through the screen of rain, she stared out at the dark landscape, seeing in every pooled shadow Henri with his broken neck, or Darius wrenching his knife out of Philippe’s breast.
She could not believe she was the object of so much conflict and international commotion.
She shrugged deeper into her smartly tailored, pearl-gray traveling gown and studied her elaborate military escort. The coach was flanked by armed men on horses, Darius’s handpicked squad of about thirty men.
Her parents stood in the doorway while Darius jogged ahead, going lightly down the steps to the coach, where he opened the door for her, his head ducked slightly against the downpour. As she hurried toward him, he glanced into the roomy interior of the coach as if checking it for monsters, then he offered his hand and assisted her inside.
She settled into the velvet squabs, struck by the fanciful notion that she could almost pretend they were newlyweds and he was taking her away from her family as her husband.
The thought pained her.
She leaned toward the coach window and blew her parents a kiss, pausing to watch them standing together, arm in arm, with the light of their love almost visible around them.
I will never know how that feels, she thought in strange detachment.
Meanwhile, Darius walked up and down the line of men, checking on everyone one last time. His black Andalusian stallion had been tethered to the back of the carriage. He tugged on the horse’s lead rope to make sure it was securely tied, gave the restless animal a brisk pat on the neck, then strode back up to the side of the coach. He accepted two rifles from a subordinate and sprang up into the roomy coach with her.
He turned his back on her to secure the rifles in the rack above his seat, but he sat down at last on the velvet seat opposite her, tugging his impeccable black jacket neatly into place. He leaned over, slammed the coach door, and flipped its three locks into position.
He stared at her for a second with an intent look, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if he were scanning a mental checklist. He sliced her parents a crisp wave out the window, then banged on the coach to signal the driver to move.
They were off.
Serafina stared at him, wide-eyed in the dark, her heart in her throat as it finally sank in that she truly had gotten her way. For the next few days, perhaps even a week, she had Darius Santiago, her idol, her demon, all to herself. She wasn’t sure if she was ecstatic or terrified.
Neither of them spoke as the jostling vehicle gathered speed.
The cavalcade clattered through the gates and pulled out onto the puddled road. Open fields soon gave way to sparse woods, and still they said nothing. Their silence seemed to magnify the rolling, creaking noises of the coach, with the rain drumming on the roof. The ground rose; their destination lay in the cool, forested highlands of Ascencion.
Though Serafina tried to fix her attention on the landscape rolling by, the weather made it too black to see much. From time to time she peered anxiously into the man-shaped pool of shadow across from her. She could feel Darius watching her. Unspoken questions hung on the air, filling the claustrophobic space of the coach.
Fear whispered through her as he held his silence until she couldn’t bear it anymore.
“How does your shoulder feel?” she attempted meekly.
In answer, he merely pinned a chilling, luminous stare on her, half his dramatic face contoured in shadow, half in the rain’s lurid glow.
She shrank back slightly against the squabs. “Don’t be mean. It was Papa’s decision. I only told the truth.”
He said nothing.
“Darius,” she pleaded softly, “you’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared. Christ, don’t you know that by now? Don’t you see what I am?”
“No, what are you?”
He shook his head in disgust. The road wended. She looked away, staring out the window for all she was worth. They passed a farm in a vale. The road
She could not believe she was the object of so much conflict and international commotion.
She shrugged deeper into her smartly tailored, pearl-gray traveling gown and studied her elaborate military escort. The coach was flanked by armed men on horses, Darius’s handpicked squad of about thirty men.
Her parents stood in the doorway while Darius jogged ahead, going lightly down the steps to the coach, where he opened the door for her, his head ducked slightly against the downpour. As she hurried toward him, he glanced into the roomy interior of the coach as if checking it for monsters, then he offered his hand and assisted her inside.
She settled into the velvet squabs, struck by the fanciful notion that she could almost pretend they were newlyweds and he was taking her away from her family as her husband.
The thought pained her.
She leaned toward the coach window and blew her parents a kiss, pausing to watch them standing together, arm in arm, with the light of their love almost visible around them.
I will never know how that feels, she thought in strange detachment.
Meanwhile, Darius walked up and down the line of men, checking on everyone one last time. His black Andalusian stallion had been tethered to the back of the carriage. He tugged on the horse’s lead rope to make sure it was securely tied, gave the restless animal a brisk pat on the neck, then strode back up to the side of the coach. He accepted two rifles from a subordinate and sprang up into the roomy coach with her.
He turned his back on her to secure the rifles in the rack above his seat, but he sat down at last on the velvet seat opposite her, tugging his impeccable black jacket neatly into place. He leaned over, slammed the coach door, and flipped its three locks into position.
He stared at her for a second with an intent look, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if he were scanning a mental checklist. He sliced her parents a crisp wave out the window, then banged on the coach to signal the driver to move.
They were off.
Serafina stared at him, wide-eyed in the dark, her heart in her throat as it finally sank in that she truly had gotten her way. For the next few days, perhaps even a week, she had Darius Santiago, her idol, her demon, all to herself. She wasn’t sure if she was ecstatic or terrified.
Neither of them spoke as the jostling vehicle gathered speed.
The cavalcade clattered through the gates and pulled out onto the puddled road. Open fields soon gave way to sparse woods, and still they said nothing. Their silence seemed to magnify the rolling, creaking noises of the coach, with the rain drumming on the roof. The ground rose; their destination lay in the cool, forested highlands of Ascencion.
Though Serafina tried to fix her attention on the landscape rolling by, the weather made it too black to see much. From time to time she peered anxiously into the man-shaped pool of shadow across from her. She could feel Darius watching her. Unspoken questions hung on the air, filling the claustrophobic space of the coach.
Fear whispered through her as he held his silence until she couldn’t bear it anymore.
“How does your shoulder feel?” she attempted meekly.
In answer, he merely pinned a chilling, luminous stare on her, half his dramatic face contoured in shadow, half in the rain’s lurid glow.
She shrank back slightly against the squabs. “Don’t be mean. It was Papa’s decision. I only told the truth.”
He said nothing.
“Darius,” she pleaded softly, “you’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared. Christ, don’t you know that by now? Don’t you see what I am?”
“No, what are you?”
He shook his head in disgust. The road wended. She looked away, staring out the window for all she was worth. They passed a farm in a vale. The road
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