Page 9 of A Honeymoon of Grave Consequence (The Unexpected Adventures of Lady and Lord Riven #2)
It was a perfectly ordinary size for a chair, but this woman dwarfed it with her regal height.
If the giants of central Europe hadn’t universally banded together to establish their own kingdom in the icy north a hundred and fifty years ago, leaving the former kingdom of Prussia shattered in their wake, Margaret would have immediately suspected this woman of sharing their blood.
All of the Germanic kingdoms, though, had turned against the mountain giants in the wake of that notorious tragedy.
Any rational scholar would have to acknowledge that the late King Frederick William of Prussia had brought his kingdom’s—and his family’s—devastation upon himself with his relentless abductions of the mountain giants’ finest young men for his royal guard, ignoring all the frantic warnings of his advisors and tearing into shreds a treaty that had been made nearly eight hundred years earlier.
However, the rulers of the surrounding kingdoms had reacted with far more panic than reason to all of the destruction that followed.
Margaret couldn’t imagine any half-giant families having managed to survive in their lands afterwards—nor choosing to move back to any of those kingdoms now, with so much bitterness still lingering in local attitudes.
Besides, there was something strangely sinuous in the woman’s movements as her big head rose to consider Margaret through heavy-lidded eyes.
With the fire blocked by the piper’s figure and the lit candles well behind, Margaret couldn’t quite make out her eye color—could it really be gold?
—but as their gazes met, darkness flashed horizontally across the other woman’s eyes, like the inner eyelids of a lizard snapping open and shut.
Lord Riven said, bowing respectfully, “And this is Frau?—”
“Olga,” the woman pronounced in a low, rich voice. “You may call me Olga, Lady Riven.”
“Olga,” Margaret repeated obediently. Even as she curtseyed, though, her mind was busily sorting through different options, and her eyebrows furrowed. “May I—?” she began.
“Ahem.” Her husband cleared his throat meaningfully. “If I may continue with our introductions, my dear...”
Of course . Margaret squeezed his arm with gratitude for the timely reminder.
She was here tonight, if not to make friends, then at least not to make any more enemies—and as intensely as curiosity now racked her, even she could understand that her fellow guests might not wish to feel pinned beneath a scholarly microscope during this social gathering.
So, she drew a deep breath, dismissed the mystery of Olga’s nature from her mind, and turned to the next chair.
..where no mystery whatsoever waited for her.
The grey wolf who sat curled atop its round seat lifted his furry snout in a courteous nod, and Margaret curtseyed deeply in return as her husband introduced him.
“Herr von Krallemann, the owner of this inn.”
“A pleasure,” Margaret said, remembering to choose good manners over her scholarly instincts.
Herr von Krallemann was far rangier and more distinctly wild-looking than the Norman-descended werewolves who made up a significant portion of Britain’s own aristocracy.
..and who had become so notoriously inbred across the centuries since their leader’s first invasion.
She had a great number of questions about other differences that she would love to ask him about too, if she ever met him in human form. ..but for now, she set them aside.
“And finally, Herr Schneider.” Lord Riven nodded to the silently looming piper, who winced and ducked his head at the introduction.
“I am sorry to have interrupted your performance,” Margaret said.
“It sounded beautiful through the door.” Eyeing the young man’s gaunt frame and the deep hollows beneath his eyes—good Lord, he must have given a dangerous amount of himself to create that soul pipe in the first place!
—she said with deep sincerity, “I hope you won’t let our arrival end your music. ”
Reading about the power of a soul-pipe could hardly compare to hearing it in person. Besides, she couldn’t imagine any better way to endure a full hour’s socializing than by removing all chance of awkward conversation.
Unfortunately, the wolf nearby let out a short, sharp bark, and Herr Schneider shuffled hastily into the closest empty seat, still clutching the soul-pipe in his hands. He could no more speak in words than could the inn’s owner when in lupine form, but his reply was clear.
“Actually...” Olga’s neck twisted with inhuman fluidity as she turned with a mocking smile. “Why don’t you take your own turn now, Lady Riven?”
“What, me ?” Horror gripped Margaret tight; if it weren’t for her husband’s presence, she might well have turned and fled. “I can’t play music! I never learned—and I haven’t any knack, and my singing voice—! Trust me, none of you wish?—”
“Don’t have to sing.” That was the night raven, Herr Fischer, his words low and hoarse and the curled fingers of his right hand still tapping nervously against one knee.
“Our guests like to share all of their talents at these gatherings.” This voice—unexpectedly high and cheerful—came from the other side of the room, where a two-foot-high kobold with a beautifully-oiled mustache and a neat cook’s apron stepped out from the shadows that had cloaked him until now.
He must, Margaret presumed, be Konrad, the kobold cook, of whom her husband had spoken.
“Music, poetry recitations, lively anecdotes...”
“Doom ,” intoned the specter who floated behind him, eyeballs becoming visible and shining with despair.
Konrad shook his head at his colleague, the inn’s host, but a rueful smile stretched his wide lips as he said, “Come now, Erich, we haven’t had any true disasters for at least eight months. So long as you don’t plan to perform any tricks for us with fire, Lady Riven, I won’t fear for the results.”
“But...” Margaret moistened her lips, looking from the kobold’s brightly expectant face to Olga’s slitted gaze, Leonie’s scowling, averted face, and finally her own husband’s sympathetic expression. “I don’t have any talents. I don’t even read poetry, much less memorize it, and?—”
“You could tell us about your work.” Leonie blurted the words out and then scowled even deeper, as if they’d escaped against her will. Still, the nachzehrer braced her shoulders as if for battle and said, “You claimed to be a scholar.”
“She is,” said Lord Riven, “a scholar celebrated across the continent. My wife used her peerless skills to save me from my own binding curse, back in England, and the knowledge that she’s gathering across her career will do an enormous amount of good for all of us.”
It...would? Margaret blinked but didn’t question him in front of the others.
All knowledge was useful and good for the world at large, of course. She had always known that to be true. But as for which particular, tangible effect he was referring to with that comment...
“Well, then,” Olga drawled, leaning even further back in her seat.
As the skirts of her gown shifted, the tips of her big boots were exposed, showing a diamond-shaped, scaled leather pattern.
“Why don’t you tell us all, your Ladyship, what exactly you’re looking for here in our little corner of the Black Forest? ”
Margaret’s fingers tightened around her husband’s arm.
In instant response, he shifted forward. “I would be happy to tell you all the story of her last research project...”
But the look of disdainful expectation on Olga’s face was exactly the challenge Margaret had needed. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” She lifted her chin to stare the other woman down. “I am always happy to discuss my work.”
She had never been offered the chance to lecture at her own university. She wouldn’t turn aside from the opportunity now.
As her husband took his own seat with the others, the spectral host and kobold cook both faded back into the shadows, but she still felt their tangible presence in the room.
Standing alone in the center of the semicircle, Margaret took a moment to sort through her thoughts before beginning once again, as she had with Leonie before:
“Have you ever wondered why so many supernatural creatures first arose here in the Black Forest?”
This time, the nachzehrer seemed actually to be listening—and when Margaret came to the end of her list of known supernatural creatures who had originated nearby, there was an instant flurry of reactions from her small audience.
“You can’t possibly compare a wolpertinger to a night raven or a nachzehrer,” Olga protested, her thick, dark eyebrows drawn thoughtfully together.
“Every wolpertinger I’ve ever come across has no more brain than any other random bunny in the woods, for all their fancy antlers, wings, and so forth. ”
“Absolutely,” Margaret agreed, “because unlike those others— and, I would theorize, probably unlike the rare tatzelwurms as well, although no one has managed to study any of those enough to be certain—the wolpertingers first began as ordinary animals, before they were affected by the same supernatural artifact that changed so many humans too.”
“A single supernatural artifact?” Leonie demanded. Her claw-like nails gripped the sides of her seat as she trembled with emotion. “You’re saying that some foul, sneaking messenger of the Devil set an actual, physical trap in this forest to poison all of our souls ?”
As the nachzehrer’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch, Olga let out a weary snort, Lord Riven winced, Herr Fischer let out a half-choked caw of protest...and the werewolf at the end of the semicircle let out a low, warning snarl.
“Souls have nothing to do with it,” Margaret said firmly. “I am discussing only the physical changes brought about, much like those effected in my own country by the famous Rose of Normandy artifact before that was destroyed. ”
“Destroyed?” Olga repeated, her thick, dark brows lowering. “When? And by whom?”