9
With each day that passed,a little of his Marguerite returned to life. He had extensive experience with the dead that walked, and the fact that she resembled them so acutely hurt his soul. Every passing moment that he watched her in her empty shock wrenched his heart from his chest.
It was no wonder. To suffer such loss would send anyone into a near fugue state. But, day by day, as they ticked by, she seemed to come back to herself just a little bit more. The first time she smiled at him over dinner, he thought he might weep with joy.
He was to blame for her grief. He knew that. And he would be responsible for mending it. And when she was allowed to spread her wings and become the woman he saw buried deep within the cowed, frightened thing that had been raised to be meek and quiet, he knew he would have a proper Greek fury on his hands.
And he eagerly looked forward to it.
It would take months. Perhaps it would take years. But he was certain she would come to love her new life—and him in turn. He was already beginning to win her trust. She no longer flinched from his touch. She did not stiffen when he climbed into bed beside her at night. He did not touch her; he would not dare for anything more but an embrace or a gentle kiss to the cheek.
Her body would be hers to give. Her heart, the same. He had vowed it to her, and he was a man of his word. He had taken enough from her to have her as his wife. He would take no more.
It was two weeks into their return to his home that he found her prowling through his library, fingers tracing the spines. Smiling, he leaned against one of the wood plinths that held up the balcony that ringed the room and watched her.
She had found his tomes on magic. Of course, she had gone straight for those. His more…salient books and scrolls were hidden away in his “workshop” in the basement in a locked room. What she would find in these shelves would be scandalous enough by all standards without discovering his studies on the resurrection and animation of the dead.
Plucking out a tome on demonology—which was entirely lies, by his measure, but worth keeping for the sake of academic comparison—she took it to a nearby sofa and sat down to read.
He could move silently when he wished. Creeping along the wall, staying to the shadows, he came up behind her. Leaning down, he placed his hands on either side of her on the backrest and tucked his mouth close to her ear. “Demons, hm?”
She shrieked.
Laughing, he ducked away as she swatted at him.
“You cur! You damnable cur!” She slapped his arm. “You nearly killed me!”
“Now you are the one who is being bombastic. I did no such thing. I merely gave you a right good start.” He plucked the book from her lap. “And you are starting in entirely the wrong place, little magi.”
“How so? It is a book on demons, is it not? And do you not derive your power from them? I thought it best to begin by learning the names of those I would be calling upon.” She stood from the sofa, his childish mischief already forgiven and forgotten in the wake of the chance for forbidden knowledge.
He knew the allure quite well. The flicker in her eyes was one he was certain he shared in quite often. He placed the book back on his shelf and began searching for another title. “Demons? Hardly.” He gestured idly over his shoulder as he browsed. “They are an unpredictable lot. I prefer not to deal with them if I have the chance. If you believe I am ‘unduly theatrical,’ as you say, I have nothing compared to those you might converse with from the great plane below. They can be a bit…histrionic.”
“Wait—” She followed eagerly beside him. “Wait. You have met demons? Truly?”
“Of course. I have met the king of all demons.” The look of pride he knew was etched upon his face was unbecoming of a gentleman necromancer, but he could not help it. “Stern fellow. Quite serious. Hardly the cackling madman that the churches would have you believe. No hooves, either.”
“You lie.” She nudged his arm. “You have not met Lucifer himself!”
“Oh, but I have. We spoke of philosophy. He does not believe there is a God, you know.” He smirked.
“That makes no sense at all. God is the one who cast him out.”
“Not as he tells the tale. By his words, he and his ilk simply left Heaven in what you could call a religious schism with his more faithful kin. Perhaps he is a deceiver, as they say. But I had no such sense of the creature when we met. We drank wine, we ate dinner. He answered my questions, we sat by my fire, and then went on his way. Quite an uneventful if perfectly pleasant evening, to be quite honest.”
“You are lying to me still.” She folded her arms across his chest. “Are you truly even an alchemist?”
“Ah, and so the shoe lands.” Turning to her, he could not wipe the smile from his face, no matter how serious he was attempting to appear. “Do you demand a demonstration of my power, princess?”
“I—” She hesitated. For a second, the meek woman she was raised to be fought for purchase. But she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Yes. I do demand it. Show me you are not a charlatan, Johann Faust.”
Oh, how he wanted her in that moment. The sheer measure of her voice undid him and unraveled his defenses as if he were made of nothing but straw and she were the vengeful gale.
Goodness, she is right. I am theatrical.
“Hm. And what would you have me do? Summon the elements—fire, wind, and rain? Transmute our dinner from steak to lead, perhaps? Or would you like to dine with the devil himself, as I have? Shall I summon a demon from the pits to amuse you, my princess? Shall I pull Lucifer from the depths of Hell to join us for dinner?”
“No, no. A demon is too much. And I do not know what I would say to them, regardless. And certainly not the King of Hell. I would first send him a letter before summoning them to your dining room in a ball of fire.” She paused and furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “It must be quite irritating to be summoned unexpectedly, not to mention inconvenient. Can you even imagine what it must be like for them?”