Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(142)

Chrystobel’s gaze was drawn back to the blood on the floor. It was beginning to make her rather nauseous. The sight and smell of blood always did.

“God’s Bones,” she hissed. “What could have happened here? It looks as if someone was terribly injured.”

The soldier simply nodded, eyeing the blood as he moved away, wandering to the eastern end of the room where a side door led out to the bailey. He thought perhaps to find a servant there but all he managed to find was a trail of blood. It was evident that they carried the person who left the puddle on the floor out in this direction. As the soldier looked around at the dark and empty servant’s alcove, he shrugged and headed back into the hall.

Chrystobel was still standing over the bloody floor, most concerned at the sight. She noticed the soldier coming from the east end of the room, however, and she turned to him.

“Is there no one back there?” she asked.

The soldier shook his head. “Nay, my lady.”

Chrystobel thought it was very strange that there were no servants in the hall at this early hour. In fact, the entire circumstance was beginning to concern her. As the soldier passed by the darkened hearth, she pointed to it.

“Wait,” she told him, watching him stop. “There is a passageway next to the hearth. Push open the wall to the left of the hearth and see if there is anyone in the passage. Sometimes the servants use it to come in from the kitchen yard.”

The soldier turned obediently to the hearth, peering at the stone wall on either side of it. Since it was so dark, it took him a moment to see unmortared seams along the left side of the hearth and he gave a shove, watching part of the wall swing back on great iron hinges. But it was the last thing he would ever see as a figure suddenly materialized from the darkened passage and plunged a knife into his belly.

Chrystobel saw the soldier go down, falling into the passageway so that she could only see his legs sticking out. She was curious, concerned, until she saw Gryffyn emerge, stepping over the supine body of the soldier with a bloodied dirk in his hand. Then, it was as if all rational thought left her. A cry of terror erupted from her lips just as Gryffyn looked at her, his dark eyes filled with hatred and murder.

Chrystobel screamed again, louder than before, and ran for the hall door, but Gryffyn was faster. He grabbed her before she could reach the exit, yanking her away from the panel so that she fell onto the floor. Once she was down, he kicked her in the leg just because he could. He wanted to see her cry.

“You little bitch,” he snarled, stalking her as she wept and struggled to crawl away. “You betrayed me! I told you what would happen if you betrayed me!”

Chrystobel was beyond panic. Her greatest fear was now a reality before her and she was nearly frozen with terror.

“Please, Gryffyn!” she cried. “Please do not kill me!”

Gryffyn was beyond fury. He was in the realm of madness as he watched his sister struggle across the wooden planks. When she tried to get to her feet, he hit her on the head, so hard that she fell back to the floor, only half-conscious. It pleased Gryffyn immensely. Now, she would make an easy target for him, easier than their father had made. He could hardly believe the luck of finding her without more than one escort. It had been a stupid thing for her to do, but he knew her to be stupid. As he gazed down at the struggling woman, the only thing he could feel was an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that he would have his way, one last time, as he pulled the sharp blade of his dirk across her tender throat.

“I told you what I would do if you did not prove your loyalty to me,” he rumbled. “You have always been foolish, Chrystobel. I tried to discipline you, to mold you, but you were stubborn. Too stubborn. Now see what it will cost you.”

Chrystobel was barely conscious, struggling to shake off the buzzing in her head, but she could hear him, somewhat. She was full of fear and sorrow.

“Nay,” she breathed, struggling to lift her head. “Gryffyn, you… you must not. Please do not.”

Gryffyn gazed unemotionally at the woman he had grown up with. She was his sister, that was true, but only by blood. She meant nothing to him, no more than the dogs in the great hall did. She was a possession and little else. He felt absolutely nothing as he listened to her plead for her life. In fact, he liked to hear her plead. It excited him.

“After I kill you, Izlyn is next,” he said, looking at the bloodied dirk in his hand. “She is a defective creature. She should have been drowned at birth.”

Chrystobel was in tears as she turned onto her belly and began clawing at the floor, dragging herself along as she tried to get away from him. The world was spinning and the floor rocking unsteadily, but she could not give up. She had to fight.

“God help me,” she gasped, clutching at the floor and breaking her nails down to the nub. “God help me!”

Gryffyn heard the pleas as she cried into the darkness, but her prayers were meaningless to him. All that mattered was that he accomplish his task and return to hiding, waiting for the opportunity to kill again. He watched his sister drag herself across the floor, passing through part of the bloody puddle as she went. It created dark streaks across the wood, dragged along by her heavy robe.

“That is Father’s blood, you know,” he said casually. “I told you I would kill him if you betrayed me and I did. How does it feel, Chrystobel, knowing that you killed your father? It is your fault I had to do it. If you had only killed de Poyer like I told you to, none of this would have happened.”