Lady Death's Diary: Chapter Twenty-Five

Armond’s mouth sagged in a lopsided smile, the right hinge of his jaw shattered by a bullet. The expression was obscene, grotesque—far from the serene illusion of slumber that I’d always imagined upon my own face after each my deaths. Blood painted his lips and freckled his cheeks, and his hand lay slack atop a pistol.

Uncle Alistair picked up the gun. It was a dueling pistol, its barrel forged of blue steel to reduce the sun’s glare and its pearl grip covered in ivy carvings that traced blackened veins against the bone white inlay. Blood or ink?

I’d always avoided contemplating the aftermath of my murders. Convinced myself no “after” existed and that the universe completely restarted with each demise. Delphine had said the Anterdonians believed magic drew from alternate realities. What if my former lives had continued, even after my end? Did some timeline exist where Theo knelt beside my body, his hands pressed over my heart in vain attempt to staunch its bleeding? Where my corpse lay limp in a ditch or broken at a tower base? So much of Armond’s blood had been shed from a single bullet.

How much gorier was a decapitated head?

The room began to tilt. Xander’s hands pressed against my upper arms from behind, warm and alive. I didn’t protest as he guided me to sit down on the settee next to Armond’s desk. He sat down beside me, saying nothing but stroking my back in gentle circles as I struggled to remember how to breathe.

“Xander can take you to the other room,” said Alistair. “You needn’t be subjected to this.”

I shook my head mutely. I did need to be here, even if I was unable to give voice to my reasons. With Armond gone, would that the attempts on my life stop? Was Letty still a threat now that her accomplice was out of the picture? I’d assumed her involvement in many of my deaths, but the only time her participation had ever been exposed was during my second life when she’d given Loren the forged letter and testified against me. Her power had always lain in her ability to manipulate people, to come across as innocent even as I writhed and choked from poisoned cake.

In each my lives, years had passed between Letty’s arrival at Bellcrest and the attempts to kill me. She must have flattered and coaxed Armond until he had agreed to help her win Loren—my stepsister was, above all things, charming. Was she even aware of Armond’s most recent attempt on my life? Perhaps his hatred of me had inspired him to take initiative. Either way, it would be harder for my stepsister to form new alliances when her last had ended so fatally.

Alistair set the pistol aside. “Xander, bring a light closer, would you?”

Xander gave my shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before rising and bringing him the glowstone lantern that flickered from the nightstand. My legs refused to follow, or even to rise from the bed. I could only shudder with how unphased they both seemed to be so near a corpse, even as I coveted their practiced indifference.

My uncle turned over Armond’s wrist. Metal flashed with the movement, and my horror was temporarily forgotten. How many times had I stared at Armond’s sleeve, in futile hope of spotting the ruby cufflink worn by the man responsible for my fifth death? Too many to count and frequently enough that I could visualize the small bronze shield and its leafless oak with roots that spiraled into a spearhead at the bottom. Armond had been fastidious about his attire: his pantlegs never bunched where they tucked into his boots; bright brocade lined the interior of his coats; and his heraldic cuffs had always been tightened so that the shields’ engrailed tops perfectly paralleled his sleeve hems.

But now, the edges of his sleeve overlapped, its buttonholes unaligned and twisted, and the cufflink’s shield tip pointed askew. Armond would never have fastened his cuff so sloppily, no matter how distraught or terrified or guilt-wracked he may have been.

I knelt beside the desk; my feet had carried me close without realizing it. Xander’s fingertips brushed against my arm, intent on pulling me back again, but Alistair stopped his movement with a headshake.

Blood splattered the back of Armond’s right hand and caked the creases of his knuckles, and yet his shirt sleeve was stainless except for where spilled ink had pooled near the elbow. My fingers trembled as I unfastened the cufflink. Its metal was cold, as cold as I imagined Armond’s skin, which I tried not to touch as I pinched the white fabric and rolled the sleeve back. My heart plummeted.

“Clever girl,” murmured Alistair approvingly.

Xander laid a hand on my shoulder and gave a sympathetic squeeze.

Underneath the fabric, droplets of dried blood matted the hairs of Armond’s forearm. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Armond might be gone, but the danger to my life persisted. Another killer waited for me, this one ruthless enough to shoot their own partner when he’d become a liability.

After all, dead men didn’t dress themselves.

****

When Venuda returned with a bleary-eyed Councilor Timons in tow, Alistair informed them that Armond had committed suicide.

“Surely, the blackguard was overwhelmed by guilt,” he said, shaking his head as if sad. “The important thing is that my niece is now safe.”

Timons left right away, all too happy to head back to bed. Venuda, however, glared so fiercely at my uncle that I thought her eyes might spout flames. “I told you to wait.” Her voice was as cold as her gaze was heated. “Instead, I return to find you standing over a noble’s dead body. Whom you claim committed suicide.”

Alistair sighed in mock sorrow. “I’d be more brokenhearted, but my empathy has limits towards the would-be assassin of my dearest niece.”

“Not to question Lady Vitrula’s account,” she said, “but we can’t be certain that her ladyship is not still in danger. What preempted Lord Delos’s attack? Blackmail? Insanity? He may yet have accomplices.”

“The threat is passed.” Alistair waved a hand towards the bedsheet he’d draped over the slumped body. Other than Armond’s still-visible boots, the resulting silhouette looked more like a couch covered to prevent summer fading than a corpse. “Passed on, you can even say.” His chuckle subsided when no one else laughed at his pun.

“We found no indication that Delos was working with a partner,” said Xander. My brow furrowed at the smoothness of his lie. I was used to being able to read Xander—his redheaded complexion did little to disguise blushes, and his nervous cough (while adorable) was usually a giveaway that he was withholding something or feeling awkward. But if I hadn’t known that Armond had been murdered, I would have believed him to be to be telling the truth.

“As for a reason,” continued Alistair, “jealousy, perhaps? He and His Highness were close.”

“Jealousy,” repeated Venuda flatly. “You wish me to report to His Majesty that Armond Delos was driven mad by love. For His Majesty’s son.”

Alistair shrugged. “It’s a tale straight from ballads—like the legend of Prince Leopold and Sir Rhys.” He chuckled. “One of my personal favorite love stories, although Sir Rhys was a hero and not a coldblooded killer. Regardless, it has a poetic spin which should appease the Court.”

“Distract them, you mean.” The retired general’s biceps flexed menacingly as she crossed her arms. She obviously wasn’t willing to blindly accept his account of events yet seemed reluctant to push back. Xander had claimed that Alistair was King Eldin’s “spymaster.” Singular, implying that there was only one. Assuming that was the truth, since Xander had just proved himself a more adept liar than I’d believed. Either way: how influential was my uncle, that even Venuda wasn’t willing to openly refute his statements?

More importantly: would it be wiser to tell her the truth? The Castle Guard reported to the Councilor; if I openly admitted that someone else had killed Armond, the pressure of the Guard’s ensuing investigation might keep the murderer too distracted to worry about killing me. Logic dictated it would be safer to tell her.

Xander caught my eye and shook his head subtly as if aware of my train of thought. Trust us, his gaze implored. Keep silent.

“I threatened to have Armond expelled from Court.” My words came in a rush, racing to be heard before I second guessed my decision. If Xander and my uncle thought it wisest to keep Armond’s actual cause of death quiet, then I would trust them. For now. “I walked in on him cornering a young maid in the stables and told him that I would inform Prince Loren about his appalling actions after I returned from my ride.” I met Venuda’s disbelieving gaze straight on. “Lord Delos followed me, provoked my horse into a panic, then killed himself upon learning of my survival rather than face the consequences of his attack.”

My journal was filled with accounts of Armond’s past transgressions; my explanation shouldn’t be too hard for anyone to believe. In my last life, Emilia had been wrongfully imprisoned for defending herself but, as a Duke Kothe’s daughter and Prince Loren’s betrothed, I outranked Armond. Courtiers would accept my testimony more readily than that of a servant, or at least would be too deferential to openly challenge my version of events. Among nobility, rank determined one’s honesty.

Venuda, however, wasn’t noble. Unlike many of her peers, she’d earned her Councilor’s seat on the Table of Law after years of serving in Verdan’s army, and war had taught her to be suspicious. Her eyes narrowed, perceptive despite being clouded by cataracts.

“Delphine made no mention of a confrontation,” she said. “Only that you’d recognized your attacker.”

A shiver crawled up my spine as I recalled the last time that Venuda had stared at me so intently. Not clever enough. Did you really believe you could get away with killing the heir to the throne? Some memories, I didn’t need my journal to remember.

“I didn’t inform anyone of the encounter.” Somehow, my voice came out steady. “Out of consideration for the maid, whose prerogative it is on whether or not Armond’s harassment was made public. The fact that he attacked me was sufficient enough to demand his arrest.”

“Several maids reported Delos for being handsy,” she conceded, looking chagrined. “My guards could do little except issue him warning to be more respectful of castle employees.”

“Because of his friendship with my fiancé.”

Venuda ran her fingers through her cropped hair but didn’t disagree. “His Highness won’t be pleased when he learns about tonight’s events.”

“Then it’s best that my niece be the one to break the news to him,” said Alistair. “In the morning. I daresay we could all benefit from a few hours of sleep.”

“His Majesty—” began Venuda.

“—will be informed about all that’s occurred,” he finished. “By me personally. Xander, I trust you can escort Tru back to her chambers and keep guard?”

Xander nodded.

Venuda tried again. “My men can—”

“—do nothing which my assistant is not equally capable,” said Alistair. “Lord Brant will watch over my niece tonight.”

Venuda glared knives at him, her annoyance over his interruptions on the verge of physically manifesting. Alistair pretended to be obvious to her seething rage as he offered her his arm. She accepted, calloused fingers biting down with enough strength that his charming smile briefly faltered into a wince.

I took Xander’s offered arm as well, though our pace was much slower than theirs given that my leg threatened to buckle beneath me with each step.

Xander observed me from the corner of his eye, although he snapped his gaze so quickly forward each time my head turned that I almost didn’t note the wrinkle of concern that lined his brow.

“Your ankle looked like it was paining you earlier,” he said.

My head bobbed a heavy affirmative; my brain felt as if it had liquified and might leak onto the floor if I raised it up again. My ankle ached. My head ached. Everything ached. Magical healing or not, my bones need rest to fully reknit. Xander chuckled at my groggy insistence that I was fine, perfectly fine. He knelt down, and I stared at his back uncomprehendingly.

“It will be quicker this way,” he said. “The sooner you make it back to your room, the sooner you can fall sleep.”

The allure of sleep won over the dictates of propriety. My cheeks blazed as I wrapped my arms around his neck and clung on as he stood up. Theo had carried me on his back this way when we were young. I used to laugh and pull at my brother’s ears to make him change direction as we’d careened through the wide, mazelike hallways of the family portrait gallery until Father sent a broom-wielding servant to corral us back into the nursery.

It felt different with Xander. My nightdress bunched around my legs, and my skin broke into bumps where his hands gripped beneath my knees. Though it was hard to discern in what flickering light of the West Tower’s glowstones, his ears looked nearly as red as his hair. I was tempted to give one a tug, just to observe how he’d react.

I rested my head against his shoulder. Xander smelled like lemon and soap. I took a deep breath, and he stumbled.

Curses. Had I just sniffed him?

Even worse: had he realized that I sniffed him?

I kept my head militantly upright after that despite my bone-deep fatigue, and neither of us spoke until we were back in my bedchamber. My leg rebelled beneath my weight as I slid off his back. I yelped, but Xander caught me before my knees hit the ground. My breaths were heavy with pain, as were his from having carried me hallway across the castle. But the moment our eyes met, both of us stopped breathing.

He spoke but didn’t draw away. “Careful.”

“I’m always careful,” I lied.

He smiled, pressing me against his chest in a hug under the pretense of keeping me upright. I wanted to wrap my arms around him as well. I wanted to forget about Armond, about Letty, and about whether or not my stepsister was capable of killing him or whether it had been someone else. I wanted to forget about my father and King Eldin and how my engagement to Loren was all that prevented the first from declaring war against the second. I wanted to forget about everything, except Xander.

His face drew nearer. Apparently, Xander wanted to forget everyone else as well.

And so, I yawned.

I yawned so wide that my jaw audibly cracked. Xander pulled away, politely disguising the disgust he must surely have felt at his intimate view of my tonsils. If he suspected my yawn had been faked (which it had been), he was too considerate to comment. He kept hold of my elbow to prevent me from toppling over, then released me so abruptly once I sat down on my bed that one would have thought it was on fire for a second time.

He coughed into his fist. “Goodnight, Lady Vitrula. I’ll keep watch outside your door until Lord Errans sends a replacement—no one will interrupt your sleep tonight.”

Although I’d been the one to ruin our moment, his inclusion of my title still stung, not to mention his eagerness that someone else be assigned my guard. Had I misread his signals? I didn’t think so—ever since Xander’s return, a lightning sort of awareness had crackled between us, which had never been present in our letters to each other or when we’d first met a year ago. It had been my realization that I liked his mind that made his personage so irresistible.

But my circumstances made acting on that attraction impossible. Not physically impossible: Xander and I could run away from Bellcrest tomorrow should I so desire and if he by some miracle agreed. Armond’s murderer no doubt saw me as problem that needed to be removed. Instead of waiting for my own staged suicide, I could remove myself from Bellcrest and, in so doing, achieve some sort of happily ever after with Xander.

Happy . . . until my father blamed Loren for my disappearance, as he no doubt would once Loren and Letty became engaged, which they were equally certainly to do, given my stepsister’s obsession with taking my place and Loren’s starry-eyed infatuation. Happy until Duke Kothe lead the Northern Provinces in a second Uprising, and Bellcrest was razed, and Theo killed, and Verdan’s people suffered regardless of which side they fought.

Would I still be happy with Xander, after all that came to pass? Or would I look into the mirror and see a woman who, too terrified to confront and change her own fate, had sentenced thousands to die in her place?

Every night since I’d arrived in Bellcrest, I’d resisted the temptation to sneak out of the castle, saddle Dragon, and keep riding until no one recognized my name. My attraction to Xander amplified that temptation tenfold. But life was not a fairy tale, and repercussions existed.

I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow so that Xander couldn’t see the silent tears trickling down my cheeks. Not for Armond; I wasn’t a good enough person to grieve the death of my would-be murderer. I wept for myself, and for what could have been.

“Thank you, Lord Brant,” I said. “You may go.”