Hemlock Veils (36 page)

When she looked up, Arne held the other suture kit in her direction, eyebrow raised. “Your turn now.” He handed her a bottle of vodka and added, “Just in case.” Then a clean and folded t-shirt, one she assumed was Henry’s. “You can change into this after you clean yourself up.”

She took them both, even though she was practically used to the fire in her forearm by now. He directed her to the closest bathroom, and when she was inside, safe behind the closed door, she braced herself on the sink and released a breath as though she’d been holding it the whole time. With uneven exhalations, she bent over the sink, her tears filling it, and again it amazed her how easily they came, when they had been absent for so many years.

After a moment, she gathered the courage to look at her arm. She unwrapped the bandage to find three large scrapes, two superficial, but one deep. It opened like a ragged canyon, a view of her muscle at the bottom. She tried not to give in to lightheadedness as she cleaned it and then took a long, burning swig of the alcohol, coughing afterward. It burned her nostrils and esophagus, and her head shook in response. She took another swig, coughing again. Then, with a deep breath, she began stitching the slice down her arm, biting down hard on the leather suture case as she exhaled heavily through her teeth. She even groaned a few times, especially because the time it took felt endless. The canyon of a slice was at least three inches long, and just like the beast’s incision, she hadn’t known how many stitches she’d tied until the end. And just like the beast’s incision, she ended up doing nine, even though the wound was longer.

More than her hand trembled now, and with a weak sigh, she looked around the bathroom the size of her bedroom at her old apartment. This bathroom, just like the sitting room, was all marble—floor and countertop. She stripped and turned on one of the shower heads, standing eagerly beneath it. Leaning against the tile wall, she let it wash over her head and down her body, taking all the blood with it. The water burned hotter than she usually liked, but it jerked her back to life. It brought all her senses into focus and left her buckling over in the shower, breaking down until she forced herself to breathe.

Chapter 21

Elizabeth gave herself permission to explore Henry’s home for the first time—at least this section of it. Gold-trimmed crown molding; a wide spiral staircase made, again, of heavenly white marble; high ceilings painted with demons and angels, a mural depicting some heavenly war: every inch, even those ceilings, was clean and immaculate. The house even smelled clean, like exquisite, natural pine.

When she entered the sitting room again, she was surprised to see the floor around the beast had been cleared. Even her jacket and shirt were gone. The sight of a large, feral creature in a room so full of luxury was strange. The room had a Victorian theme, but kept with the gold theme of the rest of the mansion. Everything seemed lined with gold; even the plush chairs that appeared to never have seated a soul were golden velvet. And Elizabeth would have bet the décor was older than Henry.

Arne wasn’t in sight, and the beast still lay in the same position she’d left him in, limp on his right side, his ribs lifting with each inhalation. His fur appeared to be dry now, unlike her shower-soaked hair. She’d frequently wished to see him in the light, but not like this, not injured. He was beautiful, still, even in his unconscious state. His dark fur shone, reflecting the chandelier’s light, and even the coarser, spikier hair of his spine was a striking color: a blunt pitch-black, so stark it looked like the color of nothingness.

She knelt before him, checking his incision. Already it looked better. Was her mind playing tricks, or was it actually healing? She stroked his silken fur, feeling her hand over his large ribs as they rose and fell. Whatever Hell he lived internally at the moment, she prayed the morphine would dull it.

Her hand found his face. “You’re going to be all right…Henry.” Calling him by name in this form felt out of place, but it was the only right thing to call him here.

Then it entered her mind, distant and unclear, but definitely a voice. Her hand paused, her heart startled by it.
Elizabeth
, he said.

“Yes, Henry,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Where are you, Elizabeth?

“I’m right here.”

Run, as far as you can.

She paused again. He didn’t communicate with her here. He sent his thoughts to her, but it was a her that lived in his head, a her from his dreams. She continued to stroke his fur. “I’m not going anywhere.”

So
…
stubborn
…

She smiled, just briefly.

Run!
His animal eyelids twitched.
She’ll kill you if she finds you.
His eyes jerked beneath his lids again and a breathy sound emerged from the back of his throat.
If you die I can’t
…

Then she heard nothing. She searched his face that was suddenly lifeless again. “I’ll never leave,” she barely whispered while feeling her hand down his neck, her fingers getting lost in his fur. “You’re going to be all right.”

“He’s going to be all right only because of you.” Startled, she turned, finding Arne staring. She wondered how long he’d been watching. “If it wasn’t for you, he could have died, Elizabeth. Thank you…for saving him.”

She looked back to Henry. “He saved me first. More than once.”

Arne sat in a Victorian-style chair a few feet away and sighed. “Elizabeth, I know you want to be here to make sure he’s all right, but…”

“I said I’m not leaving, Arne.”

“Does Henry know you know?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Then he will be livid when he wakes.” His voice grew firmer, more insistent. “Trust me, it won’t be pretty. This is not the way to tell him.”

“I don’t consider his life saved until he wakes up, and you better be damn sure I’ll be here when that happens.”

Sighing again, he looked away.

“What if there is some complication in the night? I will not leave him, Arne, not like this. He’s my responsibility now, and if something were to happen to him…” She trailed off.

“Then,” he began, a tone of forfeit, “I suppose it will be both our heads, not just mine.” He stood, and she just now noticed he wore a different robe and pajamas. “There are plenty of beds. As I’m sure you have figured, Henry’s is hardly ever used, so you’re more than welcome to it.”

“I’m not leaving his side. I’ll sleep right here, beside him.”

“Now, Elizabeth, that’s just—”

“Arne, you know as well as I do, I won’t give in.”

He half-smiled, shaking his head. “Very well. I just think Henry will have more than my head if he knows you were here and I didn’t make you as comfortable as possible.”

“Blankets will do just fine.”

“And some tea. I have something I think you’ll want to see.”

***

When Arne returned, three of the plushest blankets Elizabeth had seen filled his arms. Atop the stack of blankets that were probably more expensive than every blanket she’d ever owned combined, was a pillow with a plain white pillowcase. Under his other arm, a bedroll that didn’t look much different than the ones she and her father and brother used to camp with.

He set them down beside her and with a smile was gone again. While she waited, she laid a blanket over Henry, since he would appreciate it in the morning, when he was himself again. Though she doubted that would do anything to dull his anger.

She opened the bedroll beside him and laid the second blanket atop that, then topped it with a pillow.

Arne paused upon his return, eyeing the white blanket over the beast. The look in his eyes said he understood. He placed the silver tray of tea on the Victorian table—legs curled up in a way that brought it to life—wedged between the two chairs, and motioned for her to sit. She rose to her feet with some difficulty and sat in the chair with even more difficulty, the golden cushions almost too soft for her spine.

Only one cup sat on the tray, she noticed, and Arne didn’t sit. Instead he left without saying a word, but was back quickly, this time holding a large leather book in his arms. It took her aback, threw off her reality for the briefest moment.
Her
book. She straightened as Arne brought it to her lap. Not her book exactly, but one just like hers. Sticky notes emerged from numerous places, and the pages appeared more worn than the ones in her copy. “I understand you and Henry have similar reading tastes,” Arne said with a smile.

She met his eyes, bluish-brown and bordered in wrinkles. “Is that…his?”

He yawned, nodding. He appeared exhausted, even older. “During the many years he was holed up here, leaving everyone to believe he had moved away, he spent hours with his nose in those pages. It has been a helpful tool.”

“How
many
years?”

“We came here soon after his first transformation, where it would be easier to hide. He was here as Henry Senior for ten years before disappearing, then didn’t make his appearance again as Henry Junior until ten years ago, after the accident with the Portland teens. He hid away in this place for twenty-nine years, his only escape at night, when he could roam the forest as the beast. I was his only connection to the outside world—the human world. People believed I lived here alone, keeping up Mr. Clayton’s property.”

“Almost fifty years…” Elizabeth mused with a sorrowful ache.

“Henry has been thirty-five years old for forty-nine years. And I worry that it won’t be long before he will want to hide away again, Elizabeth. You can’t let that happen.” She had no time to form a response to his request, since he added with another yawn, “Morning comes soon. I will leave you to his notes. Is there anything else I can get you, Elizabeth?”

“No, Arne, thank you.”

He hesitated. “I do think it would be wise to tie him down, just in case…”

She hesitated. He’d once crushed a bear with his jaws, out of mere instinct. “No,” she said with a subtle swallow. His instincts were natural, but the man in him could fight them.

Behind his eyes, Arne deliberated.

“Arne, as long as I keep morphine in him, he won’t wake again—not until the poison’s left his bloodstream.”

“Well,” he started, turning to leave. “I’ll say it again. I’m beyond grateful he has you to care for him.” He paused, gravity weighting his words. “I’ve spent many nights praying you were here. I just thought you should know that.”

Her chest warmed and eyes welled. She swallowed through the lump in her throat.

“Goodnight, Elizabeth,” he said, and she could only nod as he left the room. She looked down to the book, wide and thick and heavily-bound, with sticky notes sprouting from every direction. Forgetting about her tea entirely, she opened to the most curled of page markers. It was the section she’d read many times. Elizabeth wondered if
Aglaé
was as hypnotizing in real life as she was in the picture. She wondered how many there were, how they came to be.

Nearly every word had been highlighted with rushed yellow strokes—sentences about unbreakable curses and even the cross-reference to
Diableron
. She turned the page, skimming over more highlighted passages, and almost skipped over the four paragraphs that had been left alone, the dull typeset standing out against the rest, with its colorless background. The way the highlighter had deemed it too irrelevant to mark made it seem that much more significant, and she found herself reading it more carefully than the rest, her brain catching certain terms like a filter catches particles.

The bond of Cursed and Curse Breaker: Reversals, cures, or antidotes to Aglaé’s curses are never easily found. In rare instances, the antidote is simply an act that must be performed by the Cursed himself, and only the Cursed. But most often times, the curse can be broken only through the specific act of another, and when accomplished, a special connection between the Cursed and the Curse Breaker is created. In those cases, both the Cursed and Curse Breaker undergo a chemical change, creating a bond both physical and literal. Some have explained it as a oneness or a sense of belonging to the other, their lives becoming one in the same soon after the curse is broken—as in the legend of Absolon and Elvire.

She went on to read the brief account of Absolon and Elvire, whose story she remembered reading as a child: the story of how true love can conquer the barrier of any outward appearance. It was a tale with a moral, a story that had always taught her to look at one’s soul, not at their physical exterior.

It was the story of a man who was cursed by
Aglaé
to the confines of a dark cave for the remainder of his life, and the baker’s daughter who brought him bread. A man with skin transparent enough to see his insides, skin so sensitive that even a flicker of light left burns, and a woman who was so frightened by his hideous form that she at first left him bread only at the entrance of the cave. But eventually her pity turned to a compassion that drove her inside, and in the dark of that cave, Absolon and Elvire developed a love so deep that she never left him. It was her love that broke the spell, but in the moment the curse broke, a mob of angry villagers raided the cave and crucified her for loving a Cursed. Absolon, though alive—and a new man—had then been stabbed. He’d cradled his dead Elvire and, when his blood dripped into hers, her life was restored—all thanks to the bond that formed between them after the release of the curse, when the chemical change in the blood of the Cursed and Curse Breaker was most powerful. By the grace of that short window, and the magic in his blood, she was made whole. It was the first time such a power was realized and the only time it’d been used. According to record, that was.

Beneath the fourth paragraph was a Baroque-style painting: a pale man sobbing over a dead woman, both faces dramatic and both bodies naked amidst crimson robes, his blood pouring into hers.