Cursed, p.11
Cursed, page 11
And inside, nestled among that sludge, was a … chicken?
Serilda dared to take a step closer. It looked like a chicken, its fat body perched in one corner of the cage, wings folded back. Its feathers were a mix of fiery orange and periwinkle blue, with a pure white comb atop its head, and for a chicken, it was rather lovely. But beneath the plump body there were no tail feathers, but rather the back end of a red-and-blue snake winding around the edges of the cage, longer than Serilda was tall.
More striking even than the serpentine tail was that the creature had no eyes. For a moment, Serilda thought it might have hollow sockets like the nachtkrapp, but as she stared, she realized that it should have eyes, but someone, or something, had carved them out. The wounds had healed into uneven scars in its flesh.
“Another taxidermy?” Gild whispered.
Serilda considered. “Then why keep it in a cage?” She was whispering, too.
After another long moment, in which they both slowly relaxed from their surprise, Serilda began to feel silly. “Why are we whispering?”
“Not sure,” Gild whispered back. “I can’t tell if it’s dead or asleep. But look. What is that?” He pointed to the creature’s side, where something was sticking out from beneath its iridescent wing.
Serilda leaned closer. “An arrow?”
The sight reminded her of the rubinrot wyvern hung in the great hall, still struck through with the arrow that had supposedly killed it. A hint of pity tugged at Serilda’s gut. Biting her lower lip, she carefully reached between the bars of the cage. She could barely wriggle her hand through the gap.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” said Gild.
Serilda wasn’t sure at all. But the creature didn’t move—didn’t so much as flinch—when she grabbed hold of the arrow and tugged.
It was stuck.
She cringed.
“Maybe I should just leave it,” she said. And then she did the exact opposite. She pulled harder.
This time, the arrow tore out of the creature’s flesh.
She and Gild both gasped.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed, as a rivulet of blood started to drip from the wound. “I’m so sorry!”
But the … thing … did not stir.
Slowly, Serilda relaxed. She held the arrow up to the light, seeing it tipped in shiny black. With a shrug, she tossed it to the floor.
“Why do you think it’s being kept in here?” asked Gild, “and not out with the menagerie?”
“I have no idea. I can’t even tell what it is.”
After a long silence, Gild responded, “The legendary chicken-snake.”
A snicker escaped from Serilda before she could stop it. She glanced at Gild over her shoulder. He returned a teasing smile. “As good a guess as any.”
Shaking her head, she turned back to the cage.
And screamed.
Gild yelped and pulled her tight against him. They both backed a few steps away.
For in that breadth of a moment when they’d been distracted, the creature had moved. Without a sound—no squawk, no rustle of feathers, no soggy plodding through whatever that mess was on the bottom of the cage—it had deserted its corner and come to stand right in front of them. If it had not been blinded, Serilda would have thought it was peering at them through the bars. Instead, after a second, it tilted its head to one side, as if listening.
“Do chickens have ears?” Gild whispered.
“Hush,” she replied.
And thus began a very awkward, very tedious staring contest.
The creature did not move.
She and Gild did not move.
She could not fully understand the fear that curdled in her stomach, the instinct she felt to hold perfectly still, lest it could find her. It was trapped in a cage. It didn’t have eyes. It was a chicken. Mostly.
And yet, she felt an overwhelming terror as she took in its pointed yellow beak, long scaly toes, and the vibrant tail whipping back and forth against the golden bars. Though she could not explain it, this bizarre little monster conjured as much fear inside her as had the drudes, the nachtkrapp, even the enormous bärgeist. And if the way Gild’s fingers were digging into her sides was any indication, Gild felt it, too.
Finally, gathering up every ounce of courage, Serilda cleared her throat and murmured an uncertain hello.
The bird … thing … bobbed its head, every bit like the chickens she’d often seen pecking around farms, searching for worms.
It opened its beak. But it did not cluck.
Instead, it hissed.
And sent a glob of goop, as thick and disgusting as the substance beneath it, straight at them. Serilda and Gild jumped away. The substance landed on the hem of Serilda’s gown.
The fabric began to hiss as the slimy liquid burned a hole into the brocade. It sizzled and smoked, releasing a putrid odor into the room.
Serilda’s eyes widened.
Within seconds, the hole in the material began to spread, scorching through the first layer of thick, luxurious fabric, eating away at the intricate design of golden lily flowers. Spreading along Serilda’s calf, up past her knees, revealing the petticoat beneath. She cried out and backed farther away from the cage, but she could hardly escape her own gown.
“Gild!” she cried, as a drop of the venom touched the petticoat, and that, too, began to disintegrate into ashes. “Get it off! I have to get it off!”
Before she’d even finished talking, he was yanking at the laces on the back of the dress.
“Cut them!” she screeched, watching the fabric burn away. Ashes up to her thigh. Soon it would be at her hips, her waist, and then there would be no keeping it off her skin. “Gild!”
“I don’t have anything to cut with!” he hollered, hands scrabbling, yanking at the ties. “Almost. Almost.”
One last yank. The dress’s bodice loosened. Serilda pulled her arms from the sleeves as Gild shoved the dress past her hips. She fell onto her backside in an effort to scramble out of the material as fast as she could. As soon as the heavy brocade gown was off, she took hold of the petticoat’s muslin and ripped, tearing off the skirt, including the panels being ravaged by venom. She kicked the tarnished material away. The gown landed on top of the pool of gossamer curtains, and together, Gild and Serilda watched as the dress dissolved. Then the muslin skirt. Then, even the curtains that had kept the creature’s cage hidden.
Within minutes it was all destroyed.
Every last thread.
Serilda and Gild pushed themselves back against the door and stood, panting. An acrid stench hung in the air, stinging the back of Serilda’s throat.
Only once its destruction had run its course did the little beast lie down again, tuck its head into its puff of chest feathers, and give a few satisfied flicks of its long tail.
“Well,” said Gild, his voice haggard, “I guess that explains why it isn’t out in the menagerie.”
Serilda let out a high-pitched squeak of a laugh.
She and Gild glanced at each other.
Then, having forgotten about the drudes—or perhaps mutually, silently agreeing that they’d rather take their chances with the nightmares—they unlocked the door and fled.
They had just started down the hall of gods when Serilda screeched to a halt.
“Gild, wait!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “I can’t go down there. Look at me.”
Gild’s gaze swept up and down her twice before understanding brightened his eyes. “The hunt isn’t here.”
She heaved a sigh. “I know, but there are plenty of dark ones who would love to tell him that I was spotted running through the hall wearing nothing but my bloomers!”
An amused grin broke over Gild’s face. “You could be starting a new trend.”
“Be serious.” She whapped him on the shoulder.
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you’d been practicing your—” He snapped his fingers and disappeared.
Serilda rolled her eyes and turned around, fully expecting him to have reappeared right behind her.
But he hadn’t.
She frowned and spun in a full circle, searching.
Gild did not come back.
She let out a disgruntled noise. “Gild!”
No response.
Flailing her arms, she huffed and glowered at the nearest god, for no particular reason other than she had no one else to blame for her current predicament. The window depicted Solvilde, god of sky and sea, blowing wind into the sails of a large ship. As with the others, the artist had chosen to depict the god regally—in flowing robes that changed from crimson red to a pale blue, like a sunrise, and a crown of pearls shimmering brightly against their dark skin. But Serilda imagined Solvilde would dress in something practical—airy shirts and comfortable breeches, leather harnesses for carrying their important gadgets. Compasses and telescopes and the like. She’d always pictured the god to dress something like a pirate.
“Ask and ye shall receive.”
She whipped around. Gild stood in the hall, a swath of burgundy velvet in his arms.
Serilda could have melted with relief. “Thank you.”
“Nothing to it. Was hoping I’d get a chance to pick through your undergarments, too, but the twins were there, watching me like little owls. Children are terrifying.” He faked a shudder.
She rolled her eyes. Gild pretended to be frightened of children, but he was the first to wrestle with her five when they were bored, the first to spot Anna when she practiced her handstands, the first to hold Gerdrut’s hand when she got scared. She wondered if he was always so good with little ones. She thought it might be due to something buried deep inside him—forgotten experiences of caring for his little sister.
“You wouldn’t dare pick through my undergarments,” she said, snatching away the dress.
He made a noncommittal shrug. “Thought you might want a new one of … those things.” He made an awkward gesture toward her legs.
“A chemise?” She sighed. “I’ll have to go without. Turn around.”
Gild lifted his eyebrows at her. A touch of pink was making the freckles on his face more pronounced, but there was something daring in the look. Something roguish. And in that moment, Serilda felt a thousand unspoken words sparking in the air.
They had never talked about what had happened between them, the third night she’d been asked to spin straw into gold. The night his kisses had burned trails down her throat. The night she’d had absolutely no qualms about letting him see her without her chemise, her bloomers … without anything.
But Gild didn’t press the point.
With a smirk clinging to the corners of his mouth, he swung himself around to face the wall. “Let me know if you need assistance,” he said in a singsong voice.
“I’ll be fine,” she muttered. Her fingers twitched with memories and urges that had never fully gone away.
“If you insist,” he said. “I just know how queens get used to having others dress them, pamper them…” He raised his arms in an exaggerated stretch. “Just want you to know that my services are available.”
“Stop talking, Gild,” she said, her whole body flushed now.
He answered with a laugh.
Even as she tore off what was left of her chemise and shimmied into the gown he’d brought, her skin, bare against the dress’s fabric, tingled with memories of where his fingers had once traveled. The backs of her knees. The sensitive skin along her rib cage.
She gave a ferocious shake to her head as she straightened the gown’s fabric. “All right, you can turn around. Will you do the laces?”
“Ah, so you do need my help?”
She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re insufferable.”
“You seem to like me anyway.”
She paused, half turned around, and faced him again, catching the hand that had been reaching for the laces. She held his gaze and he froze, the teasing glint fading in his eyes.
“I do, Gild,” she said earnestly. “I do, so very much.”
His mouth opened, but she didn’t give him a chance to respond before she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, trying to fill the kiss with all the words she wasn’t allowed to say. She might be married to the Erlking, but she wanted him. Only him.
Her eyes were watering when she pulled away. Gild watched her, his expression both hopeful and … heartbroken.
Without a word, Serilda turned her back to him.
She was both relieved and disappointed when Gild cinched up the laces with as much integrity as a gentleman could. He did not let his fingertips trace the triangles of bare skin, or linger at the nape of her neck. He did not lean closer, letting his breath dance against the back of her ear. He did not embrace her from behind and start to undo his hard work.
And everything he didn’t do left Serilda boiling over with a yearning she’d spent the past months shoving deep, deep down into herself.
“There you are,” he said, quietly stepping back.
Serilda faced him again. “Thank you.”
He must have seen it in her eyes. He must have known. She couldn’t have hidden her desire from him if she’d tried.
His eyes darkened, but for once, he had no cocky remark.
Serilda swallowed.
They were alone.
No one would know if she stole one more kiss. One more embrace.
No one had to know.
She took a step forward. “Gild, I—”
“They’re waiting for you,” he stammered, as his hands came up to her arms. Not to pull her closer, but to hold her back.
She froze. “What?”
“The children. Everyone. They’re waiting for you.” Gild gave a fleeting smile. “We wouldn’t want anyone to worry.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Ready the hounds,” ordered the Erlking from atop his raven-black steed. “Hunters at the ready.” He shifted the horse and glanced up, his gaze meeting Serilda’s. But the look was brief. In the next moment, the hounds began to howl, and the Erlking’s attention shifted back to the hunt’s spectacle.
Serilda was so bored, and it was a constant struggle to remind herself to act regal. Don’t yawn. Don’t squirm. Don’t give any indication that she would rather be anywhere than here.
Especially when she was as much a spectacle as the hunters themselves.
In honor of Her Majesty’s first appearance watching the hunters’ demonstration, the Erlking had ordered a lofted set of stands built in the corner of the hunting arena, complete with a large shade canopy and plush benches. The carpenters had worked on it all night long. And here Serilda had sat for the better part of the afternoon, with her five attendants beside her and a host of phantoms doting on her with cups of fruit-filled water and trays of buttery pastries. Which would have been rather nice, she supposed, if she hadn’t felt like a peacock on display. Because it wasn’t just her and the kindly ghosts. It never was. She was also surrounded on all sides by the king’s court. Those beautiful, vicious creatures, with their eyes that followed her every move and their quiet, mocking laughter.
Serilda didn’t care so much what they thought of her. But she hated always feeling like she was sitting in a pit of hellhounds, waiting for them to tire of toying with her and finally devour her whole.
Below, the hunters had situated their horses into formation around the arena, which was really just a large forested portion of the gardens that had been walled off.
“Let us provide an entrancing show,” said the Erlking. “I would not want you to embarrass yourselves before your queen.”
Though he sounded serious enough, Serilda could hear some of the hunters’ scoffs even from her high perch. A couple of the dark ones in the stands cast her wry looks.
“I’m bored,” groaned Anna, cupping her chin in her hands. “How long do we have to sit here?”
“Not much longer,” Serilda lied.
“You said that an hour ago.” Anna started to kick at the rail in front of them. “When they were finishing the archery competition.”
“And the hour before that,” piped up Fricz, “when they were parading the dogs around like prized ponies.”
“And the hour before that—” started Hans, but Serilda raised a hand to stop him.
“I know,” she said. “I think this is their final demonstration. Besides, it looks like it might start raining soon.” Though the morning had been filled with sunshine, dark clouds had begun to gather on the horizon. She had never been so eager for a storm.
She was as antsy as the children, made worse by a sleepless night, a heavy gown, sweat dripping down her back, and the fact that she couldn’t mindlessly kick the rail no matter how much she wanted to because, again, she was the queen.
She didn’t care how impressive the hunters were or their smoldering hellhounds. She just wanted to retreat to her chambers and take a long nap.
Anna’s kicks became more vehement, and Serilda reached over and placed a hand on the girl’s knee to still it. In response, Anna crossed her arms over her chest and sank into a sulk.
Down below, the king nodded at Giselle, who stood before the cage of the bärgeist—the great ghost bear. A hulking figure, ten feet tall, covered in oily black fur, with eyes that flamed like coals. Though an imposing figure, it was not as beautiful as some of the other creatures in the menagerie. The bärgeist appeared ancient, with great chunks of its black fur falling off in places to reveal gray, withered skin beneath. A couple of missing teeth did not make its enormous maw any less terrifying. It had one missing ear and jagged scars crisscrossing that side of its neck all the way down to its front paw. It looked like it had lived for a thousand years—and each century had been more cruel than the last.
“Release the bärgeist!” shouted the king.
Giselle, with the help of three servants, lifted the iron bar from the door of the cage. As the latches groaned and the bear paced back and forth on legs as wide as tree stumps, the hounds began to snarl and pull at their chains.
Serilda swallowed hard, hoping that their hastily constructed platform wouldn’t come toppling over should the bärgeist decide to ram into them.
