Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(81)

“Tell me what happened to Misha.” He held it even closer, until the dried brown stains filled her vision. She moaned and held her hand over her mouth, gagging. Suddenly he shoved a basin beneath her bowed head, and she vomited in violent spasms. Tears streamed from her eyes. Blindly she accepted a linen towel he handed her, and dried her face.

She looked up again and recoiled in horror as she saw that Nikolas was putting on the tunic, the garment straining over his shoulders, the death-pattern spread down his front. It had been a waterfall of bright red when Misha had worn the tunic, the knife protruding from his throat, his eyes bulging with pain and fear as he staggered toward her, reaching out for her—

“Nooooo—” she screamed, flailing with her stiff arms as Nikolas came nearer, a nightmare come to life—stayawaystayaway—her screams shot through the room, and her head was filled with a brilliant light, exploding, suddenly eclipsed by merciful darkness. The memory came back in a devastating flood. “Misha,” she sobbed, and fell slowly into the endless black pit, where there was no speech, no sight, no sound, nothing but the pieces of her shattered soul.

Nine

Nikolas was waiting by the bed when Tasia returned to consciousness. He had removed the stained tunic. In spite of his air of cold calmness, he was sweating from some strong emotion, perhaps anxiety or anger. The black shirt clung damply to his golden skin. He wanted so badly to know, she thought with an unwarranted flicker of pity. Was he motivated by grief for his dead brother, or merely a desire for justice?

Dazed, Tasia stared at him and licked her dry lips. “I'll tell you what happened that night,” she said hoarsely. “Every detail. But first I need some water.”

Nikolas poured her a glass of water and brought it to her without a word. He sat on the bed, watching as she levered herself to an upright position. She drank thirstily.

Tasia hardly knew how to begin. The memory had come to her in full-bodied strength, and with it all the emotions she had felt that night. But finally knowing the truth, being able to tell someone, filled her with relief.

“I didn't want the engagement with Misha,” she said. “From everything I knew and heard of him, he was a strange, tormented man who played with people as a child plays with dolls. I didn't hate him as much as I feared him. Everyone was pleased by the engagement, telling me I would be a good influence on him.” She laughed bitterly. “I think they had somehow convinced themselves that I might be able to tempt him into liking women. Shallow, stupid people! Even in my innocence I knew that a man who desired boys was never going to want me in his bed. At best I would have been a front for Mikhail, to give him the image of a properly married man. At worst, I would have been an object of perverted amusement for him, someone to hurt and degrade. He would have given me to other men, and made me do unnatural things no human being should do—”

“You don't know that for certain.”

“Yes, I do,” she said softly. “And so do you.” When Nikolas didn't answer, she finished her water and continued. “I came to the conclusion that I was trapped. My own mother insisted on the marriage. It was strange, but the only one I could turn to for help was Misha himself. I considered it for several days. Finally I decided that I had nothing to lose by talking to him. There was a chance he would listen. There was something childlike about Misha—at times he seemed like a little boy wanting attention. And he had moments of capriciousness. I thought I might be able to convince him to release me from the engagement. A few words from him could have changed my fate so easily…so I went to him one night, to plead with him in private.”

Tasia set the empty glass aside and twisted her fingers into a knot. Her eyes fixed on the woolen blanket that was folded in a rectangle and draped over the end of the bed. Staring steadily at the blanket, she spoke in a dreamlike manner.

“The palace was nearly empty. Only a skeleton staff was there to attend to Misha's needs. I wore a shawl over my hair, and pulled it low to hide my face. The front door was unlocked. I entered without knocking or ringing the bell. Some of the servants saw me wandering through the palace, but they didn't try to stop me. I was very nervous. I remember hoping that Misha hadn't smoked so much opium that he would be insensible. At first I couldn't find him. I went upstairs and went from room to room. It was very messy. There was a smell in the air, like smoke and bad wine and rotting food. There were piles of furs and silk pillows on the floors, and half-eaten meals, and strange objects that Misha must have used for…well, I didn't know what they were for. Nor did I care to.”

Tasia's hands unclenched, and she made a fluttering motion, as if to pull something from her hair. “It was very warm in the house. I took off the shawl…” Her fingers went to her throat and pressed to her throbbing pulse. “I called his name once or twice…‘Misha, where are you?’…but no one answered. I thought perhaps he might be in the library, sitting with his pipe. I walked to the end of the hall. Voices…two voices were arguing loudly, passionately, and a man was crying…”

The memory swept over her, and Tasia lost awareness of speaking.

“Misha, I love you, a thousand times more than she ever could. She'll never be able to give you what you need.”

“You jealous, wrinkled old fool,” Mikhail replied. “You know nothing about what I need.”

“I won't share you with anyone, especially not a spoiled girl.”