Then he steps closer, shoulders slumped in an unquestionably contrite posture. “I’m sorry I left before. It was . . . surprisingly painful to learn that you could fear me.”
A touch of regret shimmers through me because we have only each other. Quietly I extend a hand, waiting in silence for him to clasp it. And eventually, he does.
“Do you want to stay tonight?”
He regards me steadily with those quicksilver eyes. “I’m unclear on the particulars of your invitation.”
“Just offering to let you sleep here.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “I did think it would be odd for you to suggest other pastimes, considering how the day went.”
“Do you want to stay then?”
Njål pulls back the covers, surveying the slice of mattress available. “I do. Your room is cozy and warm, but it’s a pity the bed is so small.”
“Is yours bigger?” I ask, moving over so he can climb in.
“It is, but the room is much chillier and less inviting.”
“And you probably sleep in the east wing.” The dig escapes me before I stop it. One would think I want to fight with him over this, and maybe on some level I do. But that’s telling as well. People don’t dare argue with those they truly fear.
“I stand watch,” he corrects. “But tonight I’m here with you.”
That’s an odd thing to say. I ruminate on it, considering what he’s hiding, a secret that must be guarded. In a fine, incidental distraction, Njål partially disrobes, allowing me to see the scars carved into his body, only they’re more like sigils, akin to the one on his cheek. It would take an absolute monster to do this. I felt the marks on his torso on our first night together. He settles in beside me, and with a trembling hand, I trace the triangle on his chest, wondering what it means. This is not a simple tattoo; it was carved into his flesh before the channel was filled with ink. It must have been agony.
“What . . .” I don’t even know what to ask.
Some people adorn themselves this way, sailors from the Splinter Isles for instance—but such a choice seems out of character for Njål, who wouldn’t even let me look at him for so long. He’s not the type to want more attention on his appearance, not even young Njål. I’ve only encountered him twice in the past, but both times he was either running or hiding. It seems to me that body art is about boldness and celebration. These marks . . . are something else entirely.
“It’s the alchemical symbol for fire. But I suspect that’s not really what you wish to know. That’s more along the lines of why, I imagine. Perhaps even when and who?”
“Yes, all of those things. Unless it’s related to the memories you’ve suppressed or the east wing, and you’ll refuse to tell me,” I mutter.
“It is, at least peripherally, but I’ll answer about this. I can only imagine how frustrating my secrets must be.”
“It’s maddening.”
He nods, as if he understands my response. “You’ve asked about the curse, but never about my . . . transformation. While the two are related, they’re not the same. Since you’re Eloise, you know I didn’t always look this way.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“It would be easier if you weren’t looking at me.” Njål wraps his arms about me, giving me every option to demur. With my head on his chest, he continues, “I didn’t know for a long time . . . what the baron and baroness were. To some degree, I knew that they weren’t right, but I had notion of their nature. Even now, I’m not sure, for there is no terminology for that brand of evil.”
I shiver, despite his proximity and the weight of the covers. “You’re frightening me.”
“Parasites,” he finally says, ignoring my whisper. “For time out of mind, they extended their lives by stealing the bodies of others, destroying souls in the process.”
Shock immobilizes me as I connect this new information to what I heard the baroness saying the night they announced Njål as their heir. It’s not what I imagined, but everything makes sense. After he’s named their heir, the baron can take Njål’s body, the line continues and they keep everything they’ve acquired over centuries of life-theft.
“Oh, Njål . . .”
“I was meant to be only another link in a long line. They’re thousands of years old, ancient and evil beyond belief. The baron chooses his successor, names him heir, and the transfer is made. Within a few years, the baroness follows, taking her new vessel. In that way, they controlled Bitterburn for centuries.”
“The symbols have something to do with the transfer?” I guess. Though I’ve only read one book on crafting charms, I know sigils have power. The ones they put on Njål are likely supposed to weaken his will or make him more receptive to being taken. “But something went wrong.”
He nods, a big hand stroking down my back in compulsive fashion, as if touching me can mitigate these bleak memories. “I didn’t react to the ritual as they expected. Instead of being hollowed out for occupation, I . . . changed.”
“That came before the curse, then.” I recall that he said he . . . did things for them. They must’ve tortured Njål in retaliation for denying the baron his desired host.
He’s said he can’t allow himself to remember those times because he was truly mad then, and he only came to himself later. What, exactly, happened during that period? And what does it have to do with the east wing?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, for I’ve no notion what else to say.
“Not your fault.” Flat tone.
What have I done now? Perhaps he thinks I pity him. Grumpily, I amend, “I’m not accepting blame, but expressing sympathy. Perhaps I should’ve said ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.’ Gods forgive that I got the verbiage wrong.”
“So prickly. I treasure the way you snap at me.”
“Why?”
“Because it means you’re not afraid of my retribution. You believe I’m not a monster, even if I look like one.”
The fact that I
