thin layer of frost. Her cynical blue eyes were open, frozen in a stare.
Elyce was dead.
Chauncey’s hand flexed on the doorframe. He saw himself as a nine-year-old boy, standing in the cellar beneath the kitchen, stumbling upon death.
“No,” he said. He blinked again. “No.”
His legs pushed him toward Elyce. He stood over her, unable to stop staring. He couldn’t seem to see her as she really was, rather as she was supposed to be.
Alive.
A flood of memories broke through his mental dam. He didn’t believe in
Not once in his life had Chauncey felt understood, but in the weeks Elyce had stayed with him here at the château, the deep gap that had always separated him from the rest of the world narrowed. They were the same, he and Elyce. Calculating, manipulative, and cynical, yes. But also driven, hungry, and uncompromising. He didn’t love her in the way other men loved their women; he loved her in the only way he could—for not leaving him alone in a world that understood him even less than he understood it.
The only reason he’d cast her out of the château was because of the angel. He couldn’t stand in the same room with her and not hear those words.
He’d hated Elyce for those words, but his anger was misdirected. All blame fell on the angel.
Lowering himself onto the cot, he pressed Elyce’s hand to his face. His emotions flapped inside him like birds dashing against a glass cage. Who did he have now? He was utterly alone. Utterly misunderstood.
Chauncey jolted to a stand, believing he sensed the angel nearby. His posture was guarded, but the walls outside the cell shimmered not with the angel’s shadow, but with the spirits of the dead. Chauncey could feel them, trapped and wandering. His body convulsed at the thought of them surrounding him, and he backed further into the cell.
“Elyce!” he hissed. Down here in the dungeons, he felt certain that death was very far away, and very near at the same time. “Can you hear me? Did the angel do this? Did
The door to the cell swung shut. Chauncey heard the iron bar drop into place, locking him inside.
He crossed to the door in two strides. “Who’s there?” he demanded.
There was no answer.
“Elyce?” He didn’t believe in ghosts. On the other hand, what else could it be? “It was the angel, he killed you,” he said. “I had nothing to do with this.” He glanced back at her body on the cot to make sure it was still there. He’d heard stories of corpses rising from the grave to drink the blood of the living. In the dungeons, he ruled nothing out.
“Talking with the dead, Duke? Keep it up, and people are going to question your sanity.”
Chauncey stiffened at the voice on the far side of the door. He made a guttural sound of hatred. “
“I hope you like rats,” the angel said quietly.
“Not a wise move, angel. These are my dungeons. You’ve trespassed on my land. I could have you hanged.” Even as Chauncey said it, he realized how worthless the threat was.
“Hanged? With what? All this thread?”
Chauncey felt his nostrils flare.
“Then I’d better take it on my way out.” The angel’s voice started to fade.
Panic seized Chauncey’s throat. “Open the door you insolent fool! I am the Duc de Langeais, and
Silence.
Chauncey slammed a fist against the door. The angel thought he was clever, did he? Well, he’d just laid the groundwork for his own destruction!
Slicing his palm open on his riding spurs, Chauncey shook out a few drops of blood. He swore an oath to bring the angel to his knees. He would be relentless. Ruthless. Jolie would grow old and die, but there would be other women.
Chauncey would wait patiently.
Behind the Red Door
BY CAITLIN KITTREDGE
