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Jesscea Saworth sat near the window, trying to read from a worn book. Even the castle with its drafts and nobles and protocol was better than being stuck at her grandparents' making hats for the planting festival. Try as she might to think about the promise of the coming spring - she would be fourteen summers old soon, old enough to attend the spring faires and old enough to dance - her thoughts returned to Braoin. She sighed and the book sagged in her hands. Her mind churned with worry and the flow of written words, while soothing, did nothing to allay her fears.
She'd heard the adults whispering that Braoin had not come home. According to her grandmother, no one had seen Bray since the day before yesterday, since he'd left their farm, and now...
Rain beat against the glass in a ceaseless rattle and she hoped it wouldn't turn to snow. She licked her parched lips and raised her eyes, braving a glance into the night. Such a horrible night and Braoin had not come home.
Jess tucked her feet beneath her and tried to read again, but the words blurred as if washed away by the rain and the same horrid thought repeated in her mind.
Braoin had not come home.
He never would. She knew it deep in her heart. Somehow they all knew. Even little Alyson, only six summers old, knew that Braoin would never come home again. The dark had eaten him and would never give him back.
A shadow moved across the window on the other side of the curtain. The patter of the rain on the glass silenced for a moment, then began again as she shadow moved away. She closed the book. "Something's on the porch," she said. She stared at the door, her heart pounding.
Jess's mother, Sarea, stopped nursing the baby and shoved away from the table. "Take your sister," she said, handing the infant to Fynbelle.
Grandpapa's dog, a wizened ratter nearly as decrepit as he, growled, raising its head from its paws. Sarea reached for the fireplace poker, her face reflecting in the small mantle mirror. "You sure, Jess?" she asked, her voice dangerous and low.
"Yes, Mam."
Footsteps rumbled against the porch floor and Jess stifled a squeak as Sarea pulled her from the chair. The dog barked, but didn't move from its warm place by the fire.
"It's coming for us!" Grandpapa wailed. "We're doomed, doomed!"
"Be quiet!" Grandmama said. "Ye'll scare the children."
Kialyn, the eldest at sixteen summers, squealed as she came in from the washroom and ran, dripping soapy hair flying, to huddle with Grandmama.
"Quiet!" Sarea snapped.
Aly scrambled over to them, ducking under Grandmama's bony elbow while Fyn cowered in the corner with their baby sister, her straight blonde hair hanging over their faces like a curtain.
The family stared at the door. Kia and Aly struggled to get closer to Grandmama, leaving Jess to either run to her grandfather or stand alone.
She took a breath, clenched her fists, and straightened her spine while her heartbeats slammed loud as thunder in her ears.
"It's the dark, come to take us to its belly!" Grandpapa yelled. "We're dead, our bones sucked dry--"
"Please, Papa, not now!" Sarea said.
Silence stretched into a twirling strand, knotted only by their harsh, uneven breathing. Jess took a single step toward her mother just as a pound trembled the door.
"Sarea?" Grandmama asked, her fingers clenching into her granddaughters' backs. "Who is it?"
"It's the dark, you twit!" Grandpapa tittered. "It's come for us at last!"
Sarea strode to the door. "Keep quiet!" Holding the iron poker like a sword, she unlocked the door and snatched it open.
Fyn squealed, Kia and Aly whimpered, but Jess remained stoic. The first thing she saw through the open door that night was her father's relieved face, his eyes piercing and blue.
And the second was Lars, smiling at her.
Lars sat alone and nursed a hot cup of tea. The girls had gone to bed, but he'd refused to leave, choosing to remain nearby while the adults talked.
Dien, Sarea, and Sarea's mother, Lissea, spoke of Braoin's disappearance in low voices, but Devyn, Sarea's father, stared at Lars as if his muddy boots had tracked in plague.
"What I want to know," Devyn said, looking over his shoulder and licking tea-stained spittle from his lips, "is what that rich boy is doing here, spreading his filth again."
"Dev!" Lissea said, narrowing her eyes and lowering her voice. "Lars is a noble, an' a guest--"
"Guest my pock-marked ass! He's come to corrupt my granddaughters!" Devyn stood, shaking his finger at Lars. "It's bad enough my daughter married a castle peacock, but I'll not stand for my granddaughters to be taken in by the devilish charms of him or his kind."
Dien rubbed his forehead and muttered under his breath while everyone else stared at Devyn.
Tottering on his feet, Devyn knocked aside his chair. A dark vein throbbed beside his left eye as he stared at Lars. "I know you, skulking bastard, and I know what you're plotting. You're not welcome here and neither are those lecherous thoughts! Over-dressed, misbegotten, bastard boys in my barn! Rabbits and wasps! After what you did? How dare you darken my door? I'll not have the likes of you near my granddaughters!"
Dien pushed aside his tea. "Think of me what you will, but Lars won't harm anyone, least of all the girls."
Spit flecked Devyn's chin and madness floated on his breath from beyond his missing teeth. He smelled of rot with an underlying metallic tang, like tainted meat on a rusty spoon. "Pah! He wants to crawl up their skirts and rut like a beast. I've seen it before."
Lars stood in a burst of fury, his hands balling into fists and his face reddening, but he held his tongue.
Dien continued to stare at Devyn's scrawny back. "Do you know where Braoin is?" he asked, his voice barely louder than Devyn's rancid breath.
"How the peg should I know? The bastard calf ain't mine. I done told them," Devyn said, falling into Lars's chair. "I haven't seen him for days." The old man's hand trembled in fluttering jerks and his left cheek twitched. "Days," he muttered, looking at Lars with sudden yearning. "Days gone by. Days and nights. Days of cider and violets." He winked at Lissea, his hands still fluttering. "Do you remember those days? The days of cider and violets?"
Lissea hurried to her husband and grasped his thick hand in her thin one. It stilled beneath her touch. "Yes, dear, I do."
"Sorry, pup," Dien muttered, shifting in his chair. "He has his moments."
"It's all right," Lars said, suppressing a shudder. He'd never considered that madness had its own scent, and he hoped he'd never taste it on his own breath or smell it on his skin.
"Is it suppertime yet?" Devyn asked, standing. "I'm hungry."
"Sure, Papa," Sarea said. She offered Lars a sorry smile and stood. "I'll fetch it right away."
"Who are you? Do I know you? When did we get a serving girl? How can I afford another one?"
Lars saw a pained shine in Sarea's eyes as she turned away.
"That's Sarea," Lissea said, leading Dev back to the table. "Ye remember Sarea, don't ye?"
"Nonsense. Sarea's been sent to bed. I saw her reading right over there, just before." His hand shaking, he pointed at the settee near the window. "I saw her! I did! I know I did!"
Lissea's voice remained patient and calm. "That's Jesscea, yer granddaughter. Sarea's grown up."
He blinked. "She is? Where is she? Where's my daughter? Where's our son? How can I sell hats without my son?"
"I'm here, Papa. You go on and eat now." Sarea set a bowl of soup and a buttered bit of bread before him.
"But Stuart! Where's Stuart?" Dev glared at Lars. "That's not Stuart! He's far too old. Isn't he?"
"Stuart's gone," Lissea sighed.
"Gone to the dark, yes, I remember. Dammit, woman, I'm not daft." He slopped soup into his mouth then dropped the spoon. It clattered away, leaving a splatter of broth on the table. He stared at the spilled broth and dragged a finger through it, drawing a butterfly.
As Lars watched, anxious, Devyn's hand twitched like a dying fish and he sat up straighter, his rheumy eyes glancing to the windows. "For Goddess's sake, it's dark already. Time for bed."
"Night, Papa." Sarea pulled a kerchief from her pocket and wiped at her nose.
"Night," he replied, and the tremor in his left cheek twisted his smile into a grimace. "I remember the night I became a man. Now if only I could remember her name." He stood, nudging Lars with his elbow. "Who was she? You introduced us, remember?" He blinked, leaned close, then pushed a single finger against Lars's chest. "Stuart? Is it you?"
"Sorry, milord," Lissea whispered to Lars as she ushered Devyn from the table. "He's had a long day."
Resisting the urge to commit Devyn's episode to his notes, Lars nodded. "Good night."
Devyn waved and shuffled off, one hand trailing against the wall for balance.
"I'm sorry," Sarea said, cleaning up Devyn's mess. "He shouldn't have said those things."
Lars dismissed the apology with a shake of his head. "He shouldn't have forgotten you, either. That's a far worse crime than what he said about me."
Sarea hung her head, dishes clattering into the wash basin. "It grows worse every time we visit. I don't know how Mother manages."
"Because I promised to. He's still my husband," Lissea said as she strode into the kitchen and poured a fresh cup of tea. Gaunt, with coarse, tight features, she looked shrunken and homely in comparison to her robust and beautiful daughter and grandchildren. Lars thought she was downright diminutive beside her son in law, but then, most people were.
"The offer stands, Liss," Dien said.
"I can't leave him, not now. Wouldn't be right. Who'd take care of him?" She sat and looked to Lars and Dien, folding her bony hands together with the barest twitch as evidence of her strain. She seemed to steel herself for bad news. "What can we do to find Braoin?"
Dien pulled a notebook from the pack beside his chair. "I barely know the lad so you need to tell us about him. Anything you can think of, good or bad or perfectly normal. What was he like? What did he do? Who were his friends?"
Sarea fell into her chair. "You speak as if he's dead."
Dien glanced at Lars before looking at her. "He may be, but we don't know who was pulled from the river so hope isn't lost. If he's still alive, we'll do whatever we can to bring him home."
Sarea frowned and reached for Dien's hand.
Lars pulled a sack from his pocket and opened it. "We found a bit of cloth on the way here. Silk. Could it be from Braoin's clothes?"
He lay the damp strip on the table in front of Sarea and her mother. Lissea shook her head, refusing to touch it, but Sarea lifted the cloth. "I don't think so," she said, holding it in the light. Red diamonds shimmered on a black field. "Bray's mother, Maeve, is a weaver and she makes all his clothes. He wouldn't have any silk."
Lars retrieved the fabric and tucked it away again while Dien asked, "A barmaid told us that children have gone missing before. What can you tell us about that?"
Sarea looked at her mother. Lissea sat still and composed in her chair, streaks of white in her brilliant red hair shining like silver threads in a tapestry. The corner of her mouth trembled and she stared at her hands. "Children grow up. Some run off."
"Yes, but the barmaid said the dark was eating them."
The sigh that escaped from her sounded like wind whispering through the branches of a dead cottonwood. "They're just gone, disappearin' at night, the rumors say."
Dien asked, "How long has this been happening? A couple of moons? Less?"
"Two, maybe three summers. I ain't sure--"
Lissea jumped as Dien swore. "Two or three summers? Damn it, Liss! Why weren't we notified earlier?"
Her poised demeanor faltered and unease shadowed her face. "Surely Constable Sherrod told Sir Haconry. Folks used to say help would come from the castle. But after so many gone, folks lose hope."
Dien's hand curled into a fist. "Liss, I swear we'd never heard of missing children! We would have come, I would have come! All these times we've come to visit, you've said nothing!"
"I knew my family was safe at the castle. I wouldn't burden you with such stories, not when you're here with the children."
"Damn it, Mother, that's his job," Sarea said, standing. She picked Devyn's overturned chair from the floor. "I can't believe you stood by, knowing something was--"
"Missus Paerth?" Lars said softly, drawing her eyes to him. "I swear on my soul that every Faldorrahn life is important to us. If we'd known, we'd have come."
"Not you, pup," Dien said, "nor my girls. None of you have any business being here. I'm escorting you back home come daybreak."
"Why?" Lars asked. "I took the same oath you did. Faldorrah first. I've every right and reason to be here."
"You might've convinced Dubric that you're safe--hell, you nearly convinced me--but that doesn't change a thing. Children are being taken--"
Lars kept his voice low and even despite the anger pounding in him. "I'm not a child. I don't think I've ever been a child. I may be young, I'll readily admit that, but I'm no child. And you're not my father."
Dien snarled, his face reddening, "Don't you be throwing that in my face! I love you as if you were my own. You know that."
"It doesn't give you the right to decide my life for me, or the right to make me disregard my duty."
"I have a responsibility to keep you safe."
Sarea slammed her hand on the table. "Stop it! This isn't the time or place for fighting like a pair of roosters. You both care very deeply for each other, we all know that."
She turned to her husband and said, "All I've heard for summers is how mature and responsible Lars is, how dependable, and every time he gets perfect marks you strut around like you've gotten them yourself. And you," she said, shifting her angry gaze to Lars, "when you broke your arm last spring, who did you call for? Who taught you to hunt? Who holds your head when you're puking and sick?"
Lars winced at the guilty bile in his mouth. He nodded and mumbled, "I'm sorry."
"So stop it. You both know damn well Dubric makes the orders and you two follow. The planting festival's in a few days and we have to help sell hats, so we're all staying here, like it or not. If you want to know the truth, I feel much better having both of you guarding the girls. There are no two men I know of that I trust more to watch over my daughters, and they're far safer right here with the two of you than with me on the road alone."
She huffed and resumed washing dishes. "Figure out who's doing this and catch the bastard. That's what you're both trained to do, isn't it?"
Lars and Dien stared at one another over the table. "You'll stay," Dien said at last, "but you do what I tell you, at least until Dubric says otherwise."
"Fair enough," Lars agreed. "And I'll protect the girls, with my life if need be."
Dien sighed and gripped his tea cup, enclosing it inside his massive fist. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
Braoin woke, spluttering away the water dripping on his face. He hung by his wrists and ankles in the dark, suspended face-up over Goddess knew what, Goddess knew where. He heard rain on a roof above him, but he had no idea if he hung in a shed or a barn or a home, or even an outhouse. Judging by the stench, he gauged the later option most likely, but the air stank like no outhouse he had ever been in, heavy and rancid and damply vile. Whatever it was, it badly needed repairs, judging from the trickles dribbling over him. He felt freezing cold, pain throbbed from places he did not want to contemplate, and a foulness polluted his agony-filled mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and winced. All his incisors were missing, leaving raw and bleeding gums behind.
What in the seven hells happened while I was unconscious? He struggled against his binds and swung in the dark, the movement setting his stomach roiling. He retched, turning his head to vomit, and bitter acid dribbled from his mouth to land somewhere below.
He spat, then took a breath and tried to release one hand. I have to keep my wits to get out of here. If I stay, I'll die.
After swallowing a mouthful of rainwater, he flexed one arm, hoping to release the strain on the other, but as he did his body swung to the side and maintained tension to both wrists. No matter what he tried, no matter what he did, his weight remained hanging from both wrists and ankles. He could not gain slack anywhere.
He hung silently, struggling to think his way out of his binds. Exhausted and lulled by the sound of the rain, he dozed, but his eyes snapped open when he heard a metallic scrape somewhere near his head.
Clank, creak, bang, and a door opened, bringing a gust of fresh, cold air. He saw upside-down rain and nighttime sky and a distant light. Light enough to see by, praise the Goddess! A post stood near his shoulder and dirt waited perhaps three lengths below him, crawling with tiny worms and fat, winged insects.
Braoin found a sense of space, the presence of something normal and within understanding. He hung in a barn or large shed much like the one behind his home. If so, the thin cording at his wrists and ankles must be tied to beams. If the ground was three lengths down, then the beams were six or seven lengths up, at most. Could he climb that far? Was it possible?
He turned his hands to grasp the cord then a shadow blocked the door, the silhouette of a man.
"Let me go," Braoin begged despite his throbbing mouth and he released his grip. He swung and the man's shadow darkened his face then slipped away, dark then light, dark, light. His stomach lurched and he hoped he would not vomit again. "Please," he choked out, gagging against the spasm in his throat and belly. "I'll do anything, if you just let me go."
The man laughed and entered, bringing with him the stench of old whiskey. "You offer me nothing."
No! "Please, I won't say anything. Just please, let me go."
The shadow moved closer and Braoin heard something drag across the floor.
"Hungry, little cur?"
Braoin shook his head and resumed swaying, but the shadow snapped out and grasped a cord. Diffuse light shone on the edges of the man's body, shimmering on a wet cloak and the bare skin of an outstretched arm, but Braoin could not see his face or any other definite feature.
"You're going to eat, nosey little rabbit," the man said. "I need to keep you alive." Braoin clenched his teeth but hot, hard fingers wrenched his mouth open, slipping between his torn and tattered gums. Before he could twist away, the man stuffed his mouth full of congealed stew.
Braoin gagged, struggling between coughing and swallowing. The man held Braoin's mouth closed until he quieted then wrenched it open again for another mouthful of slime.
Braoin fought, but he had no choice. Seven mouthfuls forced their way through his throat to his belly while dribbles of cold broth ran up his nose and stung his eyes.
"Thirsty?" the man asked. Braoin saw an empty bowl roll on the ground toward the door and its clotted remnants looked like black blood in the dim light.
Braoin heard cloth shift. "No," he choked out.
"Yes, you are," the man said, grabbing Braoin by the ears and hair. "Now drink, you bastard. Drink."
Braoin fought against the intrusion into his mouth, but his struggles only served to encourage his tormentor. He struggled, smearing both himself and the man with stew, but the assault continued. In the end, with his nose full of thick broth and his mouth filling with far worse fluid, Braoin drank.
The man left soon after, slamming and locking the door behind him. Alone in the dark, Braoin retched and fell into an exhausted sleep while dripping rain water rinsed the stain and shame from his battered face.