Imogen couldn’t help but gawk. Her attacker was the effigy's living twin, only far more painful to behold. The terrible beauty, trapped in marble, was no artist trick but a true reflection of the man standing before her, his malevolence increased tenfold by a piercing gaze that pinned her in place.
Flaxen hair fell past wide shoulders and framed a stern, pallid face. Clad in an indigo tunic and trousers overlaid by a tarnished chainmail hauberk, pauldrons and vambraces, he was heavily armed and armored. A short sword and hand axe were strapped at his narrow waist, and he casually cradled the hook-back glaive whose blade had lightly kissed her neck. Judging by the manner of his dress, he’d not come to talk but to do battle.
Imogen wanted to bow beneath the weight of his scrutiny. He may not be her king, but he was still a king if his resemblance to the effigy was anything to judge by. And not only the king but one possessing the title of The Butcher.
Her back teeth clacked together in a rising chatter as he shifted his stance, and those peculiar eyes narrowed even more. So a light a blue they almost faded into the surrounding whites, his eyes reminded her of the blind Blessed—those whose milky gaze saw into the past and the future but never what was before them. Unlike them, Cededa took in the here and now with a predatory gaze. He was as strange and beautifully eerie as the city he guarded. And just as extraordinary. If he’d been human once, he wasn’t now.
Had she not watched him as closely as he watched her, she might have missed the brief softening in his features at her mention of Niamh. That softness vanished almost as soon as it appeared, and his mouth stretched into a sneer masquerading as a smile.
One eyebrow rose, and those eyes skimmed her, doubt lurking in the blue ice irises. Imogen knew she fell short in comparison to her mother. Neither tall nor curved in the ways that tempted a man, she didn’t possess Niamh’s natural vibrancy or sorcerous abilities. Any who met her mother and then her daughter would conclude that the younger was but a weak shadow of the elder.
“Where is your mother now?” he asked.
The grief resting heavy in her heart since Niamh’s passing swelled. Imogen blinked away threatening tears. “She died.”
The sneer faded, and his stern features gentled. “I’ve lived a long time and amassed countless regrets. I truly regret your loss. Your mother was an exceptional woman. The world is poorer without her.”
Stunned by the unexpected sympathy, Imogen squeaked out a “Thank you.” She glanced down at the effigy and then again at the living king. The malice was still there, and the cruelty—stamped into the set of his mouth and the corners of his eyes. She didn’t doubt he’d earned his ghastly title, but in that moment Cededa of Tineroth seemed almost human in his obvious admiration of Niamh.
That hint of humanity disappeared and the subtle stiffening in his shoulders revealed a growing impatience. “You have the key I gave her. State your business. I will help you in her name, if I can.”
Imogen touched the raised scars on her neck. Though she’d grown used to the warm tingling that remained unabated under her skin, she was eager to exorcise the key from her body. She could find her way back to the bridge and home without it. And she had no desire to seek out Tineroth a second time. She’d manage with her gloves and loneliness. There were worse things than a life of isolation.
“My mother gave me a pendant—silver with snake patterns that sometimes changed. She said you gave it to her as a means to find Tineroth if she needed.” She pulled aside the collar of her shirt to expose the length and breadth of the scars. “I made the mistake of putting it on. This is what happened. This and my vision changed.”
“You can see a lit path to the city.”
“Yes.”
“And now that you’re here?” His long fingers flexed on the glaive staff. An unnamed fear shot through Imogen. He'd made no untoward movement, nor did his expression change, but a sense of menace permeated the space between them. She knew, instinctively, her answer determined her fate.
She swiped at the scars with agitated fingers. “I want this thing out of me. I’ve fulfilled its purpose and returned it to its master.” She sighed. “I made a mistake by succumbing to vanity, and I’m sorry for it. I just want to go home.” The desperation in her plea made her wince, but she didn't look away from Cededa's pale eyes.
He cocked his head to the side, clearly puzzled. "What an odd creature you are."
His remark robbed her of words, and she gaped at him.
He drew closer, smiling faintly when she stepped back to keep the same distance between them. "You might be here to return my key, but Niamh sent you for another reason." His gaze touched on her gloved hands, the layers of protective clothing. “Why are you dressed this way? I’ve seen people bundled less in the middle of winter. It’s spring in your world, yes?”
“Just barely,” she muttered. Cededa’s lips twitched. The itchy sensation at her neck spread to the rest of her body, and she longed to shed the heavy clothing she wore. In the damp heat, her shift stuck to her like a second skin, and the wool gown and cloak hung on her in sodden rags. She had no doubt if she’d kept the veil down over her face, she would have fainted from the heat by now.
“I always dress this way.” She paused, hesitant to reveal what Niamh had religiously pounded into her about keeping secrets—until now. “I am cursed.” Curiosity flickered in his gaze at her statement. “Whatever I touch or touches me with bare skin dies. I’m garbed for the protection of any who might cross my path.” She laced her fingers together and anchored her gaze to his. “Niamh sent me to you in the hopes you could break this curse.”
She took another cautious step back as Cededa went rigid, his fingers clenched so tightly around the glaive staff, the skin of his knuckles looked ready to split. Something ignited in those cold eyes.
Imogen’s fearful cry of “Stop!” went unheeded as he dropped the glaive and closed the distance between them.
“Don’t touch me!” She struggled in his grip, overwhelmed by his sudden embrace and frightened by the expectation he'd drop lifeless at her feet. He couldn’t help her if he was dead, either with the key or her curse.
A cool, bare hand grasped her chin, digging into her cheek to hold her still. He needn’t have bothered. Imogen froze, eyes wide as she stared into a colorless gaze blazing with euphoric wonder.
Moments passed with the slowness of days to her shocked senses, and still the king held her, very much alive and obviously immune to her lethal power.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“Why what?” Her mind was mud, too stunned to accept what her eyes showed her.
“Why shouldn’t I touch you?”
“Because you’ll die.” Her thoughts reeled, blotting out reason and even simple intellect. He was alive. His strong, fine-boned hand caressed her jaw, the underside of her chin, her cheek, before coming to rest against her collarbone.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, roaring in a rush of blood as great as the river below Tineroth’s ensorcelled bridge. This king, ancient and nearly forgotten, touched her skin to skin, and that heated contact was both agony and ecstasy. Her knees almost buckled as he explored the patterns of the Tineroth key welted under her flesh with a callused palm. Deprived of another’s unadorned touch all her life, Imogen drowned in the pleasure of his caress.
"Sweet poison," he said in a reverent voice. "I am dying. Merciful gods be thanked. After four thousand relentless years, I am dying."