Ghosts in the Snow (24 page)

All answered, confirming their places on the list. "What about Nansy?" he asked as he checked off the five new arrivals.

"She's running late," one said. "As usual."

He frowned. Four guards remained at the door, awaiting their charges. Two were supposed to escort the last set, the other two to patrol the barn area once all the girls were inside.

"We can wait for the straggler," the bigger of the men said, "get her where she needs to be, then patrol."

His partner shrugged and nodded.

"Are you sure about that?" Fultin asked. "We can wait for her to get here."

"We don't wanna get in trouble," one of the milkmaids said.

"She's always getting us in trouble," piped in another.

"We can handle a single milkmaid, boss," the bigger of the men said, his hand on the hilt of his very big sword. His partner nodded. He carried a chunk of wood, about the size of a sword.

"All right," Fultin said. It seemed like a reasonable solution to him.

The five milkmaids went forth with their pair of guards and disappeared into the dark. A thin line of pink glimmered on the horizon when Nansy trudged to the door, her hair half-combed, her eyes half-open.

"Mornin'," she said, yawning. Roughly half her teeth had gone missing and her breath stank.

What a charmer
, Fultin thought, crossing off her name. He nodded grimly, then motioned her into the dark with her two guards.

Not long afterward, the screams began.

No!
Dubric thought, turning to stare at his ghosts.
It can't be! Not again! For King's sake, Inek is in the gaol!

Olibe Meiks flickered into view before him, screaming in astounded anguish, blood coursing from his throat. Dubric wavered, holding his aching head, as Meiks's ghost seemed to solidify. Meiks's death felt heavy, so damned heavy, like a lead weight tied behind Dubric's brow.

A moment or two later, barely long enough for Dubric to realize the castle slasher was not afraid of guards or men, a milkmaid eased into view, her guts falling from her belly over and over and over. Under the burden of eleven ghosts, Dubric's knees buckled and he fell, slumping onto the muddy ground.

Cotter ran to him, trying to help him stand. A scream whispered through the air, echoing through the dawn like a frigid north wind, and he shivered.

"By the gods!" Cotter muttered, turning to the west. "Another one?"

"It would seem so." Shoving himself upright despite the pounding in his head, Dubric staggered toward the western side of the castle. A guard trumpeted an alarm, filling the air with golden sound that brutally mimicked the blossoming morning.

* * *

Trumpets echoing through the last vapors of her dream, Nella opened her eyes to a dark room, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings. She felt strangely out of place, as if she had dreamt upon a silken cloud. She had clutched Risley's pillow to her chest while she slept, and she pressed her face against it, breathing in his scent.

Risley
, she thought, smiling.
I'm in Risley's suite, in his bed, and he knows I love him
.

Still smiling, she sat and stretched, swinging her legs out from under the blankets, then she paused, staring at the door and the thin line of bluish light peeking from beneath it.

Didn't I leave that open
? Frowning, she looked at the closed door then climbed from the bed, her bare toes curling against the chilly floor.

She reached for the latch and paused, her hand trembling. A trumpet warbled somewhere outside, ringing in her ears like a warning. The trumpet faded away and she wavered where she stood, caught in the echoing silence. Her heart hammering, she tapped the wooden door, leaning her ear against it. "Risley?"

Nothing. No reply, no snoring. Nothing.

Taking a breath, she pressed the latch and opened the door.

The divan Risley had slept on stood across from her. His blanket lay puddled at one end, spilling onto the floor, while a pillow had been cast aside and forgotten beside the sheathed sword. Violet sky shown through the window, giving the cluttered scene a chilly glow.

"Risley?" she called again, venturing into the hall. She looked toward the main doors and frowned. Locked.

"Well, he must be here somewhere," she mumbled, moving deeper into the suite.

The privy door stood open and she peeked inside. Empty. The book-filled room he had referred to as his library remained exactly as it had been the night before, as did the sitting room across the hall from it.

"Risley?" she called again, louder this time.
Where could he have gone? Where could he be
?

Gasping, she stumbled backward as a crash filled the air, then a muttered curse. "Nella!" Risley's voice said from down the hall. "I'll be right— Oh, damn!"

"Risley?" She hurried forward, then stopped as she heard a low
thud
followed by another curse. She swallowed, staring at the closed door to his office. She heard a key in a lock, then the door opened. Risley hurried through, closing the door behind him.

"Good morning, love," he said, smiling and rushing to her. "Did you sleep well?" He drew her gently into his arms, one hand flat and massaging her back, the other balled into a fist and held against her arm.

She nodded as he kissed her forehead. His hand on her arm felt tacky and wet, soaking through her sleeve. Her smile faded as she drew away. "You're bleeding."

He blushed, looking at his hand and absently wiping the mess onto his stained and rumpled trousers. "Oh, that. It's just a cut, nothing to worry about."

She looked from his bloody hand to his eyes, his caring, earnest eyes, and gave him a consoling sigh. "Let me look at it," she said, reaching for his hand.

"It's nothing, love, really. Just cut myself."

Tsk-tsking
him, she opened his fingers and sopped the blood with the cuff of her sleeve. The shallow gash ran along the firm flesh beneath his fingers, splitting open the callus. "It's not very deep, but you'll probably need stitches. Here, let's get it cleaned up."

Grumbling good-naturedly, he let her drag him to the privy room where she continued to tend his injury and wipe up the mess.

"How did you cut your hand?" she asked, dipping a clean rag into a basin of water.

He chuckled and held his palm open flat for her. "Being clumsy. I fell asleep in my office and you startled me. I fell and tried to catch myself on a box of armor." He shrugged and looked at his hand. "I suppose I should ask Rolle to sew it up before it gets infected."

"Nonsense," she said. "I can do it. Only take a moment."

He smiled, looking deep into her eyes. "I have needle and thread in the library cabinet. Top left drawer."

She nodded, closing his fingers around the wet rag. Refusing to let fear get the best of her—Risley would never hurt her—she hurried to retrieve the needle and thread.

He accepted the stitches stoically, watching her work. Once they were in, he flexed his hand and smiled. "You've done this before."

She washed blood from her hands, struggling to keep them from shaking. "Once. But that was a long time ago."

He sighed sadly and stared at her hands. "My clumsiness has ruined it. You're afraid to stay here with me, aren't you?"

She shook her head, blinking back tears.

He took her damp hands and gently dried them. "Don't be afraid. I'm not the killer, love. I swear on my life that's the truth." He raised her hand to his lips, "I'm making something in my office. But it's a secret. A surprise."

She looked up at him quickly. " 'A surprise'?"

He nodded, easing her closer and holding her eyes with his own. "I give you my word that it's not dangerous in any way, and I have harmed no one. Do you believe me?"

She searched his eyes and nodded with relief, smiling. He was Risley, her love, her protector, and he had merely fallen and cut his hand. "Yes, yes I do."

He sighed happily, kissing her forehead. "Then stay here. With me," he whispered against her brow, drawing her gently into his arms.

She snuggled against his chest, safe and warm and adored. "I can't, no matter how much I want to. I… I have to work. The debt—"

"Then forget the debt," he said. "For me, for us."

"I can't forget it," she said, leaning back to look at him. "I'm so close. Just a few more days."

"I… I can't wait a few more days," he said, lowering his head until his breath warmed her lips like a promise. "May I have one kiss, love? Just one?"

Her eyes closed slowly, opening again as she nodded. "Just one," she whispered and he smiled, pressing her close as his breath mingled with her own.

"I love you," he murmured against her mouth. "Forever and always, my love, my Nella." He held her face in his hands, then he kissed her.

A small cry escaped her throat as her arms came up to encircle his neck. His breath in her mouth grew ragged and warm, sweet with his need, and his hands moved from her face to her arms, her back, her waist. Their lips never parting, he lifted her, knocking aside the washbasin and setting her upon the bureau.

Her knees on either side of his hips, she held him close and dear, her fingers curling into his hair. An endless moment later, when every conceivable bit of her body tingled, he drew away, sighing, and looked into her eyes.

His voice sounded soft, edged with a warm rasp that made her ache low in her belly. "I've waited a long time for that."

"Me, too." Nella's fingertips trembled against his stubbly cheek and she licked her lips to ease the stinging burn.

She thought for a moment he might kiss her again, but he cleared his throat, his hands resting on her waist. Looking into her eyes, he smiled. "Since we're on, um, kissing terms now, even with the debt, a minstrel from Jhalin is playing at the alehouse in the village. Could I take you to see him? Tonight?"

"You mean… like courting?"

He grinned, snuggling her close. "Exactly like courting." He kissed the tip of her nose and said, "Debt or no debt, I want to court you, publicly, letting everyone know that my intentions are honorable. If you'll let me, that is."

"Risley, I…"

He grasped one of her hands and traced her fingers with his own. "I'll wait until your debt's done if I need to. I will. I don't want to break my word, but I don't want to miss this chance, either. I promise to be a perfect gentleman tonight, and I can find someone to chaperone, if that worries you, or we don't have to go to the alehouse at all. We can take a walk through the castle, or look at the paintings in the ballroom, or—"

Her fingertips on his lips quieted him. "Yes. I'd be honored to listen to the minstrel with you."

He grinned, his nervousness slipping away with a relieved rush of air. "You will?"

She nodded and giggled. "Yes. No chaperone necessary."

Still grinning, he lifted her from the bureau and set her back on her feet. "Then we had better get our day started, so this evening will arrive that much sooner."

Nella held his hand and smiled. She couldn't agree more.

* * *

The trumpeted alarm had long since faded away by the time Dubric staggered to the scene. Milkmaids and interested gawkers were kept at bay by a handful of volunteers while Dien stood over the body of the milkmaid, taking notes. Fultin, looking confused and out of his element, guarded Meiks. One other body lay near, tended by a pair of the night's volunteers, and Dien nodded toward it as Dubric approached.

"The herald's just bashed on the back of the head. He'll be fine."

"Like Nella," Dubric said. Unlike with the female victims, Dubric saw no passion in the way the killer attacked men. Meiks was bigger, more of a threat, so he was likely dropped first, fatally. Beckwith's survival was probably irrelevant to the murderer. Sparing Lars's life showed that he was not interested in killing men the same way he was preying upon women.
He has merely upped the ante this morning, showing me that he can kill at whim and even guarded women are not safe. With Inek in gaol, and innocent of murder, who would make such a point to taunt me
?

He approached the closest body—the milkmaid— scanning the ground and seeking stray footprints, dropped clues, drips of blood… anything he could discern. Layers upon layers of prints dimpled the mud and sloppy snow, most following along the same ofttrodden paths to the barns, but others moved back to the castle or crossways in all directions. Jumbled and haphazard, the prints made little sense from an investigative standpoint. The main route had been used by countless people for decades, and a score or more had traveled its familiar terrain just this morning.

Dubric knelt beside the grimy, blood and bile spattered body of the milkmaid. She lay upon her back, staring at the morning sky, while a puddle of blood and viscera lay congealing and oozing beside her. Her belly loomed utterly empty from her diaphragm to her uterus. Everything between had been yanked out, still attached by shiny, bluish lengths of intestine.

"Have you a name yet?" he asked Dien as he pulled a measuring string from his coat pocket. Despite himself, he wondered if she had been a whore.

"Nansy," Dien replied. "I found her faceup, but I'd lay odds she landed facedown."

Dubric measured the rounded, conical depressions on opposite sides of the intestines. She had fallen on her own viscera, landing on her elbows and knees, judging by the dents in the mud.

Her filthy uniform was flecked with bloody fluid, dark bile, mud, and smears of feces. "Where is her liver?" Dubric asked.

Dien knelt beside the pile and used his dagger to gently lift a tangle of muddy intestines. "Looks like it landed first, sir," he said. "Everything else seems to be on top of it."

Dubric added to his notes. "We have Risley's sword. If he is to blame, he has another way of becoming dim. And I tossed Inek in gaol less than a bell ago."

Dien said, "Some other bastard is prowling the courtyard, or one of the pair has an accomplice toying with us. Diddly damn great."

The west-tower door opened and both men looked up at the sound of running.

"I thought I heard a trumpet," Lars said, hurrying to them. "I'd have been here sooner, but I didn't know which door."

"You haven't missed much, pup," Dien said. "Same shit, different corpses."

Lars skidded to a stop, his mouth dropping open. "Boar piss! Is that Meiks and Beckwith?" As Dubric nodded, Beckwith moved, moaning, and Lars sighed with relief. "Left another one alive?"

"Better a hit on the head than a slash across the back or belly," Dien said, holding the measuring string for Dubric as they tallied the length of the slashes across the milkmaid's abdomen.

Dubric noted the measurements then looked up. Fultin had paled to a noxious shade. "Examine Meiks, will you, Lars? Fultin looks about ready to drop."

"Yessir," Lars said, moving to the big man's body.

Fultin staggered toward them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry, milord."

Dubric waved off the apology. "Check the gaol, will you, and make certain Inek the herbmonger is still in his cell. Fourth in on the right."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Fultin bowed before hurrying away.

Around them, the crowd mumbled their concern but Dubric tried to ignore the noise. Between the added ghosts and the details of the murder, he had the patience for little else. He had barely finished checking Nansy's hands for signs of struggle when Lars returned to them.

Lars knelt and leaned close. "Meiks is different," he said, his voice barely audible over the wind.

"How so, pup?" Dien asked, continuing with his own notations.