He looks at me over his shoulder, frowning slightly.
“In this form, will you age?”
“Since this form is a part of me now, if I remain in it long enough without shifting to another form, yes, I will begin to age. It will be far more gradual than a human’s aging process.”
“So I’ll get old faster than you.”
“Perhaps not. There are linking charms that can be cast so we both age at the same rate. It won’t stop the process for you, but it will slow it down.”
“And you know where to find a mage who can do this?”
“Thanks to Beresford, I do. He had plans to capture a younger man and link their lives together. In fact, he was eyeing Henry Partridge. He was going to orchestrate the young man’sdisappearance once the elder Partridge passed away, and he planned to absorb their fortune into his own.”
“Henry? He’s not that much younger than Beresford.”
“Beresford was thirty-four. Henry is twenty.”
“So you’re twelve years older than me.”
“More or less.” The twinkle in his eye sparks suspicion in my mind.
“Wait.” I step forward. “How old are you in your true form?”
“You don’t want to know.” He shivers and rubs his arms. “If you’re finished with your questions, I’ll shift now. It’s too cold to be naked in this form.”
“Very well, but later you’re telling me your true age.”
“Only if you beat me atConqueror’s Creed.”
“You’re on, Beresford.”
He laughs, and in the middle of his laugh he transforms into the two-headed wolf, the gaunt monster that I met in the forest. His laugh turns vast and guttural, a sinister sound in the night. I shudder, pulling my red cloak tighter around myself. He is wondrous and terrifying, this husband of mine.
With his massive cloven hooves, he tears into the turf, and within a surprisingly short amount of time he has created a hole deep and wide enough to accommodate all the bodies. He shoves them in, then pushes as much dirt as he can into place on top of them.
“You’ll have to plant something here so your servants don’t get suspicious,” I tell him.
He releases a hideous choked growl in response as he carves a smaller dent in the earth, about as deep as a man is tall, and just long enough to accommodate Grandmother Riquet. Then he switches back to the form of Beresford, hastily dresses himself, and helps me lay the elderly woman’s body in the hole.
We fetch a couple of shovels and a rake from the stable and use them to restore the ground’s surface as best we can. There’sa noticeable mound where the majority of the bodies are buried, but a low ridge of land lies between the mass grave and the estate buildings, so hopefully it will go unnoticed until Beresford can plant something there. Even if one of the servants did spot the mound, it’s close enough to Wormsloe Woods that they might attribute its presence to all the strange things that have been occurring lately.
“It looks like a barrow,” I comment. “Which makes sense, I suppose. Barrows are ancient burial sites, after all.”
Beresford nods. “The presence of many restless dead thins the wall between worlds, especially if there is a corresponding site of pain and torment on the other side. Think of our realms like two sides of a mirror, except the glass can grow thin enough to push through, especially if someone is calling out.”
“But I never called for any of the creatures I summoned.”
“You did, in a way. Not by name, of course, but in spirit. The tonic your mother partially drank when she was pregnant with you—it contained something that linked you to the rest of the Barrow-Man’s victims. I believe that common element was my blood or spinal fluid.”
“I was connected to you before I was born,” I murmur.
“Strange how fate unfolds, isn’t it?” he replies.
We stand there for another moment in silence, gazing up at the stars. Then we collect the lamp, the rake, and the shovels and head back toward the house.
Once the tools are cleaned off and put away, we return to our room and take turns washing up. I crawl into bed first and wait for Beresford, weary and drowsy. I don’t want to have sex, but before I drift off, I want to know that he’s there, next to me.
When he slides under the covers I reach for him. His fingers are ice-cold.
