Read this story, and more, in the upcoming collection Terminus.

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As the carriage lurches to a grinding halt, I feel the bulge in my chest ascend and settle somewhere firmly behind my Adam’s apple. It had not been even three months since we met outside the theater, and now I’m sitting inside this opulent stagecoach, festooned with magenta fabric as soft as sable, impressed with golden accents that curl into labyrinthine designs. Was mother right? She always said I was too much of a romantic, and here I am. It might not be too late. I lean over and rap my knuckles against the walnut enclosure, attempting to grab the attention of the chauffeur.

I cough, clearing my throat. “Excuse me?” No response. Again, I strike the wooden surface, this time considerably louder than before. “Driver?” Silence.

In a huff, I turn my gaze out through the small window embedded into the wagon door. Petals of snow flutter through the air, feeble and anemic, before tumbling to the cobblestone street, blackening as they melt into the ground. A massive wrought-iron gate bars the view of the imposing castle ensconced behind it.

There’s nothing for it, I suppose.

I bump the door open and step outside, feeling the fragile precipitate tickle my hair. The first place I look is to where the coachman would be seated and, to my surprise, I find the perch uninhabited. A creaking noise catches my attention, and as I spin around to glimpse what is making that noise, I feel the knot in my throat unclench and a warmness fill me. She is adorned in that same burgundy dress she wore when we first met, the one that hugged her body in all the right places, the one that was equally demure and audacious. Her golden eyes flicker and glow, fire within them. A thin smile cracks across her face as we make eye contact and an impassioned voice escapes my bride’s lips.

“Welcome home.”

#

It was at the apex of autumn, when the air was crisp and comforting. My latest play was premiering that night, an exquisite and intricate love affair that inevitably ended in tragedy. That lowly auditorium, which people had the audacity to call a theater, was paying me a solid rate to compose a new script every other month. A paltry sum, to be sure, but I survived. What was more bothersome was the creative ennui I faced writing for such an audience, who did not care for the daedal plots or the baroque characters. No, their wants were simple. Insipid comedies, parading a veneer and spectacle meant to anesthetize its viewers. A distraction. They could not appreciate the craft which I had presented before them. As the velvet curtains sloughed to the floor like a snake shedding its skin, a scant smattering of applause filled the close air, mine chiefly among them. The acting troupe had put on a wonderful performance. It was not their fault the onlookers did not regard them with approval.

I had only just exited the theater, to begin my stroll down to the local drinking establishment when I was approached by a sickly, almost fossil-like man wearing an immaculate suit.

“You are the playwright?”

I sighed, expelling hot, damp, frustrated air. “Let me guess, you have an issue with my writing? Well, you can shove—”

“The Baroness de Montague requests an audience.” He produced a neatly crimped folio, its folds sealed by the membrane of a golden seal. Embossed in the gilt was the silhouette of a prancing dragon, the sigil of the aforementioned barony. It was then that I also noticed the carriage behind him, an aureate perambulator that I had oddly not taken account of. Tearing open the letter, it would be an understatement to say that I was shocked by its contents.

The Baroness had been present during my play, which she had most thoroughly enjoyed, and requested that I join her for a cocktail at her abode, located on the cliffs above the township. What intrigued me was the scent of her perfume, drifting on the sheet of parchment, not yet stagnant. That intoxicating scent, filled with hints of vanilla, blood orange, and burnt cedar, which buried itself deep within my nasal cavities, that lifted me up with a fervor as before unfamiliar to me.

I hastily accepted the invitation, stepped inside the coach, and was taken aback by the sight of the Baroness herself, reclining on a violet chaise. She was wearing a crimson gown, studded with gemstones across the shoulder and collarbone. One of her legs was exposed, spilling out of the slit in her skirt. My eyes made my way up her figure until I reached her face. A handsome visage, beautiful and striking, but not immediately apparent. The hint of wrinkles creased the sides of her mouth and eyes, but rather than arouse an impression of age, I sensed deep and unchecked wisdom etched within them. Her thin lips bent into a wry expression, altogether mysterious to me. Was it the delight of meeting a colleague, or a lover? Was it the proud sneer of a lioness before she pounces upon a helpless deer? But it was her eyes that enthralled me most of all, perfectly set amber embers, smoldering with an intensity which filled me with a choking heat.

Of course, I was familiar with the rumors about her last four husbands, each disappearing under mysterious circumstances. But I paid it no heed, for the widow had turned her attention to me, and I was enamored.

It was only a few weeks later that we were engaged and, shortly thereafter, united in matrimony.

#

Manor de Montague spreads over a vast plot of land, built out from the sandstone cliff walls overlooking the sea. Passing through the gateway, my beloved leads me through our new domicile, her hand wrapped firmly around mine. We make our way across the grand foyer, with its arching staircases and looping palisades, and from there into the dining hall, where the seemingly-endless table, shrouded in immaculate cloth, stretches farther than I can comprehend, and through the study, where ziggurats of tomes loomed above glowing hearths. We visit the tea room, the gallery, the conservatory, the columned courtyard. She introduces me to the staff, starting with the fossilized old man I had met outside the playhouse, a valet by the appropriate name of Withers. I greet the head chef, the lady’s maid, the groundskeeper, and all of the junior household staff. My head is spinning by the time we ascend the spiraling stairwell leading up what I count as the twelfth tower.

“And this,” she says as she throws open the oaken door, “is your room.” A dark and heavy writing desk sits on the far wall, facing a yawning portal of a window that gazed out to the black expanse of water. Next to the sprawling four-poster bed hides a cabinet filled with liquors in a myriad of colors and bottles. “Here, you can write to your heart’s content.”

“This…” My voice escapes me as my sight falls across the room. “This is everything I could have imagined, my love. Everything I could have wanted.”

“Anything you want is yours, my heavenly scribe.” In an instant, I feel her hands upon me, shoving me into the downy surface of the mattress. By the time I turn around, she’s straddling me, unclasping the hooks of her dress and letting it plunge from her curves. “Including myself.”

#

The sheets are slick with sweat and love. The sun has gone down now and our skin glistens in the argent moonlight. She lies entwined with me, her slender fingers tracing shapes across my chest.

“I can’t believe how tired I feel.” She chuckles as her crisp voice fills the silence of the room. “You’ve worn me out.”

A snicker makes its way out from within me. “I’ve made love before, but that was something else entirely.”

“I believe it’s time for me to get some rest, my love.” She pulls away from me and snatches her dress in a single, swift movement.

“Where are you going?”

“To my chamber, darling.” Her body is once again sealed away with her garments. “Do not worry, I will see you again tomorrow.”

“Your chamber? But I thought this was our room?”

Her low rumble of a chuckle escapes from her bosom once more. “My husband, everything I have to offer, everything this manor and the Barony de Montague has to offer, is yours now. All I ask in return is one small thing. My bedroom is my temple, sacred and pure. I ask that you never enter it and never follow me within.”

A familiar lump fills my throat. This request, though odd, is the only thing my bride has asked of me in return for my devotion to her. Who am I to deny her, in light of everything she has provided for me? I lean up and give her a gentle kiss. “On my life, my treasure, I shall never violate your temple.”

“On your life.” That same sphinxlike expression crosses her face, and without another word, the bedroom door snaps behind her.

A raw chill, sickening and stabbing, now fills my bed.

#

And thus our days were filled with this sort of pleasure. Every morning, after awakening, I would find her already seated at the head of the grand dining table, immaculately dressed, delicately sipping her charcoal coffee. She would flash her slender smile in my direction whenever she caught me glancing over at her.

After breakfast, we would each go about our ways. She dealt with the various rank and file of the barony or negotiated with neighboring lords, while I attempted to continue my manuscripts. I would scour the library for publication after publication, or else sit myself in some exquisite chamber overlooking the vast expanse of ocean, but when I set my pen to paper, nothing would come out. Here I was, in the most inspirational environment I could possibly imagine, and no characters could come to life in my mind, no plotlines unfolding in ink. I took out my annoyance on the house staff, creating messes for them to clean up, verbally abusing them, or ordering ridiculous dishes from the kitchens and then refusing to eat them. They did not deserve the acrimony I unleashed upon them, but nevertheless, I continued my assaults against them. I would scream at the slightest inadequacy. I requested salmon slapjacks and beef tongue suspended in a vinegar
jelly. My raging then became a hushed topic of discussion among the help, who would cower slightly whenever I entered a room.

In the evening, my lovely wife would do her best to comfort me. We lounged contentedly together, carnally entwined, and afterward, as she stroked the bristles of my chest hair, she would whisper, “Your genius will return soon, my husband, just give it time,” and I would grunt in acknowledgment. Even making love began to lose its luster after a while. For me, at least. She seemed to still be enjoying herself, writhing in pleasure beneath me as I made what felt like routine movements.

How she puts up with me, I do not know. We are newlyweds, supposed to be experiencing the height of our love together, and here I am, moping and indignant, a far cry from the wide-eyed awe I held when I first arrived here. And yet she reposes by my side every night, confiding within me the business she conducts and the aspirations she has for our future. Her very presence warms my soul. She is far too good to me.

And just when I would begin to feel as though everything would be resolved, she would arise, dress, and return to her own chambers. I would fall asleep alone and resentful.

Our days continued like such.

#

It is now the dawning of spring. The ash-colored clouds began to make way for an infantile sky, and the remnants of the snowbanks receded and were replaced by a slurry of green and brown earth. I awake after another restless night, my mind stewing in a scornful broth, but as I make my way to the dining room, I notice a typical warmth missing from the room. My wife’s seat is empty. In substitute of her porcelain tea set, a parchment note stretches out across her place setting. Taking the letter in hand, I immediately notice the rich scent of my lady’s perfume and realize that it is meant for me.

“My dear husband,

Business with Viscount Burbridge has required me to travel to the province of Adalbrecht. I shall be away for just over a week’s time. All outstanding concerns within the barony have been taken care of, so you need not worry yourself with sorting out my affairs. However, I do ask that you look after the manor in my absence. I have instructed Withers to leave you a master key that will unlock any room in the house. You may explore our home and the grounds as you see fit, however, I should not have to remind you that my personal bedchamber is off limits.

I shall have a gift for you upon my return. I am thinking of you every moment.

Your loving wife.”

It took a moment for the words to truly make an impact upon me. An entire week alone in this vast chateau? It was desolate enough when it was primarily the two of us, but just knowing that she is away makes this castle all the more dreary.

I amble back up to my tower and, upon returning to my room, spy a burnished brass key lying on my desk. It sends a minor numbing sensation through my hand as I pick it up. The entire manor, available to me. My mind’s eye immediately flickers towards the regal doorway to my wife’s bedroom, the great mahogany barrier that separated the last line between us, the arching portal carved into the gaping maw of a dragon. And yet, can I betray her trust like this, be unfaithful to my lover’s single request?

#

No. At least, not now. I gaze at the bow of the brass key, embossed with the Montague crest, the prancing wyrm, its tongue seeming to flicker as it catches the light. It would be better to wait until the evening, when the staff retire to their quarters. That way, I can explore unperturbed. I squeeze the key tightly, feeling the chill of the metal bite into my palm, and then slide it into one of my pockets.

As I wait for the celestial orb to sink into the sea, I wander the cavernous hallways of my home, probing its depths as though I were a burglar on the greatest heist of his life. I visit the trophy room, loving-cups of gold and platinum lining the shelves, the decapitated heads of hunted beasts mounted on the wall, lifeless eyes staring into me; the dovecote, musty with the smell of droppings, the sounds of a hundred quail-doves screeching and flapping their wings; the old chapel, spider webs adorning the vaulting ceilings like lace, the pews and dais long-since abandoned to time. I sit alone on the bench, dust flitting in the air, with nothing but silence and shadows to keep me company. I have never been a religious man, but nevertheless I feel a yanking sensation within me, beleaguering me to pray. It feels odd as I bow my head and raise my hands.

#

Withers shuffles over like a risen corpse and finds me in the study, sunk into the plush armchair by the hearth.

“Sir, you requested me?”

“Yes.” I turn to him. The wrinkles of his sallow skin look even more pronounced as light flickers from the fire. “I am going to retire for the evening. You and the staff may return to your apartments.”

“Are you sure, sir?” His wheeze was so coarse, I half-expected a mote of dust to puff out from his throat. “You have barely eaten your supper. The cooks can whip something else up, if you’d prefer.”

I shoot a quick glance over to my half-touched plate of pheasant and strawberry cream, another devious invention of mine. My mind’s eye, however, returns to the image of the stone wyvern’s maw guarding that final chamber.

“Did I misspeak?” Impatience boils in my gullet. The sooner they all leave, the sooner my curiosity will be sated.

“As you wish, sir.” I cannot tell whether his voice is filled with relief or contempt as he skulks away. I look out the window and watch as the blazing sun, now a vibrant orange, dips below the surface of the ocean and drowns in its waters. I will wait no longer.

#

The archway is more intimidating than when I had first seen it, during my many tours throughout the manor. Its black scales are each the size of dinner plates, its fangs the length of my own arm. Even as I rap my knuckles against one of the stone cuspids, reminding myself it is not a real dragon, I am still disquieted by the uncanny resemblance. My attention focuses on the door itself, an immense block of solid wood, interrupted only by an iron handle and a small keyhole. My hands trembling, I remove the key from my pocket, slide it into the lock, and give it a firm twist. The locking mechanism gives way with a loud, metallic clunk.

I try to pull the key from the door, but as I tug, it snaps in two, leaving the blade still inside. I swear like a vicious hound as I try to pry the bit from within the lock, ultimately to no avail. I’ve come this far, I shall just have to come up with an explanation when my wife returns. With a heavy sigh, I strain as I drag the door backward, letting it sweep open, and then step inside.

I am immediately cloaked in darkness. Only a thin line of a window allows light to naturally enter the room, save for the doorway. It takes a minute for my pupils to fully dilate and as my gaze falls about the boudoir, my eyes gape as though forced open. I would have ran, were it not my legs failing beneath me.

The wide antechamber is almost completely barren, far larger than any bedroom needs to be. In the center gathers a massive hoard of wealth, egg-sized gemstones, gilt ewers, goblets, jewelry, and thousands upon thousands of glittering gold coins. But that is not what saps my strength, what fills me with dread. Off to the side of the gilded pile, a meager heap of bones litters the tiled floor. A small collection of skulls sits haphazard, ribcages missing many of their curved brethren lied alongside them, and in the middle are hundreds of gnawed osseous remains, savage teeth marks cleaved into them. Teeth marks of something not human.

With a creak and sudden thud, the entryway closes behind me. Despite my legs feeling as though rooted to the stone, I manage to turn away and bang against the solid panel of wood with my fists. I scream until my throat is hoarse and I begin to cough up blood, my hands raw from pounding the mahogany partition. It is no use. I had sent the servants away, and even if they were here, would they even come for me? I treated them with disdain and this is my reward. Shuddering, I curl up on the floor, bringing my knees to my chest, my heartbeat racing in my ears.

#

I do not know how many days I have been in here. Though I have continued my assault against the heavy doorway, and have even heard the faint echoes of footsteps in the distance, no one comes for me. Were it not for the scant dripping of water from a crack in the ceiling, I would surely be dead by now. The liquid spatters on my tongue, teasing the dryness of my aching mouth. Perhaps death would be a mercy compared to this.

Just then, the door flies open, a nova of light bursting in the room. I shade my eyes from the sudden brightness, and as they refocus, I see the hourglass silhouette of a woman.

“My dear husband.” It was not her usual sultry voice, but a growl, visceral and malevolent. “I let you into my home, give to you my love, and this is my recompense?”

I try to say something, but nothing escapes my throat.

“I had trusted you, and I thought you trusted me.”

As she strides into the room, her form shifts. Her face contorts and elongates, her dress clings to her body and takes on the appearance of scales, and she grows to a massive size. A monstrous creature takes her place, or was she always this way? Her ember eyes glare down at me, and a flash of white fangs is the last thing I see.