My Immortal (20 page)

“You weren’t a prude when you were screaming in the swamp, and in my bedroom.”

“True.” She was into the truth. She could own up to that. “But I’m not like your usual women.”

“What does that mean? What do you think my usual women are like?”

“Look at Rosa. She’s thin and gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous. And Rosa, she and I are toxic together. We bring out the worst in each other. I wouldn’t want you to be like her.”

“So why do you let her come around here?” Marley had wondered that ever since he had confessed that his one-night stand had been with Rosa.

“She just shows up. I can’t control that.”

He wasn’t telling her everything. Not even close, she could just tell. But she was leaving, because that was her choice, the right thing to do, and there was no sense in getting worked up over it.

“Maybe she’s in love with you.” Marley could certainly understand how that could happen.

Damien burst out laughing. “Please. That is not the feeling Rosa has for me.”

His cell phone rang and he glanced at the number.

“You can answer it,” Marley said. “I’m going to run up and change. Thank you for not making tonight a bikini theme.” She stood up and squeezed his shoulder as she walked past him. “Oh! And here’s that letter I keep forgetting to give you.” Marley pulled it out of her pocket and set it on the table.

Then she went quickly toward the house. She had an hour and she was going to finish those letters from Marie before this party and return them to Anna.

It was time for all the answers.

“They are both going to die!”

I hovered in and out of consciousness, but I heard Gigi’s agonized words floating over from my left.

“Whatever will we do? There is no family here…oooohhh, this is so horrible. My poor mistress, so young, so sweet.”

Gigi was in full dramatics and it was comforting for some reason. I pried my eyes open to check on Damien. I had insisted they put me in bed with him, regardless of how scandalous that might be. If we were both to die, better not to divide the staff to attend us. Given Gigi’s words, I knew Damien hadn’t expired while I was in my faint, but I was prepared for the visual evidence that it was merely a formality that he lived.

He was still, lying on his back, but very clearly breathing.

“Get yourself into the hall,” the housekeeper reprimanded to Gigi. “Running on like that will not help anyone.”

Right as they passed into the hallway, Damien’s eyes opened. With a soft groan, he turned to me and whispered, “Marie?”

“Yes!” I gave a sob and managed to turn onto my own side, so that we lay facing each other. I was so desperate with relief that it didn’t occur to me how curious it was that he had such mobility in the face of such an injury. Gratitude rushed through me, pleasure, confidence that if Damien could speak, could move, he would recover. “How are you feeling, Damien?”

His answer was not as expected. He didn’t sound agonized, in pain, afraid or at peace, as the dying are usually one or the other. In a firm, strong voice, this was where my husband leaned in to me, eyes locked with mine, and told me the truth.

What truth is that? That he was not going to die. That he could not die, ever. Can you imagine such a thing? Had you
guessed this would be where my letters are leading? No, neither could I at that moment.

Yet he told me all in great detail, in urgent whispered tones, how he had bartered with a demon, and gained eternal human life in exchange for his servitude.

It sounded fantastical, a fevered result of his accident, his imagination run wild under the influence of the doctor’s carefully administered laudanum. “Hush, Damien,” I whispered. “You need your rest.”

“It was her, you know,” he said, green eyes glassy and hard. “Rosa is the demon’s daughter, and she is the one who granted my request.”

“The horse threw you, and when you fell, your thoughts have been jumbled.” The candles flickered around us, the clock on the mantel ticking with slow, loud predictability, and the bed curtains shrouded around us, attempting to block out the late afternoon sun with little success, and I was suddenly afraid.

“No. It’s the truth.” Damien sat up, startling me. He moved his neck, raised his arms, shifted his hair aside to show me there was no longer a wound where his temple had been dashed open. “If I had not made this bargain, I would be dead now. No man can survive a broken neck.”

I just shook my head. It was incomprehensible, what he was telling me, and I did not wish to hear it. My body was still cold and exhausted, my thoughts floating in a whirlpool, with nothing to stop their motion, no solid surface to cling to.

“And my task assigned to me by the demon father is to promote and inspire sin in others, particularly the sin of lust.” Damien rested back down on his elbows, speaking quickly, urgently.

“What?” The sin of lust. The sin I had succumbed to, so eagerly and blissfully. The sin that had stripped my womb of our child—yes, that would be a sin brought forth by a demon. And I confess, I thought if anyone would willingly
strike a deal with a demon, it would be my always arrogant, always reckless husband.

“To facilitate this goal, I have been given the power of attraction. Women cannot resist me. Women will abandon their values to seek pleasure with me.”

“Abandon their values…” So I knew it was true then, most absolutely, as I knew I could not resist Damien, and even as the horror, the shock, the disgust all warred within me, can you believe that I took pleasure and relief in learning that I was not as weak as I had assumed? Inability to resist the lure of selfish sexual pleasure was such a failure, such a demonstration of the weakness of my character. Yet here it was said to me that I’d had no choice, no hope of resisting. How could I stand firm against the satanic and immoral pull of a demon?

Sweet, sweet rationalization. Yet another tool of the devil, but I took it, I sank inside it, I wrapped it around me without hesitation.

Damien took my hand. “We must call Rosa in here, and she can grant you the same exemption from death.”

“What? No!” Submit to such an aberration? I couldn’t fathom doing such a thing.

“You are dying,” Damien said, his voice rising. “I cannot let you bleed to death, Marie. I will not.”

“Rosa is that woman…that woman in the red gown?” I wanted to be indebted to her for nothing, and I wanted no part of immortality. I had succumbed to so many sins, I would not compound them with giving myself over to the devil. The very idea terrified, sickened.

“Yes, she will save you.”

“I do not want her to save me. It’s not right.” But I was glad that Damien wanted me to live. Even then, as we were, both covered in blood and feeling the pain of punishment for our misdeeds, I felt that selfish vanity, pride, greed, that Damien cared about me, wanted me with him in eternity.

Perhaps it was more guilt on his part than love, but I
chose to believe what I wished. He loved me enough to want an exemption from death for me.

“Hush,” he said harshly. “You will do as I say. And we must continue to act ill, even when we no longer feel pain, so the servants don’t talk. We have to let them nurse us back to health, allowing everyone to think we’ve made a miraculous recovery.”

My own eyes focused on his green ones, so hard and determined, so desperate, their alluring depths coaxing me in, compelling me to give over everything I knew as right, as moral, as God’s will.

I opened my mouth to speak, to give another refusal, as a violent, breath-robbing pain shot through my womb, fanning out with ferocious pressure. With tremendous relief I went under in a faint.

When I woke up later, Damien was out of bed. I heard him by the window, speaking in anger. With great effort, I turned my head and saw that she was in my room. Rosa. The woman in red. She was wearing a ball gown this time, bustled in back, her décolleté daring and excessively exposed, her long black hair piled in curls on top of her head.

“You are being rather impossible,” she told Damien. “There are objections to your request.”

“Why?” Damien, who looked quite fit, hale and hearty, paced in his blood-stained linen shirt and breeches, his feet bare, no evidence of his severe injury.

“First of all, your wife is not dying. She will make a complete recovery. Secondly, she will not consent, let alone ask for my gift, and she must be willing in her role of servitude.”

I lay still, not wanting it discovered I was awake.

“What makes you think she won’t consent to be with me?”

“While she is quite embarrassingly in love with you, she is still a milksop, Damien. She doesn’t want the life you choose.”

Despite the insult, I couldn’t find fault with her logic. I would never agree to serve the devil. I might be flawed, sinful,
ashamed of my recent conduct, but I was not so far gone as that.

“Then free me.”

“What?” Rosa gave a startled laugh. “Why?”

“If Marie will not die now, and will not accept immortality, I choose to live out my mortal life with her as man and wife. I have made a bad bargain, which I regret. Release me and return me to who I was three months ago.”

She fingered her necklace, the gems not visible in the dark. “You are an arrogant fool. I cannot do that and you know it. And it is not my concern if you have suddenly grown wise to the drawbacks in the bargain we made. You should have thought through all of those before you asked for my assistance, which I bestowed so graciously.”

“I am asking you now most humbly to release me,” Damien said, sounding anything but humble. His voice was stiff and angry. “Show some compassion for my wife.”

Rosa’s hands clenched in fists. Her voice rose. “What do I care for your little invalid wife? And if you cared, you would have considered her feelings prior to my joining with you on your front porch. You, Damien du Bourg, are a hypocrite, and a stupid rich man who thinks the world is his to order about. Well, the truth is as such—I am the daughter of a demon, and you are a demon’s slave. This is what you asked for, and this is what you’ve been gifted with, and this is what you’ll always be, forever and an eternity. My father says God will battle the demons on Judgment Day, and send a Great Flood to save His people from our presence, but until that day, should it ever arrive, you, my darling, belong to us, and you would be wise not to anger me.”

She leaned toward him, went to place her lips on his.

Was it a dream? It certainly felt surreal, unnatural, like I was remote and cold and watching from far, far away.

“Fuck you,” Damien told her, jerking out of her reach.

And so I wasn’t dreaming, as I could never have conceived of such a phrasing in my entire life.

I didn’t die. But that is obvious, isn’t it? I am laughing at myself, at how idiotic I am sometimes. I feel a bit hysterical, like everything is bubbling and boiling and spewing inside me, ready to rush forth in hot liquid anger.

Damien will be home soon and I feel frantic to finish my writing. I have been successful in concealing my ramblings from him by sliding the papers under the mattress of my bed every night before retiring. There are many things Damien will do on and around a mattress, but lift it up is not one of them, and thus my thoughts are safe from his prying eyes. What he would do if he read these letters, Angelique, I know not.

There are rules between us, some unspoken, others quite clearly verbalized. I am not allowed into town, or to visit the other plantations for social calls. It has been told to our neighbors that I am indisposed again due to losing our child, but that I am expected to have made a full recovery in time for Christmas festivities.

I am already recovered fully. The tales of illness are a ruse, a fabrication so Damien can watch me, keep me close. He does not trust me, since I have repeatedly told him how
offensive I find his pact with Rosa to be. That his unholy role he so willingly accepted is abhorrent and disgusting to me.

Yet that is not all that is disgusting to me. What repulses, sickens, and horrifies me is that I still crave him, want him, physically and spiritually. My heart beats with love even yet, my body strums with anticipation at the sight and thought of him.

Night after night, day after day, I fight with my conscience, my willpower, and each time I fail miserably. I go to him, like the slut that I am, I simper and beg and flirt, display my breasts enticingly, lean over when no such action is necessary. I put my hands on his manhood and stroke it into hardness, then lift my skirts and climb on him like an enthusiastic rider does with his favorite stallion.

I despise myself, I loathe who I am and what I have become, and yet I cannot stop. I go to him, again and again, with legs spread and body wet, begging for the release that only he can give, and it aches, it hurts, a pleasure so acute that it acts like an opiate upon me, luring me back when I have barely been gone. Do you understand what I am saying? That I would beg and plead and disgrace myself if necessary, that I cannot go more than twenty-four hours without feeling his body inside mine, without being bedded hard or fast or slow or voyeuristically, whichever way Damien should choose that day, and that I am more than willing. I am the instigator, the catalyst, the utterly lost fallen woman. This we do not speak about, we don’t put words to my shame, my utter abandonment of all that is good and proper and moral, and if I could be grateful for anything it is that my husband doesn’t glory in my wretched state.

He holds me when I cry afterward, when my frustration and shock at my continued weakness overcome me. But it is only balm to the festering, gaping wound of my virtue, which has fled in large parts, slowly evaporated in others, and fights the bondage of desire wherever it still remains.

It will never go away, I shall never win, I cannot be
strong enough to beat it back, and the devil works in me, through me, every time I strip off my gown like a whore and dive into sin.

There is another babe on the way, and this time, Angelique, this time I cannot wait for God to take it from me. My husband is an unnatural being, immortal, enslaved to the powers of hell, a charming, handsome vessel of all that is evil. What sort of child could this possibly be, born of my weak licentiousness and Damien’s empty, Godless soul?

I am not fit to raise a child, nor would this be a baby. It is an aberration, it is like when Rosa was born of the union of her father and a mortal mate, born directly into servitude. They would own this child and raise it in their world to be as they are.

Whatever sins I have committed, whatever becomes of me, this is something I cannot bear. I am not meant to be a mother, not with Damien. That is why I lost the first two, because it was a warning sign from God that I had fallen afoul of all that is right.

Martha, one of our house slaves, has been kind enough to procure for me a local herb that is said to ease the ailment I suffer from. She was startled by my questions, but I told her that the doctor has informed me carrying a child to term will kill me, and I choose to live. Not only did she give me the solution for my immediate concerns, she gave me some advice and options for preventing future incidents, for which I am most grateful. I do not believe I can endure this a second time.

I am not even sure I shall survive the first.

Rosa has just left me. She has offered me a solution, a way to release both Damien and myself.

Not ten minutes past, she stood in my bedchamber, with its pretty lilac wallpapering, and ran her fingers idly over
the rich silk of my window hangings. “Do you love him?” she asked.

“That is none of your concern,” I said, afraid yet unwilling to give her what she desired. And if my insolence displeased her, how else could she hurt me, truthfully? I cannot suffer any more than I already have.

“Oh, do not be missish.” She made an unpleasant face. “I am not a witch, you know, I do not enjoy other people’s pain. I am more concerned with giving everyone pleasure, not causing suffering.”

“It would give me great pleasure if you would leave.”

That made her laugh. “You have a wit, Marie du Bourg. I can almost forgive you for being so pasty-faced and delicate. Men love that in a wife, you know. Proper, pale, a champion hostess, who looks the other way at a husband’s indiscretions, bears an heir, and promptly takes herself to the grave. A perfect wife.”

“I might have been that at one time, but your descriptives do not accurately portray me any longer.” I was sitting at my writing desk, as I am now, and I sanded my latest efforts before slipping them in the drawer.

“No, you’ve become quite the mistress, haven’t you? It’s very clever, you know. Being a man’s wife in public, his mistress in private. I’m quite impressed by your strategy. But you do know that Damien regrets the choice he has made with me.”

“Yes.”

“He is not a man who likes to serve. He will try to take his life, as he would rather die than continue powerless in this role. He will rail in anger and frustration. He will take it out on you, as you grow old and he stays the same, never changing. And eventually, while you wither and dry out with age, he will go mad, his mind collapsing in on itself. It does not seem a pleasing future for you or Damien.”

I knew she was right. It was an accurate assessment of
Damien’s character. The truth had me around the throat, like cold, strong hands squeezing with authority.

“I can offer a solution. It can save both your unborn child and Damien. You need simply exchange yourself for him. Then he will be free, released, repentant, and can raise your child. You, who understands the lure of sexual pleasure, can live out your days wallowing in it. My father, he will please you, and you’ll know nothing but ecstasy in his company.”

So the offer was simple. So simple after all this pain. Sacrifice myself, who is already so lost, for Damien and our babe.

I bade Rosa give me time to think it over, but my conclusions have not changed in ten minutes. I am simply too weak to resist. So very utterly fatigued. Better to throw myself into the fire and burn quickly than to simmer slowly in the sin of seduction.

Pray, Angelique, for my soul, and please post my enclosed confession to Father Montelier. I will not see you in heaven, but tell my God I am sorry.

Yours, most regretfully,

Marie Evangeline Theresa Bouvier du Bourg

Marley tucked the last letter back into the plastic bag and headed for the door. She was absolutely positive everything she had just read was a load of crap. It had to be. No matter that it was detailed, intriguing, even wrenching at times. She wasn’t going to allow herself to emotionally connect to it because it was a work of fiction. There were no such things as demons, and the Damien in the story couldn’t be immortal.

Because that would mean the previous coincidences would have to be reexamined and would lead her to conclusions she wouldn’t tolerate, couldn’t fathom.

Obviously Anna wasn’t going to tell her the truth, but she needed to see that old woman, hear the lies she was going to spin to accompany the story of the letters.

Marley was getting adept at sneaking out of the house so Damien wouldn’t see her. She had gotten surprisingly bold in the last ten days. She had also gotten flirtatious, selfish, sexual. Like Marie.

Damn it. She pushed through the back door with less care than she should have and it slammed into the wall. Cursing, she closed it and plowed her way through the garden, down the gravel path, and cut past the ramshackle slaves’ cabins. She was not like Marie du Bourg. She had not succumbed to sin, to pleasure, given up pieces of herself, despised the choices she’d made, sank into her own weaknesses.

Marley’s time at Rosa de Montana had been empowering. She had finally faced the truth about her sister, knew she was going to have to step back and let Lizzie make her own mistakes, especially since Sebastian was well cared for. She had allowed herself the indulgence of an affair with Damien. He hadn’t talked or coaxed or lured her into that sexual relationship, but had offered and she’d taken.

But like Marie, she too had fallen in love with her Damien.

And somehow it felt like Anna knew and was laughing at her. A woman like Marley Turner could never keep a man like Damien du Bourg. That was what the little insecure, nasty bitch of a voice whispered in her head, and Marley hated it. Hated it that she hadn’t grown past that yet, that she was still such a needy little girl who needed love.

Not that it mattered whether she could keep Damien or not, because she wasn’t going to try.

He didn’t want that, no matter what he said. Intellectually, neither did she. She had a life to go back to, such as it was, and she understood Marie’s ache, her pain, her want for a child. Marley wanted a baby with every fiber of her being.

“Didn’t take you long,” Anna said from her chair on the porch.

“You knew I’d be back, because these are totally made up. You know this couldn’t have happened.” Marley held up the bag of letters, knowing she was being rude as hell, but unable to stop herself. “I believed everything up until the immortality thing slipped in. So were those just a woman’s delusions when she was dying and her husband was cheating on her, or did someone at some point just make these letters up out of thin air?”

Marley waffled between both theories. Part of her felt that Marie had to be real, because her emotions, her pain touched Marley, as tragic as it was. She had died very unhappy, and that made Marley feel profoundly sad.

But somehow she’d rather that Marie had been real, known that suffering, than the idea that someone had manufactured those words, taken Marie’s name and image and created a story for whatever purpose. Yet it was possible. The use of Rosa’s name raised a red flag for her. It niggled at her and made her wonder if Rosa was the author.

“They are not made up, Marley, not one word. It’s all true. All true.”

Marley paced across the porch and scoffed. “You may believe in immortality, but I’m sorry, I don’t. The first Damien sounds like a bit of a jerk, but he wasn’t in cahoots with a demon.”

“That Damien is the Damien you’re in love with.”

That brought her to a dead halt. Anna had just spoken the incomprehensible out loud. That she could possibly be in love with Damien. Forget the other thing. She didn’t believe that for one lousy minute. But she was in love with Damien and she knew it in her heart, had just admitted it to herself not ten minutes earlier, but it was too special, too quiet, too unrequited to speak about out loud. Unspoken, it was her secret, like a gift to herself, a warm, wondrous feeling. Stated by Anna, it sounded hopeless, silly, naïve.

“I told you, I’m leaving on Sunday. None of this matters.” Which didn’t explain why she was standing on Anna’s porch with her heart racing.

“He can’t love you back, you know. He isn’t capable of it. He loved that little wife of his, too late to save her, and it eats at him, rots him from the inside out. He thinks it is his nature, it is the demon curse that holds him, but it’s guilt, his unwillingness to forgive himself that holds him in slavery. He didn’t love Marissabelle, couldn’t, and he can’t love you.”

Marley knew Damien felt guilt over his wife. He’d said that, admitted he’d cheated on her with Rosa. Marley was smart enough to know he couldn’t care about her until he dealt with his past. Which was why she was leaving as planned. She couldn’t fix him, was done helping people who didn’t want to be helped.

“So what happened to Marissabelle?” Marley sank onto the front step, tired, shoulders aching. So Anna believed Damien was immortal. She was old, and she’d lived in this wild country her whole life, hearing the rumors, whispers. It was like a ghost story, about the mysterious owners of Rosa de Montana, and while Marley thought it was a little off, she figured everyone had their quirks, their superstitions. Or heck, maybe it was senility.