“She had experienced a rapid cognitive decline since you saw her alive. When I took her soul, her memories were fragmented and imperfect. I had difficulty extracting the right ones and portraying her convincingly. But I think I did better with the second encounter.”
“You accessed her memories to make that stew.” I point an accusing figure at him. “Now I know why she stared at me so oddly when I was chopping firewood in my petticoat. She wasyou. Pervert.” I hurl the last word like a stone and rise from the sofa, heat rushing to my face. “Do you realize how sick this is? You deceived me over and over. This isn’t even your face. It’s a face you stole from the man who lived in this house before you. You have his memories. That’s how you knew where the real Beresford kept his wealth. That’s how you passed yourself off convincingly as him. But you’re not Beresford.”
“IamBeresford.” He rises too, his eyes blazing with feral determination. “Thisismy face now. I claimed it. I made it so.”
“Why did you kill the real Beresford? Because he was rich?”
My husband’s face darkens. “I did it because he was a miser and a murderer. After you summoned me, I roamed the entirety of Wormsloe, from end to end. One night, as I was prowling near Valenkirk, I saw Beresford and his gardener taking a woman from a coach and dragging her into the house. And she wasn’t the only one. After I ate his soul, I saw his memories. He raped and tortured countless women, Sybil. I found the bodies of three victims hanging in the very chamber where I keep my collection. The harnesses and chains in that room—those were all his. Hence the isolated estate in the countryside, with the mansion set far back from the road. Hence his seclusion and his reluctance to engage with his neighbors or anyone else.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I can show you the bodies of the last three women he killed,” my husband says calmly. “I buried them, but I can dig them up if you need proof. And I suspect there are more remains on the property.”
Again I fight the urge to vomit. I want another drink, but I’m already feeling hot and hazy. Any more alcohol and I won’t be clear-headed enough to deal with my fucking husband.
“Who else did you devour? Who else have you become?”
“You saw them!” His voice is strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You saw them all.”
“Why do you keep them hanging in that room?” I exclaim. “Are they trophies?”
“I told you, to be a matagot is to be a collector,” he replies. “When I bite someone, my saliva enters the body and preserves it. I must keep my subjects in a charmed, protected space if I wish to take any of those forms again.”
“The symbols on the door,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“Exactly. If a body is taken out of that room, my connection to it will fade quickly, and I won’t be able to assume that form again… unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless I eat the skin, flesh, and organs. Everything but the bones. If I do that, I no longer need the preserved carcass. In the case of the she-wolf, I ate her whole, so that form will always be mine, no matter how grotesque it may be.”
For a moment I’m torn between the impulse to vomit and the urge to swallow the rest of my drink. I opt for gulping down the burning liquor.
“Most matagots devour their victims’ bodies as well as their souls,” he says. “I have eaten animals, but not humans. I prefer an external collection rather than an internal one.”
I choke on a bitter laugh. “You think that makes you better than others of your kind?”
His bearded lips form a thin line, and he looks away.
For a moment I stay quiet, focusing on my own breathing. I’m feeling the urge to scream at him, even though he’s doing exactly what I wanted—confessing to me and being painfully open about what he is. Raging at him because I feel out of control won’t help the situation, and it might make him withdraw into himself. I can’t allow that. I still have so many questions.
“You said that youareBeresford,” I say in a measured tone. “So if you only plan to be Beresford, why keep the other bodies? Why not let them go? Bury them?”
“It’s part of who we are as a species.” He says it patiently, but with a defensive edge in his voice. “We collect forms for protection, like a city with multiple walls around its center. Having only one or two forms is unheard of. It is foolish. It would leave me vulnerable.”
“Surely you could give up Herron, at least,” I say. “Leave his body for his family to find. Give them some certainty about his death.”
Regret etches his features. “I am sorry about that one. When he was in the forest, he saw me transform from Beresford into the wolf. He would have told everyone. I had to keep that from happening. But his mind was under the influence of something, a sort of magical drug, I think, and it interfered with the absorption process.”
“That’s why he acted so strange when I encountered him.”
“Yes. I took his form, thinking I would allay your fears about his disappearance, but when you showed up, I didn’t have a firm grasp on his nature or behavior. I had to improvise, and it did not go well.”
“And the others?” I prompt him. “What about the gardener?”
“When I became Beresford, I took the souls of the few servants who worked here and hired new ones. They were all complicit in Beresford’s crimes, so I feel no pity for them. When I took the old gardener’s soul, I obtained his knowledge, and I’ve used it to care for the plants.”
He pauses, examining my face. I know he’s remembering the time we spent in the greenhouse together. Maybe he’s looking for a sign that I cherish those moments, too. But I keep my expression severe. I want his entire confession. “Besides the wolf, what other animals have you eaten?”
