Bisclavret

Chapter 13

I'm a heartbeat away from dashing from the room when Lord Giroux's gaze lands on me. I freeze in my chair like a rabbit sighting a hawk.

Look away, I tell myself, but I can't. His thick hair is ruffled from his early morning ride. In the gloom of the study, his eyes are almost pitch black, but unlike his father's, there's warmth in them, a hint of light to drive the darkness away. He must not have shaved yet because a shadow of a beard covers his square jaw. Seeing my inspection, his full lips tip up at the corners, and he smiles toothily at me. I don't think I've ever seen him smile up close before, and – oh, God, he has dimples.

Dangerous. This man is dangerous, I have to tell myself because some lesser part of my mind is stuck on how breathtakingly handsome he is, and it's beginning to shift my fear into...something else.

"Good morning, Lady Descoteaux," he rumbles, his voice darker, less refined than his father's.

His greeting breaks the spell, and I wrench my eyes from his. "Good morning, my lord."

"The sun is quite warm today," he says. "It seems the weather has shifted. Would you care to accompany me on a walk through the gardens?" The polite words sound oddly out of place on his tongue. Like he's not meant to talk about casual strolls in that growling baritone.

"Yes, thank you," I say, because what choice do I have? Also, I'd really like to get away from his father. Now, please.

He comes to offer me a hand up, the picture of polite gentility. I take it and stand.

"I'll speak with you later?" he says to his father as he leads me from the room.

The baron's gaze is locked onto me when he answers. "I look forward to it."

I watch him as we pass, half expecting him to lunge at me again, but all he does is lean in and whisper, "Remember all I've said."

I jerk my head in a semblance of a nod and let his son lead me from the room. It's unlikely I'll ever forget anything the baron just said to me. That was the strangest, most terrifying conversation I've ever had with another person. And what was with him constantly dragging in breaths like he was scenting me? Do I smell?

I surreptitiously lift my arm not looped through Lord Giroux's and rub at my nose, using the opportunity to sniff. No, I don't smell. So, what in God's name was that? Are his senses heightened? Can he somehow smell emotions? I think of all the other oddities I've noticed: the heat of their bodies, the glowing eyes, and the keen hearing. All of these things align with the baron's declaration about them being unnatural. Meaning not of the natural world.

My thoughts cast back to a particularly demoralizing mass I attended in Paris. The revolution was gaining momentum, and the priest was full of fire and brimstone that day. He raved about angels and demons walking among us, manipulating earthly events. I left the service concerned about his mental well-being, but now I wonder if he was on to something. The baron is too mean to be an angel, which means he might have demonic origins. Only, I didn't smell sulfur when he lunged at me, and though he seems to prefer the dark, he can walk in the day. Aren't the devil's minions confined to night?

Or are these people something else entirely? My mother, God rest her soul, used to tell us stories when we were little, stories filled with imps and dwarves and the fair folk. She spoke of stags turning into men, of how you could only find nymphs in old-growth forests, and if you were lucky enough to catch one, she had to grant you a favor. Most of these tales had a moral, and I always thought they were meant to curve some of our wilder behavior. But what if it was more than that? What if her stories were a warning of what was out there?

My mother was someone who knew things. She could smell rain on the wind, and always had an extra placemat set at dinner before an unexpected guest arrived. Our neighbors came to her for cures. Witch, some might whisper, but my mother was so warm and kind that no one had ever uttered that word within our hearing.