In Which Vera Is Pursued by the Sickly Thing

February 7, 1178

Vera had been drifting off and was nearly gone, but Lucien had been holding her tightly enough that she noticed when his embrace eased. No, 'eased' wasn't the right word. Eased was... well, easy. 'Loosened' perhaps. Or not. That didn't sound right either. 'Fallen limp'?

That had to be it.

His hand lay just beneath her breast, listless and dangling like some dead thing in the kitchens. She reached for it and squeezed. He didn't respond and his hand was all ice. And his breath was shallow on the back of her neck.

This wasn't right. He'd been fine just a minute ago. He'd been asleep for a while now, but it had been a dynamic sleep, a healthy sleep--shifting, muttering nonsense under his breath, nuzzling his nose against her shoulder. He was all stone now. Dead sleep. Fairytale sleep.

Almost like a coma.

A floorboard creaked.

Vera's first thought was to scream. She would scream louder than she'd ever screamed before, so loudly she'd wake the whole castle, the whole village, the whole damn shire--never mind the time. The king would even hear her from here, hear and have to heed her. That was how loud she would scream.

But when she opened her mouth, not a sound could be heard.

Another creak and all she could do was shiver, not sure if her eyes were wide open or snapped shut, not sure if it even mattered. A footstep. Another.

Step... step...

Stop.

An ill energy hovered about, leering over her as she tried not to tremble beneath. She didn't dare look for the source but she could feel it reaching, straining--unrelenting in its pursuit of her, its aim within its grasp and no intention of letting it slip away...

"Not so fast."

The sickly thing reared and recoiled. It had been caught.

Caught. Not killed.

"You have some nerve..."

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