The Darkly Luminous Fight for Persephone Parker (10 page)

Waves crashed against the rocks. The water sparkled with moonlight, and reflected flames danced in the windowpanes. A fire roared in the fireplace, the cool room becoming cozy. Behind Percy, Alexi opened the door to a bedroom and gestured, igniting fires in a tall hearth and atop candles all around the fine little room. Percy gasped again, Alexi’s inexplicable power over fire a seduction of its own.

A four-poster bed was hung with velvet curtains and trimmed with clusters of heather. Alexi breathed deep. “When you and I shared that moonlit dance at the academy ball, the floral crown woven into your hair—that scent would not leave my nostrils. I imagined you lying beside me, in a field of it. It was the first time I allowed myself to find you intoxicating. And the scent of it here, now, unlocks everything…”

Moving to open a narrow wooden door, he revealed a tiled washroom and a fresh array of candles that sprang to life with a wave of his hand. Within, steam poured from a copper tub. Moving to the threshold of the bedroom, he motioned to lower the fires in the main room, making those in the bedroom all the brighter. He walked then to the bed, mostly drawing the curtains. He sat in that opening, at the foot, and Percy was enthralled by the roaring fire reflected in his eyes.

He loosened his cravat, not blinking. “My dear,” he purred, and the sound of his voice made her steady herself upon the door frame. “A scented bath awaits you, as does a bit of finery. I’ll wait here.”

Percy nodded, dazed. “Will you…unfasten me?” She turned her back to him and indicated her garment’s clasps.

“Yes, love,” he whispered.

She felt the lace around her shoulders release. His finger lingered there, tracing her nape and tugging gently on a
lock of falling hair. He unclasped her necklace and drew the pendant aside. Bending over her shoulder, he stared down at the scar that was revealed where the pendant had once burned her, a mark of Prophecy. He traced it gently before his finger strayed to the swell of her bosom. Percy’s breath hitched.

“That scar has beautiful memories,” she murmured, smiling over her shoulder at him. “You kissed me for the first and most glorious time after seeing it. There is pain in this Great Work; I see that. But you are my reward…”

“My reward, indeed,” he said, shuddering with pleasure to be so near her.

Unhooking an embroidered panel of her dress, his palm slid down the revealed laces of her corset. The ties loosened and expanded with his sharp tug, allowing Percy a deep breath and a gasp. Then Alexi knelt, both hands at the small of her back. He fumbled with the layers of her bustle, opening a space where the thin muslin of her camisole was the only barrier between his fingertips and her flesh. She felt both his hands encircle her waist as he led her back a step.

He bent his head, lifted the bottom edge of her camisole and kissed the bare skin at the small of her back. A sharp breath and accompanying shiver worked up her spine. He unfastened the skirt along her side, one hook and eye after another. The satin hung down, the muslin against her skin fluttering as a small draft tickled the backs of her legs. Percy stood paralyzed, aching to know where his hands would travel next. But he simply took her hands, placed in them the bunched fabric of her skirt and patted her on the rear, sending her lurching forward.

“Oh. Thank you.” Percy choked, turning to face him at the washroom, her loose dress starting to slip from her shoulders.

“Do you require further aid?” Alexi rasped, staring at the line of her collarbone.

“I won’t be but a moment,” she replied, biting her lip.

Shifting her skirts and closing the washroom door, she learned a sumptuous lace gown awaited her upon the back of the door, with ribbon closures from neck to toe. Percy blushed. It was nearly transparent light blue lace without lining. The note attached to the first ribbon said,
Tie every bow. I have waited all my life for this night, and it must not go quickly.

Mind hazy and heart pounding, she slipped her wedding dress from her body, hung the layers on a peg and lifted her muslin undergarments over her head. She stared down at her white flesh and trembled as she stepped into the bathwater. It was lightly scented and perfectly warm, greeting Percy’s calves, then caressing her entire body, but its warmth could not stem her trembles. She drew soap along her arms and legs, and everything inside her prickled. In mere moments, it was the right of powerful male hands to trespass every inch of her, and that would be her every pleasure.

She could not stay long in the water. Drying herself, she stared at her new gown. The lace felt incredible against her skin as she slid it onto her arm. Her shaking hands had trouble, but she tied each tie and unpinned her snow-white hair, glancing in the mirror to see that her blue-white irises had somehow grown as luminescent as those dark eyes awaiting her just outside. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined this scene. She longed to fling open the door and fly at him with passionate joy, but a fear lingered: what if the sight of her—the unmitigated, complete
whiteness
of her flesh—was too much?

There was no turning back. She opened the door.

Alexi gasped. There in the door frame, steam pouring out around her, an angel appeared through misty clouds. Her body was perfectly alabaster, its contours visible beneath the sheen of soft blue, and a waterfall of pearlescent hair tumbled
over thin, delicate shoulders. Her eyes gleamed, tiny moons ringed in blue. Her cheeks had gained an even flush, and her pale lips were parted to allow quick, irregular intakes of breath. The shadows of her white skin were nearly the blue of the gown that clung to her thin body, every bow tied. She glided to him as if magnetized. The tips of each candle flame in the room rose, as if wishing a better view.

While Percy was preparing herself, Alexi had removed his fine dress, replacing his wedding attire with a black silk robe that buttoned down the chest. He rose now as she moved to him. Their eyes locked, and their shaking hands found each other. Alexi cupped her face and slid an arm around her waist.

“I love you,” Percy blurted.

He swept her into his arms, parted the bed curtains and laid her gently down. Her hair was a gleaming mass upon the pillow, and blue lace spread about her like a pool of water. He stood there a moment as she gazed up at him. Slowly, he knelt. Billowing black silk slid over pale blue lace. He flicked the bed curtain shut behind him, the foot of the bed open only to the crackling fire.

“Percy,” he whispered. “Before words fail us, as I know they will…” He lifted her so that she reclined upon his knees. “I need you to know that, Prophecy aside, no matter what divine remnants have taken up in us, I, as a mortal man, am desperate for you. I’d have loved you no matter my fate.”

Grateful tears fell from her eyes. “How is it, Alexi, that you know what I crave to hear?”

Alexi smirked. “The benefits of marrying a man of genius. Now, Mrs. Rychman…” He slipped the first tie of her gown open at the neck while simultaneously undoing the first button of his robe, and she gasped. “I must kiss you and cease discussion”—another tie fell open—“as my senses flee.” And another. Their subsequent kiss was nearly violent. He lowered himself to lie beside her, first pinning her down
with a hand upon her shoulder, then scooping her tightly to him. When he at long last drew back, the phantom image of wispy blue wings folding in around Percy caught the corner of his eye, a spirit remnant, perhaps, of the force that guided their work and destiny.

He guided her hand to the buttons of his robe and was patient as her hands shook; he wanted her to do her part. One by one each tie was loosed, each button undone in slow, beautiful torture. A thin line of flesh could be traced down both their bodies, but that was not enough. Alexi parted the lace of her gown and it fell to the bed. He took in the full sight of her blinding white, sculpted body. Her eerily breathtaking gaze filled with fearful tears. Those brought forth his own.

“Oh, Percy, don’t be frightened,” he murmured, a tear falling from his eye to her stomach, causing a tiny shiver.

“M-my love,” she stammered. “I’m only frightened you may not like what you see.”

Alexi moaned. “How I can convince you that I am
enslaved
by what I see?”

“I…suppose you shall show me,” Percy replied with meek hope.

“My God, shall I. You are the epitome of beauty.”

Slowly, reverently, he ran hands down the length of her colourless body. Percy arched upward with a soft cry. Alexi climbed above her and his robe parted. They stared at each other.

His tall body was well-defined with such musculature as would befit a man of letters. Percy’s eyes devoured each hard plane and angle. Everything about this man was impressive. Absolutely everything.

Alexi proceeded to prove to Percy that nothing about her unique flesh did anything but excite him, blessing every inch of her trembling skin with lingering, questing, exploratory kisses. In these delicate moments, if there were
divine beings housed within them and drawing on ancient passion, Percy could not tell, for she was lost entirely within her own.

When Alexi could no longer bear delay, he joined their bodies with a frisson of pain and cries of pleasure. Their limbs wrapped tighter during the progressing stages of passion, and they only took their eyes from each other when kisses so required. Perhaps, Percy thought deliriously, they did see gods in each other’s gazes.

They loved like music: each touch garnered a soft sound, each shift of a body was underscored by an acute reaction, their breath kept time. The tempo of their connection progressed and relaxed, largo to allegro and again to largo, gasps spurring allegretto. Movements were repeated, a prolonged symphony with digressing interludes and desperate refrains, each with a gradual build. The orchestral duet at last grew too hot for their blood to contain, and the candles and hearth in the room erupted higher in an explosion of light, mirroring the indescribable ecstasy of the entwined before extinguishing their flame. Shuddering sighs mixed with deep kisses and tears. Percy heard her heart hammering in her ears, and Alexi’s pounding where she laid her head, his ragged breath a rough breeze on her neck.

They remained locked together with wide, amazed eyes and clutching hands. Words would only diminish the power of what had just occurred, and so they sealed their good night with a languorous kiss. Alexi held Percy as close as he possibly could, and they drifted into blissful, well-earned sleep.

Because of the Whisper-world’s ongoing chaos, the Groundskeeper did not trust the pieces of his dear one not to be trampled upon, stolen or digested. For safekeeping he moved her ashes and parts into a makeshift laboratory, a little gardening shed he’d long ago fashioned out of skeletons and gravestones. Upon a stone dais, right in the shed’s centre, lay a metal coffin. Glass jars were nearby, having been filled with meticulous care, lining a shelf just above his head and labeled for fingers, toes, elbows, breasts…

“Piece by piece, love,” he murmured, continuing with his chatter.

To his great pleasure, at times the ash would seem to scream and roar, proving there was fight in his lady yet. He was off to unfasten another seal, but he would return soon.

With the good professor absent for an unprecedented few days, the remaining Guard felt giddily unsupervised. This sense of wanton freedom manifested itself each in very different ways.

Elijah Withersby made it very clear to Josephine Belledoux that she was to draw every shade and lock every door in Café La Belle et La Bête. He demanded she remove any potentially breakable object from the tables, floor or bar, because he intended to utilize every possible surface to their amorous advantage. There would, subsequently, be discussion of marriage, and when that may or may not be appropriate…which would likely start a fight, which
would likely end in lovemaking. They had their rituals, and fresh titillation came from the fact that their rites needn’t be contained solely to the walls and surfaces found in the flat they secretly shared.

Jane had studied plans of how to quietly break into a children’s hospital. She could only hope none of the rest of The Guard read the papers in the morning.

Headmistress Rebecca Thompson was experiencing a different, far less entertaining sort of abandon. From the moment Alexi left Athens, the fissure inside her had grown to cavernous proportions. She wandered to a nearby dim and empty pub for a less-than-savory meal. Returning to her office, she lit a gas lamp atop one of her file cabinets and kept it trimmed low. From her desk she pulled something she had never before used but had prepared for this day: a flask of potent liquor.

When she let Frederic in the window, the bird hopped about, inspecting his mistress from various angles. She removed her jacket, loosened the ties of her collar and took a draught. The sensation that burned her throat was welcome; it would help numb what was breaking apart.

She leaned upon the desk and a strange growl emerged from her lips. Why couldn’t she have a prophecy of her own? Was she not as swift, decisive, strong-willed and suited for leadership? Why were she and the other four resigned to a lonely fate while Alexi alone might reap a life almost average? Could not all of The Guard be granted complementary companions as Percy was meant to augment Alexi?

But, Rebecca didn’t want just any companion. She wanted
him
—compelling, arrogant, difficult, honourable, inscrutable, magnetic, haughty, inimitable him. The man who was wed after the whirlwind course of a school quarter. The man who had never been and would never be hers.

The stinging draughts she took increased in both frequency and effect. Prickling numbness drifted down her limbs and blurred her unmatched mind. Her elbow brushed
Percy’s bridal bouquet. Scowling, she picked it up and began wresting the lily blossoms one from another. “He loves me not.” She tossed a lily to the floor. “He loves me not.” Another. “He loves me not.” Soon all the blossoms lay mutilated upon the floor, the stalks cast aside as headless stumps.

Frederic noticed the change. She did not respond to his squawk nor his nibble upon her ear; she only folded in upon her body and there were soft, strangled sounds of sorrow. The raven flew out the window.

There had been a time, long ago, when she contemplated how easy it would be to jump from Westminster Bridge, to fall lightly from that precipice, to sink heavily and leave the weight of her lonely heart at the bottom of the Thames. But her strong will—one that cherished the greater good of the Grand Work—hadn’t allowed for serious consideration. When she turned away from that bridge at the age of twenty, a cluster of spirits had gathered at the crest, and one came close enough to mouth the words, “Thank you.” The dead needed The Guard to keep order. They needed
her.
She had to keep order inside herself and out.

This had been enough to sustain Rebecca for a long while, but today the ache was too much to feel her life had any reward. Anger, too, was close at hand. She had never understood the burden of her heart, as she’d known from an early age that Alexi cared for her in friendship not passion. Her love was an inane trap, and not a day passed when she did not curse her womanly weakness.

“Cheers,” she mumbled, raising her flask, her words thick and fumbling. She kicked a lily blossom. “Cheers to the newly wedded couple. May they find eternal bliss. May they tell me how in hell I might find just a
hint
of it. Just a bit of something.” She felt the flask slip from her hand and tumble onto her desk, soaking a few scattered papers with a strong scent—a hazy realization as she collapsed onto her arms, weary and bitter and slipped into unconsciousness.

She had no concept of the time when a soft knock at the
door roused her. Sitting up with a jolt, she watched the room spin. “Who is it?” she called, her words slurred.

After a moment, a familiar voice replied. “Don’t you know the soft rap of your friend?”

“Carroll? I’m busy. What do you want?”

“A not-so-little bird told me you were not well.”

“I’m…fine.”

“You do not sound so.” There came the sound of him trying the knob. “Rebecca, open the door.”

“Told you, I’m busy. I’ve…institution to run, you know.”

“Of course you do. But it’s well past the hours of business, even for a worker such as yourself. Rebecca, please unlock the door.”

“I’m not in the mood for company,” Rebecca replied.

“You leave me no choice, then, Headmistress.” Rebecca heard an otherworldly sound familiar from their Work, and the door of her office swung open to reveal a well-dressed, cautious Michael Carroll, whose ever-untamed hair was in a state of relative calm. Barely able to lift her head, Rebecca had to take a moment before her eyes would focus.

The vicar’s rosy cheeks flushed darker when he saw her. “Ho-ho,” he breathed, entering and closing the door behind him. “What have we here, my dear headmistress?”

It took Rebecca a moment to realize that she was slumped in a puddle of liquor, the scent of which had filled the room and that soaked the sleeves of her blouse. An alarm sounded—she was not a woman to be seen like this—but she was too incapacitated and vulnerable to make any show of rectification.

And, Michael knew her. When her eyes could focus, she recognized such a softness in him, such frightening concern and understanding. It was as if he could see right into her soul, because she’d inadvertently allowed it. She was furiously ashamed and knew he saw this, too.

“Michael, I…”

“You needn’t explain.” He walked around to her.

“But Michael, this isn’t—”

“Like you? I know it isn’t, dear.” His arms were lifting her to her feet.

“What are you—?”

“I’m taking you upstairs.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary. I’m just a bit…under the weather,” Rebecca said curtly, taking a step and swaying. She sputtered, chuckling suddenly as he swept her into his arms. “I suppose I’m not well at all, actually.” Frederic the raven had returned to perch upon the sill. Once he saw his mistress being attended, he flew off again into the darkness.

The vicar carried her out of her office and began to ascend the two flights of stairs to Rebecca’s apartments. En route, a staff member came upon them and gasped. “Not to worry, not to worry,” Michael was quick to respond. “The headmistress is quite under the weather, and I am a doctor as well as her friend, so she will be well managed.” He wasn’t a doctor but he forgave himself the lie. Anything to protect Rebecca’s reputation.

Her apartments had a wide sitting room laid with Persian rugs and chairs covered in dark fabric, an adjoining bedroom, boudoir and water closet. Michael sat Rebecca in her high-backed Queen Anne, and her head lolled to the side.

“Michael, what are you doing?” she mumbled as he left her to rummage in a pantry set apart from the sitting room by carved wooden doors.

“We must tidy you up a bit, my dear.”

“I’m…fine. Come here. Come back.”

“Yes, dear?” Michael had returned with water, handed her the glass and bade her drink.

“Why did you come?” she asked slowly, her words almost an accusation.

“Because I felt the weight of your heart, my dear. I was already en route when Frederic found me. Such knowledge is my job, you know.”

There was a long pause as Rebecca’s face twisted. “But you didn’t go to Alexi when his heart was heavy, did you? Not when we turned against him and made him forsake Miss Park—his bride.”

“No, I didn’t go to him then,” Michael replied slowly. “And that was a mistake. I tried to gauge the damage, but I felt nothing. He kept it too well hid.”

“Not from me,” Rebecca said. “He didn’t hide it from me. I saw him broken. We broke him. He loves her that much.
So much.
”

“Is that what this is about?”

“What?” Rebecca eyed him sharply before her eyes unfocused and she took a sip of water.

“About Alexi’s love for his wife?”

Rebecca grimaced. “No. I just wonder why you’re here. Save your talents for our Work, not me. This has nothing to do with The Guard.”

“Oh, but it does.”

“No,” Rebecca said. “My…I am…capable. I can well handle myself without meddling.”

“Is that so? All of us have hearts, my dear. And what goes on within them affects us—and those around us.
Deeply.
But, come now. We must get you out of this soaked chemise.” As if happy to change the subject, the vicar stalked off to rummage through her boudoir closets.

“Michael, what are you doing? I can certainly dress myself!”

“Here, then.” He returned with a crimson quilted velvet robe and took Rebecca by the arm, leading her into the water closet, hanging the robe on the back of the door, which he then slid closed behind her. “I am standing right by this door until you dress in something that does not reek of whiskey.”

“Don’t be a pest.”

“You are very welcome, my dear.”

It took some time before Rebecca’s hand fumbled upon the handle, but when the door slid back, Michael smiled. The bleary-eyed, tousle-haired woman was changed into the robe and Michael wasn’t sure he’d ever found her so lovely. Brown hair streaked with strands of silver; high, noble features…The awkwardness of the moment caused them both to colour slightly, before Rebecca again swayed on her feet.

Michael chuckled as she leaned against the door frame. “Come now, my dear headmistress, off to bed with you.” He refilled her water, then led her by the shoulders into her bedroom. He placed the glass and two white tablets upon her bedside table, allowing her to lean upon him as he did. When he turned again to face her, in the light of the low-trimmed lamp, she appeared soft and youthfully frightened. “Michael, please don’t…”

“Speak of this? You know me well enough to know better.”

“Thank you.” She fell against him in a clumsy embrace.

Michael closed his eyes and slowly allowed his arms to encircle her. Gently he eased her down to the bed, pulled back the covers and tucked her in, bending to gently brush from her drained face a waving lock of dark hair. She looked up at him but could not hold his stare.

“Forgive this old spinster, Michael. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Tears leaked from her downcast eyes.

Michael knelt by her bedside. “Don’t apologize to me, Rebecca. I only wish I could heal your heart.”

“I…I love him so,” she murmured, her voice cracking.

Michael turned away. “I know. I know.”

Rebecca, quietly crying, reached for his hand. After a long moment, Michael turned to face her. Dimly, through her tears, part of her realized there was something he wanted to say but was struggling against it. She could see it in his
face: something sad and desperate, something lonely and furious, something startlingly familiar. But, she recalled, she was drunk. Nothing could be trusted, for she was a broken old woman.

He took a deep breath, and his usual smile returned to his face. “Shall I bring you breakfast tomorrow, dear headmistress? Methinks you might not feel keen to wander down to the kitchens in the morning.”

Rebecca gave a little moan and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, what you must think of me!”

“I think nothing but that I like eggs in the morning. You?”

Rebecca chuckled wearily. “Yes, yes.”

“Good, then.” Michael paused. “Shall…I leave you?”

“Yes, yes, you’d better,” she hastily replied. The thought of company in her bedchamber, however innocent, was vaguely appealing yet entirely foreign and off-putting.

“Good night then, Rebecca.”

When the vicar rose, she looked up, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Michael. And…yes, company will be nice in the morning, indeed.” Her still-incapacitated brain working slowly, she suddenly reached out. “Wait, I’ve a confession.” Michael sat, ever attentive, and words tumbled clumsily forth: “I knew it was her. Somewhere within me, instinct told me Percy was our Prophecy from the start. I…I just didn’t trust it. Whether that was because I was honestly concerned with her being a student, concerned about the traps of which we were warned, or if it was instead my own blind jealousy, I’ll never know. I could have cost us everything.”

Michael shook his head. “No, no, Rebecca. Nothing is up to just one of us. We have all been blinded differently. Alexi needed to be questioned. We hardly recognized him for his passion and vehemence. It was cause for discussion, then, as were the gifts we honestly noted in Miss Linden.”

“Betrayal was a part of Prophecy, and I—”

“So it was,” Michael interrupted. “But we’ve all scored little betrayals here and there, unwittingly, over the course of our work. We’re mortal, and if the gods wanted something different, they shouldn’t have sent us to do the job.”