The torches were placed haphazardly along the walls, as if the inhabitant had little need for outside light. She moved slowly upward, keeping one hand on the inside wall for balance. There’s nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Grendel is a legend, a tale to terrify children.
But why did she feel like such a child?
She climbed to the third floor, breathless, telling herself that the upward climb was the cause of her constricted heart, her damp palms, the fluttering in her chest. She halted there, beneath the battlements. The heavy wooden door was closed tight, and there was no sign of life in the dimly lit hallway. Yet she knew what lay beyond.
Was he a shapeshifter? A demon who changed bodies when no one was looking? Surely there was a reason they called him Grendel, after the despised monster of ancient myth. Did he turn into the bone-cracking beast and stalk the hallways of Summersedge Keep, looking for sustenance?
Or did he wait in his chamber, for those fool enough to come to him, to offer themselves up as his dinner?
She was being ridiculous! It was her idea to face him.
And she’d taken a long, considering look at him before Richard had commanded her attention. The dread wizard Simon of Navarre was a man, no more, no less, and she was a sister to his lord. He would never dare hurt her.
She lifted her hand to knock loudly on the thick wooden door, certain she would never be heard. The door wasn’t latched; it swung open silently at the blow from her hand, and the tower room lay before her.
At first all she could see was the blazing fire. It was a chill autumn night, and the stones of the castle seemed to embrace the cold like a lonely spinster. The tapestries that hung on the walls were dark, the furniture sparse.
“You wished to see me, Lady Alys?”
The voice of Grendel came from nowhere, deep and seductive, and Alys had to force herself to remain still, not to run from this place in complete panic. It was no monster’s voice. It had an almost eerie charm, rich and beguiling, inviting her to come closer.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the shadows. He was sitting in a curved wooden chair by the fire, watching her, and the shifting flames made a curious pattern on his enigmatic face. Like the flames of hell, she thought.
She’d come this far, she had to see it through. “I wished to talk with you, my lord Gren… Simon.” She cursed her slippery tongue. There was always the chance he hadn’t noticed. She wasn’t going to count on it.
“I am honored, my lady,” he said, still from the darkness. “Are you going to stand in the doorway while we discuss things, or are you going to enter? I promise I won’t tear your body apart and drink your blood.”
He hadn’t missed it. He must know what they called him. He might even have been instrumental in coming up with the notion. Fear was a powerful advantage, and Simon of Navarre was a powerful man. She sensed he would use any weapon he could devise.
She stepped into the shadowy room, noticing with temporary relief that there was a branch of candles on the plain wooden table. That relief vanished when the door swung shut behind her, apparently unaided by human hands.
She didn’t shriek, though she wanted to. She merely stood before him, trying to hold herself very tall and straight, wishing she had Claire’s impressive height, wishing she wasn’t such a hopeless little creature.
He looked up at her from his chair, and she was just as glad he didn’t rise. She was already feeling small and helpless. If he towered over her she might just…
She didn’t know what she’d do. But he just sat there, looking at her out of his strange, golden eyes. “Pray be seated, my lady,” he said, and she looked nervously behind her, half expecting a seat to walk up and present itself.
She knew she was being silly. There was a padded stool nearby, the only choice of seat other than the floor, and she sat down on it, a bit too abruptly. She was too close to him, but in the darkness she wouldn’t have been able to see him if she’d moved away, and his rich, disembodied voice was unnerving enough. She preferred to face her enemy.
And that was what he was, she reminded herself. Her sworn enemy, out to destroy her sister.
Silence fell between them, a strangely peaceful silence, considering the oddness of the night. The room smelled of woodsmoke and spices, of leather and rich herbs. It was intoxicating, dangerously so. More lethal than the wine she had drunk. She sat there, dreamily staring into the fire, temporarily at peace. Until he spoke.
“Is there some boon I can grant you, Lady Alys?” he murmured. “Or are you simply here for the pleasure of my company?” He leaned forward, his useless right hand resting in his lap, and poured two goblets of wine with his left hand. He held one out to her, and she could think of no way to refuse. She took it, allowing herself a tentative sip. This was different from the stuff at her brother’s table. This was honey sweet, warming her bones, dancing on her flesh. Danger.
“I want you to choose me,” she said abruptly.
The darkness must have been deceiving. That couldn’t be amusement in his clear golden eyes. “Choose you for what?” he said, leaning back in his chair, his own goblet held negligently in his one good hand.
Horrific doubt assailed Alys. “Richard said he’d offered either of us as… I mean
