During the next couple of days, I keep limping over to the front window, checking anxiously to see if an angry mob is advancing on our house, determined to drag me out and interrogate me, or worse. But no one comes to question me further about demons or disappearances. And before I know it, the night of Beresford’s next orgy arrives.
The same cabriolet comes to fetch me. I don’t use the crutches this time, just a walking stick. My ankle is healing, and I can hobble along well enough.
When I enter the barn, its steamy warmth envelops me. The party seems to have started earlier than last time, judging by the guests’ state of undress. Bodies drape over each other amid the smoky fragrance, the haze of golden lust, and strains of passionate music from a trio of stringed instruments in the corner. Fingers press soft skin, legs twine and slide, tongues slip into eager mouths. There’s a desperation in the air that wasn’t present last time. Every person in this room knows what happened in the forest. Faced with shapeless threats and the truth of their own mortality, they are seeking warm flesh, hard bone,living eyes and lips, a carnal comfort to center themselves and blur the edges of their fear.
In the middle of it all, I stand in my scarlet cloak and hood, with the walking staff in my hand. Only when a girl gasps and shrinks deeper into her lover’s arms do I realize how menacing I must look to them, wreathed in the drifting smoke from the censers.
Quickly I untie my cloak, drape it over a chair, and set the staff aside. I’m wearing the delicate, almost threadbare petticoat trimmed in frayed bits of lace. Compared to the other women, who have come here in their best robes and undergarments, I look scrawny and impoverished—a destitute witch who doesn’t belong among them.
For a moment, I consider leaving, but before I can make up my mind to do so, Beresford’s arms gather me up like a devoted storm and carry me off to our curtained retreat in the corner of the barn.
“My savior,” I quip as he shoulders his way through the drapes into the cushioned space beyond.
He doesn’t answer, only lays me down and positions my ankle carefully before sweeping my hair off my shoulder and kissing the skin he exposed with focused fervency. He keeps kissing all the way down my arm, flipping my wrist over so he can press his mouth where my pulse flutters.
“Did you lose your powers of speech?” I ask him. “When I last saw you, you didn’t speak a word to me. Your tongue talked to my pussy instead. The experience was rather fun, but I’d like to actually converse with you this time.”
He looks up, devilish humor twisting his mouth. “How are you this evening, my dear?”
“Quite well, thank you, my lord,” I reply primly. “And you?”
“I can’t complain.” He kisses the center of my palm.
“Did you hear about the disappearances in the forest?” The words burst out of me, even though I told myself I was going to forget my worries and immerse myself in the oblivion of pleasure.
Beresford’s gaze sharpens. “Yes, I heard.”
“Are you frightened?”
“Frightened?”
“Wormsloe is becoming more dangerous. Your estate borders it, yes? Whatever lives in there could come creeping out and attack you.”
“Do things usually creep out of the forest?”
“No, but folks around here are concerned that it might start happening.”
“And you want to know if the potential danger scares me.” He runs a broad hand up my leg. “It does not.”
I exhale, relieved by his unperturbed attitude.
“I am sorry for the people you lost, though.” His eyes search mine, true sympathy glowing in them.
“I didn’t like Herron much,” I confess. “Grandmother Riquet and I had a volatile relationship, but she did mean something to me. She was family. Distant family, the kind whom you rarely see and argue with at times, but family nonetheless. Do you have family? I’ve never heard you mention them.”
His eyes flare a fraction wider. “Family…”
“This isn’t a question about your past,” I say hastily. “So it’s not off limits. I want to know about your present. You must have at least one living parent or sibling. Maybe distant aunts, uncles, or cousins?”
He glances away. “I have no one. It’s only me.”
“Oh.” I place my fingers over his. “I’m so sorry to hear that. At least you have a lot of friends now.” I wave my other hand toward the space beyond the curtain.
“Those aren’t friends. They are guests.” His lip curls, his tone faintly derisive. “They are eaters and seekers. They love togobble rich food and gulp wine. They seek opportunities for debauchery. I provide those things, and therefore they come to me. They pretend to like me because I give them what they want.”
“I’m sure they aren’t all like that.”
“Trust me, they are.”
