The Forsaken Bond

Chapter 2: THE DARK TASTE OF THE DUKE

The giant creature’s ears flopped heavily against its skull, aware of her fear. It rose, like a predator now, and walked on tender new skin to break in the new clothes.

"I can’t stay," Brenda said, regret settling in her chest. "But if you remain nearby, I will come tomorrow with fresh bandages. You have my promise."

A shadow made flesh had followed her back through the dusk thickening to twilight. At the edge of the forest, she looked back, one final glimpse at her mysterious protector.

"Thank you." she whispered, although for what, she couldn’t tell. Those golden eyes gleamed like distant stars in the gathering dark, watching until she faded from sight.

Beneath dead skies, the Wolfsbane moors lay vast and empty. Brenda passed like a dark ghost across the desolate landscape, her black crepe dress soaring in the cruel wind. Her fingertips grazed the hidden pocket that held her beloved herbs, yarrow and comfrey, nyssa from the secret walks and forays of that fateful afternoon in the woods. Her ethereal beauty bore shadows now, grief carving imperceptible lines on her sublime face.

A man hung his head low, as silent tears stained his cheeks, proof of the heartlessness that thrived behind Bingham Manor's looming facade. That ancient stone edifice rose against the horizon like a gravestone of the world, never failing to remind her of the prison that was her life, and the warden who presided over it, Lord Vincent Bingham, a father in name only, and a man who believed his own daughter was nothing more than another little toy to use in trade.

Two others the unkind walls had claimed, her mother and brother, were left ill and unattended.

The wind whipped her raven hair as Brenda approached her gilded cage. She stumbled, when an eerie howl pierced the air. It sliced through the moor’s deathly silence, echoing through her bones. She jumped, hands trembling as she covered her ears to mute the mournful wail. But something in that voice resonated with recognition, it was the same creature that had bid her goodbye in the forest glade. She felt it in her soul.

She remembered the beast yielding to her touch, those all-seeing eyes piercing through her flesh, its almost-yet-not-entire restfulness while she whispered sweet nothings, its surprising softness beneath the hard shell of its body, the soothing rumble in its vocal cords when she spoke of her mother...

"Inside. Now." Lord Bingham’s voice rang through the entry hall, breaking her thoughts like thunder.

Her father appeared from the shadows, his aristocratic features harsh with rage as he took in her unruly state.

“A woman of your breeding should not be wandering about like a common peasant!” Each word sharp as ice.

“Your place is here, furthering proper pursuits worthy of your station!”

Before his cold stare, Brenda shriveled, her newfound bravery blown away like ashes.

She tried to stammer an apology, but Vincent waved her off.

“Keep your faux quaking to yourself, kid. I have neither time nor patience for such antics.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Young women are terribly prone to losing themselves in foolish dreams, bewitched by the vacant graces of stable boys and wandering musicians. But I will not allow such petty indulgence to jeopardize my lucrative arrangement!"

As if conjured by this invocation, a shadow slipped free of her father’s flank.

The Duke of Wolfsbane himself, his smile was a predator’s mask of pleasure.

“Your future is set,” Vincent declares, his voice cold. “As any good father would make sure.”

His eyes glint with calculated triumph. “You will come to appreciate my wisdom soon.”

The blood drained from Brenda's face as the realization pierced through like a knife to her chest: she was going to be sold as if she were prized cattle to one of the ancient, greedy nobles that circled their estate like moths to a flame, lured in by her dowry. Her throat felt thick, bile rising.

“Father, I beg you; I am hardly nineteen summers old” Her voice trembled, like leaves in autumnal winds, her lips quivered.

Vincent's hands curled into fists. "Enough!" He roared, his words crashing through the hall. “You will marry the Duke of Wolfsbane when the sun sets tomorrow. This is beyond debate.”

Terror slithered through Brenda’s body. She clung to the wall to stay upright.

The Duke of Wolfsbane.

An ancient predator whose time on earth more than doubled her grandfather’s.

The way his eyes drank in the sight of her, at every party, she felt it. His bony fingertips lingering too long on her skin leaving chills she could never shake off.

He squirmed in perverse joy as her horror unfolded before him, his long limbs jerking as they were pulled taut on their invisible strings.

She had always tried to pretend he didn’t exist, her hatred for him, burning like a fire,

“My sweet bride,” he rasped, his voice grinding like rusted metal. “What a chilly greeting after my patient waiting?”

He rose as if from death itself, his skeletal frame unfolding from shadow. Even being there, his presence felt dirty in the air.

“My darling, tomorrow you will belong entirely to me.” His words reek of rot.

They faded away like twin ghosts, and Brenda remained behind, paralyzed.

"The Duke?" The low voice behind startled her.

"Oh, my precious child."

Gretchen emerged from the shadows, her face laced with concern.

But under her sympathy lay a spark of longing for the untamed liberation Brenda had dared to sample on the moors.

“A cruel fate for one so pure of heart,” the elderly governess said softly, laying her palm on Brenda’s shoulder.

“That monster is only hungry for innocent youth, to sate his unnatural appetites with fresh maidens.”

Brenda shudders. How could she deny the truth in those words? The Duke was every bit predatory.

"Do I have to go through another tragedy?” she pleaded, her tear-blurred eyes searching Gretchen face.

"Since God took Mother and Bartholomew, I’ve endured more grief than words can hold, I have nothing left to sate father's infinite greed."

Gretchen wrapped her in a maternal embrace, her own eyes shadowed with old sorrows.

"Hush now, my dove” she crooned, her voice worn with sorrow. “Though you’re cast as a sacrifice to that demon’s appetites … You’ll weather this storm as you have all others, one moment at a time. This I swear on all that is holy.”

The fire in Brenda's chamber had burnt down to smoldering embers, casting ghostly figures across the walls. she stared into them, lost in memories.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears, rich and warm with tales of slaying warriors and damsels in distress saved from terrible monsters by the power of love.

“If only Mother’s stories would come alive,” she whispered to the shadows. "To be spirited away by a noble soul, instead of being bound to that disgusting Duke by Father’s cold ambition. But who would ever notice a faded bloom like me?”

Vincent had made his feelings towards his disappointing daughter clear. Those fairy-tale worlds existed solely in Amelia’s delightful stories … no such magic awaits plain, unwanted Brenda Bingham.

She reached into her pocket, pulling out the dried herbs, crushing them in between her fingers. Their earthy aroma threw her back to the sun-spattered glade, to those piercing golden eyes that had seemed to read her very thoughts.

A wolf’s howl broke the stillness of the night.

Brenda flinched, her hands shooting up to her hammering heart.

Bone deep. The sound pierced deep into her soul, like the cry of a mourning dove.

A strange desire overtook her, to respond to that sorrowful cry, to respond to the strange creature that appeared to share her grief.

A shiver ran through her spine. She sensed unseen eyes watching her through the window. She drew her covers over her head, seeking warmth and comfort.

"It’s nothing but a savage,” she chided softly.

Brenda extinguished the light, and slipped beneath her cold sheets, begging for slumber to take her far away from this odd night.