AUTHOR'S NOTE: I think my disclaimer has been lacking something, ergo...
WARNING (LOUDLY FLASHING, OBNOXIOUSLY-BRIGHT LIGHTS): I write long stories, and I like to build them in layers which may only gradually reveal their impact. Not everything will make sense immediately, and not every chapter has sex. ....... HOWEVER, in "erotica," sex does play a meaningful role. The entire story may not hinge on Cinderella getting banged before midnight, but if she doesn't get any at all, Prince Charming sure as hell won't be getting hitched, 'cuz Cindy ain't buying those shoes without trying 'em on first. ....... SO, some of this tale is told in action, some in conversation, some in narrative, and some in steamy, wet, pleading-for-mercy SEX. If you hang in there, it'll all come together eventually.
Again, I apologize for the long wait between chapters. Due to some stressful, ongoing health issues, I'm still making the ten-hour round-trip to see my parents as often as possible. My mind just isn't in the game sometimes. I am working on SB whenever possible, though; I promise! Also, this isn't a finished draft. It's bumpier than.... well, you'll see....
Many, many thanks-- Stef
--o----O----o--
For the third day in a row, Troi woke long before dawn and lay staring at the blocky hints
of lighter black which marked the east-facing windows of the tower room. Beyond the sheer drapery and the diamond panes, the creatures of the taiga still slept. Four-footed animals in fur coats, feathered creatures, and even insects, all slumbered peacefully in den and nest. All except the one stupid white dove sitting on Nivid's windowsill, pecking at its reflection. For the third day in a row.
Didn't the Russians say a bird tapping on the window foretold a sudden death?
With a sigh, she uncurled, easing herself gently from Nivid's side so as not to wake him.
If the dove was trying to tell her something, he was too late. Argus had warned her weeks ago that if she stayed, she was sure to be a victim of the villagers' hypothetical but inevitable hunt for the monster in their mountains. And Nivid had been following her around for days, unhappily watching every move she made. She hadn't asked why; she felt his disapproval every time she mentioned the curse. He obviously didn't like the idea of her poking her head up and drawing the attention of whatever demon or evil entity was responsible for it.
Troi rolled to her feet and glanced back. Nivid was barely visible in the pre-dawn light, but she could easily have located him by sound alone: her vicious, untamed beast snored sonorously like a bear beneath the winter snows. She'd watched him often enough to know his velvety chocolate nostrils would be fluttering with each rumbling inhalation.
She collected her clothing and donned her shift it in darkness, and with a smile she tiptoed out, the remainder of her garments draped over one arm. As she closed the door behind her, she noticed the dove had quit tapping. It was a good thing Nivid was still sleeping: he'd probably take that as confirmation that the bird's "warning" was meant for her. She didn't want to start the day with an argument, but Troi had no intention of being turned from her goal, dove or no dove, witch or no witch.
Because there was definitely a witch.
She grimaced and picked up her pace, flying down the cold stone staircase on bare feet. The luxurious carpets in Nivid's chamber had protected her feet, but the mornings were nearly always chilly in the mountains, and the massive wedges of gray held stubbornly to the past weeks' weather.
Her own bed-chamber was no warmer than the hallway, but at least her feet were comfortable on the carpeting. Troi dumped her clothing on the perfectly-made bed and donned the flowing robe Argus had given her after Nivid tore his first offering from her shaking body. The elk-skin slippers she found hiding beneath the edge of her bed were those that Talgut had crafted the very next day.
As she headed for the kitchen, her mind returned to the Denova curse and whatever vengeful being was tending it now. She'd mentioned the possibility of a talisman to the others because she daren't risk leaving some vital avenue untrammeled, and it was no lie: some enchanted item could very well be hidden within the castle walls. Or not.
But there was definitely a witch.
Or a sorcerer. Or something.
She'd been thinking of the mother of Suvi Denova's jilted lover as the one who conjured up the curse, ergo the appellation "witch," but in truth, she wasn't even sure of that much. Mayhap the entity she hunted wasn't born of a human at all; it could be a demon or spirit, either of which would be more dangerous and less likely to be swayed by whatever minor magic Troi was able to summon.
Troi frowned at the kindling as she loaded the small summer stove. Many paces behind her, the giant masonry ovens lay emptied of their seasonal ash, their built-in beds cold and quiet in the early-morning gloom. One corner of her mind grumbled idly at the daunting thought of how much wood she'd be feeding it in winters to come, while her conscious mind brushed aside the prospect of living that long.
In one way, it didn't matter who or what was out there watching over her and the endless, adverse repercussions of the Denova curse: she still had to plow the field, sow the seed, and harvest whatever crop she could. She must protect her family, vanquish the vengeful spirit-- human or otherwise, and break the damned curse. There were no choices to be made.
After days of driving herself-- and everyone else--- to distraction, Troi had finally come to the same conclusion about her other dilemma, too. The question of whether Argus had influenced Nivid's feelings was of no consequence. If he confessed today that he'd manipulated them into a relationship, into bed, and into each other's hearts because he hoped to free himself from the curse, Troi's desire to do the same wouldn't change. That minor epiphany made many of her questions moot, but she continued ask about their family.
With the fire snapping at her fingers, Troi propped a few larger sticks of birch atop the pine kindling she'd piled in the cast-iron chamber. The weather was warming and she didn't want the kitchen to over-heat, but the pine and birch would burn quickly. Her small fire would suffice for breakfast, tea, and washing water, and she'd start a larger one before supper-time. Hopefully Talgut would be back by then, and if he'd gotten the wheat flour she requested, she'd make lagman noodles for supper tonight.
Despite the grave situation, Troi was ridiculously excited by that prospect. Like her younger sisters, she'd been learning to cook since she was old enough to toddle at her mother's knee, but in her mistress's kitchen, she'd only been given leave to scour the greasy floors. Feeding her family was an ongoing delight, as well as an unending experiment. Troi couldn't always recall every ingredient of a particular dish, and occasionally forgot basic steps like letting her bread dough rise a second time.
Troi smirked as she filled the kettle from the bucket by the back door. Regardless of what she put in the pot, she didn't think her men would complain of the results: none of her errors could possibly produce anything as horrifically bad as the aromatic swamp-stew Talgut had been cooking the night of her arrival. She shuddered at the memory, and the shudder turned to a shake as she laughed. When Argus had apologized for the poor dinner that evening, she'd avoided his eyes, thinking there was no chance of her volunteering to cook anything for anyone after they sacrificed her to his beast of a brother.
She'd certainly been wrong in that regard, hadn't she?
She was still smiling when she lifted her eyes to the window and caught a glimpse of a shadow creeping through the dreary taiga. She froze in consternation.
Something was out there.
Watching.
She'd felt it over and over again, almost since the day of her arrival: something or someone was attending her. More than once she'd turned away from foraging or her infant garden to come inside, barring the kitchen door behind her before going to find one of the men, making some craven excuse to be in the company of another.
She'd never spoken of those amorphous fears, because she'd blamed them on her circumstances. She'd become adept at avoiding her most traumatic memories, but Troi was an escaped slave. The sound, logical part of her didn't think anything would come of it, but she'd been beaten and terrorized for the past five years. Before her abduction turned to an affair, she'd endured several nightmares about her master or mistress sneaking into the castle to steal her away.
Focusing, her eyes scanned the darkness beneath the trees, which seemed to grow more dusky as the sun skimmed more brightly across the topmost needles of the evergreens above. Her heart beating sharply in her ears, Troi stared until a fox slipping between shadows eased the tension in her belly. A nervous laugh whooshed from her lungs. That skinny grey beast was hardly the loathsome sorcerer she was seeking.
She lingered at the window, her thoughts returning to the larger issue. Listening in on Asa's conversations with the elders and holy men of her clan, Troi had learned that a witch's familiar could be anything from an elk to a mouse to a tiny, fragile bird-- or even a hungry little fox. But her instincts said no one was watching her now.
