17
It took only an instant.
“Daughter of my love…”
Marguerite cringed in pain at the sound of her father’s voice. Tears, her favorite companions, stung her eyes as opened them to see the ghastly, transparent apparition of her father. She expected to see him smiling at her as he always did.
But there was only sorrow, regret, and anger in his eyes. She took a step away from him in surprise. “Father?”
“I have tried to call out to you for so long. To warn you.” He reached toward her, as if to touch her cheek, frowning as he quickly realized he could not touch her. “Yet I did not have the strength.”
“I—I do not understand, I summoned you because I need your advice, and I—”
“You must escape this place. You must flee the monster Gideon. You must run! Death in the woods is preferable to being his prisoner!” Rage and hatred twisted his features into something she barely recognized.
She blinked, stunned at her father’s outburst. She did not know what to say—she had never seen him this angry. “I do not understand…I—I know what he is, but—”
“You may know what he is, my daughter. But you do not know what he has done.”
This was not at all how she expected the conversation to go. She had wanted to speak to her father of Gideon, yes—but not like this. “What…what has he done? What do you know?”
The hatred faded, turning only to sorrow, and he shook his head. “The dead know much, my beloved. And for what I am to tell you now…know that I take no joy in it. But you must understand the depravity he has committed. You must.”
Marguerite braced herself for what was to come but knew deep down that she could not truly be prepared. “Tell me.”
* * *
Gideon hummedas he arranged the table to his liking. He had insisted on cooking dinner, and he had sent his servants away for the evening. He enjoyed the convenience of having help, and maintaining a castle was certainly not a one “man” job—lich as he might be. But he far preferred to do as much as he could with his own hands.
It gave the results a greater foundation—of being valid and real. If he cooked the meal himself, it was more personal. More intimate.
He smirked. Intimate.
It was not that he was not extremely eager for what would happen after dinner was concluded. Oh, he very much was. Quite literally, his eagerness had grown painful. But it was not what waited for him through the long hours of the night that brought him such joy.
Love.
His Marguerite had spoken to him of love!
Smiling while he hummed, he set out the silverware and the candles. They were to dine in one of the smaller studies—a far cozier space when the fire was lit than his dining room. He would tell her of the world that awaited her, of the cities they would visit and the lands they would travel.
When the time for dinner came, and she did not arrive to join him, he frowned. Perhaps she did not know where he was—although she always managed to find him. She said it was easy enough to follow the scent of his cooking.
Perhaps she had fallen asleep, or was bathing, or was engrossed in her “prayers.” It was no matter. He would fetch her. When he reached their room, he found it empty. It was then that he began to grow concerned. “Marguerite?” He called her name but heard no reply.
He searched the castle for a half hour. By the time he found the locked door, he was in a near panic. Had something terrible happened to her?
Had she escaped again?
No. No, that was not possible. She had professed her love for him, reluctant as it might be. She will make peace with what I am. And soon, when she is ready, what she will become. I will make her a lich like I am. But she is young. That is all.
He knocked on the door. “Marguerite?”
There were muffled voices on the other side. A man’s voice, deep and insistent, and a woman’s interjecting—Marguerite—her tone distraught. What was going on in there? “Marguerite!”
He had sent his servants away.
There was a soul on the other side of that door—he could sense it. A soul, but no body. He pounded on the wood. What had she done?