David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

A chiseled shoulder appeared, then a man's dark and shining mane. The shadows on the floor shifted and changed, and she saw a masculine figure crouched beside her bed, completely unadorned. His head was bowed, concealing his face. The hand continued to snake across her leg, rising to her thigh, drawing the man to his knees. A storm of black hair slipped across her ankle. Hot breath caressed her calf, and she felt the brush of his lips. The hand crept onward.

Marielle caught sight of a mirror upon the wall. It flashed red, as if afire. Mirror to the soul, she thought. The hollow cold within her had waned, staved off by the ever-building heat.

Then the night gained a voice.

"Damius. ."

The hoarse whisper came not from the man, but from every corner of the vardo, echoing softly.

In the whirlpool of shadows above her, a shape ap- peared, the barest outline of a face. The darkness slowly relinquished its hold, and a pair of steel-gray eyes emerged, shadowed by a dark, heavy brow. Features took shape around them — pale, chiseled, and strong. It was his face, of that she was sure. Deep within the eyes, a flame began to burn. The lips parted, wide and pale.

"Say my name," he whispered," and make me real."

She did not have to answer; the night did it for her. Once more, a whisper echoed throughout the vardo, rising from every corner, vibrating through her.

"Damius. ."

Her lips silently mouthed the word. The face lowered to her own. Her lids sank lazily as his lips brushed hers. When she opened her eyes, the vision was gone. It was as if a lifeline had been cast out to her from the darkness, then pulled away as soon as she dared to grasp it.

For a moment she simply lay there, contemplating the dream. Who was the man? Was he even a man, or merely some message in a man's guise?

The moonlight pulsed upon her skin. Marielle knew the heavenly orb was nearly full, swelling with power. On such a night, Magda had told her, certain herbs could be gathered to make a brew. When drunk, the concoction would sharpen and guide a Vistana's inner sight. Sergio, of course, would not approve of such a harvest. It was bad enough that Marielle held such powerful magic within her, but to enhance it — to perform the rites that summoned spirits who wove tales of moments future and past — that he had forbidden since Magda's demise. Of course, Marielle had disobeyed him before. He did not have to know it this time.

She rose and drew on her clothes, wrapping a red silk shawl around her shoulders. Then she slipped out into the night.

Yuri sat by the embers of the fire, ostensibly keeping watch. But his head was bowed in half-slumber, and Marielle's footsteps were too swift and soft to rouse him. As she crept past the sleeping pit, the ancient yellow hound shifted and moaned. Marielle put a finger to her lips, and the dog sighed, then went silent. In three swift and fluid strides, she was free of them all. The forest closed in around her.

Beyond the tangle of birch and brush lay a deep stand of pines, an army of tall black sentries. The wind surged through the heavy, feathered branches, sighing. The scent of the pine was intoxicating, and she drank it in like wine. Her senses blurred. Yet, without question, she heard the trees whisper her name: "Marielle. ."

Swiftly she moved onward, bare feet padding across the dense carpet of needles. She knew the pines would not hold the treasures she sought; their fallen needles kept all other flora at bay.

Soon the pines gave way to oak, and the forest floor was cloaked with moss and rotting leaves. She scanned the ground for the precious herbs. For a moment, she felt someone watching her and paused to search the shadows for the source. Perhaps she merely hoped it was true. Both the herbs and the watcher eluded her.

She descended a slope into a low, damp valley where the wood thinned and was dotted with clearings. A warm mist filled the hollows, rising like steam from the soil. The vapors snaked round her ankles as she walked, swirling softly. Marielle paused to remove the shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it around her waist. Then she continued her search.

At last, she spied a patch of the rare plant she sought most: the moonflower. Each tiny white blossom formed a cup, bent upward to drink in the light. Marielle removed the shawl and spread it upon the ground, then tied the ends to form a pouch. Carefully, she began to gather her treasures. In all, there were fewer than ten.

Again, she felt the eyes upon her. Fear danced along her spine, mingled with anticipation. She rose slowly and turned.

The man from her vision was standing before her, but a few paces distant, his back against a tree. He was the embodiment of midnight. The white, chiseled face shone like the moon itself, framed by the wild mane of shiny blue-black hair. His clothing was fine and foreign in appearance — a white silk tunic billowing across the broad shoulders, a black sash at the narrow waist, black trousers tucked into shining black boots upon his long, slender limbs. Tendrils of mist floated around his body like faithful servants.

For an eternity, neither soul moved. Then Marielle dared to speak.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly, as if afraid another might overhear their conversation.

"I believe you already know," he replied. He smiled, revealing a glimmer of white teeth.

Inside Marielle, a spark flared. He was toying with her, a cat with a mouse, and she sensed she was no match.

"Damius," she whispered.

He nodded. Suddenly, he stood behind her left shoulder, his breath upon her ear.

"Yes — Damius," he whispered.

She froze, staring forward, not daring to turn. The space between them was palpable.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"What you want," he murmured. "I am your slave. Did you not summon me? "

"No," she replied.

Without warning, he had shifted. Now he stood to the other side. She did not move.

"No, then," he answered slyly. "As you would have it."

"You were in my dream. I did not invite you," Marielle protested gently.

"Nor did I invite you into mine," he whispered, words flowing as easily as the mist. "Yet here you are."

She started. The fog swirled around them. Was she really a part of his dream, or was he merely toying with her?

"Are you not real?" she asked.

His hand reached out to stroke her cheek. The softness of his touch was agony.

"What do you think?" he asked in turn.

"That you are danger itself."

"Perhaps to some. Never to you," he replied.

The distance between them narrowed. Only inches before, it was now no deeper than a layer of skin. Still, it felt like a chasm to Marielle. Pressure rose in the void.

"What do you want from me?" Marielle repeated.

"It is I who must ask that of you," he said.

Marielle paused. "And if I want you to leave me?" she asked.

"Then I would go. If that is truly your desire. "Again, his breath pulsed upon her neck. "But I think it is otherwise."

She did not, could not, answer. He moved closer, and she felt him against her. One arm came round her waist in a gentle caress. Involuntarily, she pressed herself back into his embrace.

"Shall I go then?" he asked, mocking her.

A voice within her struggled to say yes, but it was too distant, too faint. A storm had begun to rage through every tissue in Marielle's body, and its fury drowned all reason. Hot tears spilled from her eyes.

"No," she answered.

She felt her clothes slip to the ground, piece by piece, trailed by a tiny snowstorm of white blossoms. More than mere flesh had been exposed. But she did not care.

At dawn, Marielle was awakened by the cock's crow. She lay in her vardo. Her memory of the return was faint, clouded by the intensity with which she recalled the sensations that had preceded it. A ray of sun pierced the white window and fell upon her face. Instinctively, she rolled away from the light. Her legs and arms felt weak, her body heavy with exhaustion. She had no wish to rise anyway; her dreams held more interest than the day. In moments, she slept again. The dreams did not come.