The Frost Maiden's Kiss by Claire Delacroix Page A

solar seemed both colder and much less interesting than it had. Her own exhaustion washed over her as she prepared the children for bed, though she could not push their host from her thoughts.
    Perhaps there was witchery at Ravensmuir, after all.

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
    “Fae, fae and more fae,” Rafael muttered in the hall when he and Malcolm were the last ones seated there. “You and the whore have thinking in common, that much is certain. Both of you talk of Fae instead of calling them the demons that they are.”
    The fire burned low in one fireplace, while the other had remained cold this day. The two comrades sat in the golden light at a trestle table drawn up before the fireplace, hounds sleeping in the rushes, the wind slipping its cool fingers through the shuttered windows. Malcolm inhaled deeply of the scent of the sea, a pervasive smell he forever associated with home, and sipped of the wine. There was a storm brewing, but truly, the weather suited his mood.
    Malcolm was agitated as he seldom was. Catriona’s tales of men lost to the Fae and Fae tithes paid to Hell struck a little too close to his own situation for comfort. He had thought at first that she had the Sight until she had nigh laughed at him for giving credence to mere tales recounted for children.
    How strange it was that she told the tales without believing them, while he never recounted such stories yet knew the Fae to be real.
    Malcolm could have savored a moment’s reprieve both from his labor and from the torment awakened each night by the sound of the Fae music. It was as if they would haunt him with the memory of his vow, and their resolve to collect it. Worse, their music unfurled memories in his mind that kept him from sleeping, for he saw himself repeat every foul deed he had ever committed. It was relentless and merciless reminder of why he was the perfect choice to pay that tithe to Hell.
    Yet he knew Rafael was warming to a lament, perhaps nourished by the wine, and that he would have to calm his comrade.
    “Because they are Fae, Rafael,” he insisted yet again.
    The other man remained skeptical. “They live beneath the earth. They appear and disappear at will. They have unholy powers and demand immoral tithes. I say they are one and the same as demons.” He nodded. “And this place you call Ravensmuir is a very portal to Hell. Against all expectation, your moniker is come by honestly.”
    “Save the Fae are not condemned.”
    “Are they not? How can you believe we did not visit Hell?” Rafael shook a finger at Malcolm, who preferred to not recall the sights of that night. “Think of Franz.”
    “I avoid doing so.”
    Rafael scowled at his friend. “And if visiting that place were not folly enough, you made a bargain with them.”
    “You were the one who danced.”
    “You did not have to offer your soul in exchange for mine.”
    Malcolm was well and tired of this dispute. “What was I to do? Abandon you there? You had already danced holes in your best boots and were utterly entranced.” He pointed a finger back at his friend. “If you seek the fool, you need only a glass to know the truth.”
    “Who could expect harm from a pretty maid’s invitation to dance?” Rafael demanded in exasperation.
    Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Anyone who ever heard a tale at his nursemaid’s knee.”
    “Not where I was raised,” Rafael retorted. “It is this wretched country of yours. First fearsome cold, then spellbinding music, then demons gathering souls.” He shook his head. “We should have remained in France.”
    “You thought little enough of France when we were there.”
    “They would have finished the killing by now.”
    Malcolm shook his head at his companion’s misplaced confidence. “They will never finish the killing, not in any place.”
    “There is that,” Rafael acknowledged quietly.
    “Why do you stay if you dislike it so much?” Malcolm asked. He was quite certain of the answer, but he would have liked