“Shortly after the grandmother, there was an old, injured horse,” Beresford admits. “She’d been abandoned by her owner and limped into the forest. She was going to die anyway, and I was hungry. I took her form to bring you to the first orgy you attended.”
“That’s another thing I don’t understand. Why the orgies?”
A shadow crosses his handsome face. He grips his glass so tightly his fingers turn red and white. “I hadn’t experienced any sexual pleasure in years. I suppose I was starved for that, too. When I told you that I wanted you from the moment I first saw you, that was the truth. I craved your sweetness, your compassion, and your beauty. I longed to connect with the soul that set me free, on both a spiritual and a carnal level. But before I approached you in that way, I wanted to observe sexual activity as it typically unfolds in this realm.”
“But you had memories you could consult.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I had the memories of the murderous Beresford, Grandmother Riquet, an old gardener, and a few morally despicable servants. If I’d relied solely on those people for information, I doubt you would have enjoyed yourself very much.”
The smile that curves my mouth is as much of a surprise to me as it is to him. I touch my lips lightly, bemused by it. Beresford’s answering smile is tentative, hopeful.
Turning from him, I set my glass back on the tray and resume my seat on the sofa. Beresford joins me, leaving a cautious distance between us. I love him for that, for respecting my space and my frame of mind. For not pushing me to grant him grace.
I love him.
Biting my lip, I gather up the sofa pillow again and resume tormenting the tassels.
“You can’t imagine how great an impression you made on me that first night,” he says softly. “All I had known for decadeswas torture, weakness, starvation, and abuse. You touched me so gently and spoke to me with kindness through your own suffering. You changed everything. I left to find sustenance, yet I always knew I would return to you. The more I learned about your world, the better I understood the kind of man you would need and want. So I became him.”
“You’re male, then?” I ask uncertainly. “Not that it really matters, but… I’m curious.”
“My kind has no gender unless we choose one. I have always identified as male. It suits me, as does this form.” He looks down at himself. “You seem to like it, too.”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wants to move past this. My smile gave him hope that I’ll accept him, even after everything he has revealed tonight.
I close my eyes briefly, just to shut out his beautiful face, the face that I love so much. I need him out of my head so I can think.
“You’re not human,” I say, with a calmness I don’t really feel. “I understand that you don’t fully comprehend how we think. Even the memories you’ve gleaned aren’t a replacement for growing up human or learning our moral code. Still, you must realize that what you’ve done is horrific. You tricked me, killed my mentor, took the face of a murderer, and hid information about my own abilities and our first meeting. You concealed so much, Beresford. I’m married to you, and I don’t even know your real name.”
“My kind don’t have names,” he says. “We usually refer to ourselves by the name of our favorite form. Sometimes, in our native tongue, we use a composite designation, a descriptive phrase that encompasses the primary three subjects in our collection.”
I open my eyes again, stunned by the enormity of everything I don’t know about him. “What is this other realm that you come from?”
“I don’t know what to call it,” he says. “To me it was the only reality, until it wasn’t.”
“And the Barrow-Man lives there?”
“He does. The Barrow is an ancient pathway between realms. From her memories, I know that your Grandmother Riquet called my realm ‘the Under,’ but it isn’t so muchunderasother.”
“Do you know how she and my mother met?”
Beresford pauses, his gaze growing distant as if he’s sorting through the memories in his head. “Your mother wrote to her. Your father had heard of her at court, and your mother thought perhaps she would be willing to come to Wormsloe, both to help you control your ability and to ensure that nothing could emerge from the Barrow again.”
“And since she’s gone, her influence over Wormsloe is waning,” I say. “That’s why the demons are fleeing the woods. The Barrow-Man is angry that they escaped, and he wants them back.”
“Yes. And he wants me more than all of them.”
“Then why have you been wandering the woods?” I shake my head, exasperated. “Isn’t that dangerous, not to mention foolish?”
“The wight can reach into this world with his magic and his corrosive influence, but he cannot physically step through the Barrow into Wormsloe unless he is called,” Beresford explains. “At the moment, the greatest danger is his ability to lure humans into his sphere of influence and convince them to call upon him. That’s what we need to prevent. I’ve been taking Grandmother’s form occasionally, hoping that it might still have a suppressive effect on his power. I often roam as the wolf, too, as a warning to him and to anyone who might try to summon him.” He sets down his glass. “And sometimes I go there to check on the others.”
“You mean the little demons.” Warmth spreads in my chest at the realization. “You built those shelters at the cottage.”
“I did. For a long time it was safe for them near her home, where her aura still lingered, where it was most concentrated. Now even that remnant of her spirit has faded.”
A cold knife of fear twists in my gut. “And what did you mean, that the Barrow-Man has to be called?”
“Called by name and summoned with a ritual gift of food.” Beresford tilts his head, frowning. “Sybil?”
