Andria Cardarelle - To sleep with Evil

"Your son, you say. After all my years of unswerving devotion."

"Yes."

"And just how do you expect to accomplish this feat? Your own men think you're too far rotted to sire anything."

"Have you forgotten so soon? Marguerite is pregnant. She carries a son."

"So you said. And I have little doubt that she's as fertile as any barnyard bitch. But surely don't imagine that the bastard in her belly is yours?"

Marguerite's eyes fluttered open in horror. Quickly, she let them drop, daring to leave a fringe of lashes through which she could watch her husband and his paramour.

Donskoy's face went white. He took a draft from his pipe, then pressed out his chest and stood erect, suddenly the stout soldier. His eyes flashed with anger, and a vein in his cheek was twitching. "You cannot vex me, Jacqueline," he said evenly, his voice dripping with contempt. "You are a pathetic, jealous woman. You've stooped very low to try to hurt me. But this time, my dear, the ruse does not become you."

"At least I have the courage to face facts. Unlike you-sucking at Zosia's brews, nursing your pathetic fantasies. Are you a man or a mewling lamb? Think on it, Milos. For weeks you've lain with Marguerite, gaining nothing but a little pleasure. And now, she is miraculously with child. Only an idiot would dismiss the coincidence."

"Stay your tongue," hissed Donskoy. "Mot a word more. Not one word or you wilt find you have something in common with my mute."

Even through her half-closed eyes, Marguerite could see the dark woman's anger. Jacqueline's chest was heaving, and her words rushed out in a torrent.

"Could it be," she said, brows arching madly, "that someone else plowed the field while the farmer lay sleeping? Who knows how many times she has snuck into the wood, what degenerate may have crossed her path? Perhaps one of your own men took a fancy to her. Or better yet-ah, yes, better yet. " Jacqueline's eyes flared. "… A gypsy. Wouldn't that be rich, Milos? You struggle to eradicate the strays, but they leap to your land like fleas upon a rat. Yes-a gypsy lover. That would be rich. Marguerite's bastard could be a half-breed at that."

Donskoy's hands were clenching and unclenching, and his face had turned purple with rage. He raised his fist and swung it across Jacqueline's face. She let out a pathetic, half-choked squeal and sank to her knees.

Marguerite bit the inside of her lip to keep from making a sound.

Jacqueline gripped her head with both hands. Don-skoy stood beside her, a faint smile on his lips. Neither turned toward the bed where Marguerite lay quaking. They were oblivious.

Jacqueline rose slowly to her feet, swaying slightly, her fingers working nervously at her neck. Then she pulled them away and stared at Donskoy defiantly.

"Don't ever strike me again," she said, her voice heavy and low. "Not ever. Do you understand?"

Donskoy grabbed the fingers of a suede glove and yanked it off, revealing a withered hand as scaly and black as a rat snake. He flexed his fingers, and five long talons jutted out from his fingertips. The claws resembled those that had appeared at the end of Ramus's finger, round and sharp, like a bone pushing up through the skin.

Marguerite gasped-she could not help it-but neither Donskoy nor Jacqueline noticed. They were occupied with other matters.

Donskoy swung his black hand, dealing another blow to his paramour's cheek. Blood and saliva sprayed from her mouth, but this time she barely slouched. Incredulous, she slowly touched her lips, dabbing at the blood, then held her hand before her eyes and stared aghast at the bright liquid rubies adorning her fingertips.

"Milos," she whined. "I cannot believe it! What have you done?"

"Something long overdue," Donskoy replied, tugging his glove back on. "I only wish I had struck you harder. Lucky for you, the urge is past. Pleasure is fleeting, as usual."

"You-you brute!"

Jacqueline's hands flew to the red velvet ribbon at her throat, then slid swiftly around to the back of her neck, where she fumbled beneath the black curtain of her hair. When she lowered her arms, the crimson ribbon was entwined through the pale fingers of her right hand. And the ribbon was writhing like a living beast,

Jacqueline's head wobbled on her neck, then tilted forward and fell off her shoulders. She cupped her hands and easily caught the head, clutching it upside-down at her waist. The shining hair trailed to the floor like sheets of black rain. She lifted the orb and turned it around to face her empty shoulders. The stump of her neck bent forward, as if Jacqueline were somehow examining her own amputated head, as if she had another set of eyes inside her neck with which to inspect the grisly orb.

The head's red lips gaped in horror, while its wide green eyes darted frantically about the room, panicked and lost.

After a brief inspection, Jacqueline flipped the head around so that it faced away, then shook the black, gleaming tresses into piace. With one swift move, she circled the thing over her body until it hovered over her neck, then brought it forward to rest on the stump. Her left hand remained pressed at her temple as if to steady it. She raised her right hand, still holding the red ribbon, and opened her fingers.

The ribbon writhed free, one long end undulating back and forth in the air, probing eagerly. Jacqueline guided the ribbon to her throat. The scarlet worm slithered into place, circling the seam of her head and neck, then snuggled itself down in the subtle groove. Once again, the ribbon appeared to be no more than an ordinary velvet band, worn a fraction too tight.

Marguerite, too stunned to react even had she dared, continued watching through the curtain of her dark lashes, her body rigid with terror.

Jacqueline's face shuddered like a pot at the boil.

"You idiot!" She withdrew a kerchief and dabbed at her ragged lower lip. "You have marked me! How could you do such a thing?"

Donskoy glared at her icily. "You should know by now that I brook no insults from anyone." His voice was deep and even. "Not even you, Jacqueline."

"But you have marked my face!" Her anger gave way to a distress that was distinctly feminine.

Donskoy chuckled. "Oh, come now, dear. It's not as if you lack a spare. You possess more heads than a fop owns hats. I know of least six kept here, and hundreds more at your home, and you collect new ones every month."

"But you disfigured me!" Jacqueline repeated. "How could you have done such a thing"? Never have you treated me so cruelly, Milos." She sniffed indig-nantty. "You know every one of my faces is precious to me, and every one must be absolutely perfect. And now you have ruined my favorite."

"They are all your favorites," retorted Donskoy dryly.

"But I don't own many sisterly facades-only two from this set. What would your wife think if I were to show up wearing something from another family?"

"I doubt the charade will fool her much longer," Donskoy said. "Marguerite saw you harvesting a head in the forest. She may be simple, but she is hardly an idiot."

"But you insisted-"

"I thought our habits might disturb her, but that hardly matters now," Donskoy said. "Marguerite is finally pregnant, and Zosia will attend her. And she does carry my son, Jacqueline, i will forgive your petty outburst this time-after all, you are a woman and doubtlessly more weak-headed than most-but I forbid you to imply I have been cuckolded. Say it again, and it will be the last peep heard from any one of your perfect mouths."

Jacqueline paced, smoothing her skirts and fingering her neck, pondering. She dabbed at her Up, then turned to Donskoy with a smile.

"Of course, Milos. Let us not mention this little spat again. And I shall forgive you your indiscretion. You were not yourself when you struck me." She stepped to his side and stroked his arm. "We can continue to be good companions, can we not"?"