Page 65 of Burying Venus

‘Lord Tristan,’ Dermot said. Struggling to maintain eye contact, he accidentally looked to the body below. Bile caught in his throat, and he, steadfast, swallowed it back down. ‘I need to show you.’

‘Men!’ Tristan called, gesturing to the fellows lying on the ground.

Before more could be done, Dermot caught Tristan’s wrist. ‘It’s a sensitive matter, Lord Tristan. For you only. Let’s go alone for your brother’s sake.’

‘What…’ Tristan started, seemingly in awe at being manhandled. Displaying the first suggestion of intelligence Dermot had seen, he said, ‘Is something wrong? Is my brother safe?’ Dark eyes, enquiring like Robert’s but tempting like Aubrey’s, met Dermot’s without recognition.

‘It’s private,’ Dermot said. He did not break hold until Tristan stumbled back. The soldiers hadn’t done anything to intervene, which was promising enough. ‘I’ll take you there directly.’

Tristan nodded. ‘Lead on then, man. I can’t stand it.’

Dermot turned on his heel. He may not have seen his mother amongst the dead, but there was every chance one of those ill-begotten soldiers had killed her. He did not know what to do. Many nights he had spent wishing misery on his tormentors, now every man who’d grown with him was gone from the world.

He led Tristan further away from the village, desperately searching for any sign of his mother. But she was either dead or run away. He couldn’t guess how many villagers escaped; certainly most of the men were dead. Perhaps their souls watched as Dermot, alive, stomped on their burial ground.

‘In the forest?’ Tristan said. ‘Was he hiding here all along?’

Dermot nearly laughed. Tristan hadn’t thought to check the forest, had instead committed wanton slaughter. Inclining his head, he led them further in so that the soldiers wouldn’t hear any screaming. But not, he hoped, so far that Aubrey would see what he intended to do.

‘Lord Tristan,’ Dermot said. They were surrounded by virginial nature. Tristan, whose armour had been prettied up by some servant, stood defenceless as his black hair flitted about in the wind.

‘My brother,’ Tristan began, just as Dermot punched him in the face. There was a flash of colour as the bastard fell, armour clattering onto the ground as Dermot rushed to get astride.

Growling like a beast, he hit him again. Knowing firsthand how to relieve a man of his burden, he unstrapped Tristan’s armour. The man was so drunk that struggling was useless, and when Tristan started to shout, Dermot proudly slapped a coarse hand over his pretty face. The armour was stripped from him like snakeskin.

‘How much wine have you had tonight, my lord?’ Dermot asked, enamoured by the disbelief in those black eyes. ‘Taken from the dead, was it?’

Tristan could not answer. The two of them tussled in the grass like newfound lovers, eager with vigour and passion.

Dermot recalled how many men and women had been put to death. The lives of paupers were worth nothing to a lord, but Dermot would’ve given up every aristocrat in the mainland so long as it secured his mother’s life. Bitter tears stung his eyes as a stifled breath escaped him in a broken sob.

Turning Tristan sharply by way of an arm around his neck, Dermot grasped his hair and pulled him close, scenting rosewater. He curled his fist into those luscious strands as if to draw blood. Tristan’s head was on Dermot’s shoulder, slender neck on display. Face stark and pale as any woman won during war, Tristan’s dark eyes lighted on his own. A name was muffled beneath his hand, vibrating off his skin.

‘Where’s my mother?’ Dermot said. He loosened his hold and retrieved the knife, straightaway teasing it against Tristan’s neck.

‘You know of her!’ Dermot said, stifling a cry. ‘Breesha Skelly, a woman in her forties with dark hair, short and stout.’ He sobbed, shaking the knife so Tristan felt the full weight of it fumbling against his throat.

‘Aubrey,’ Tristan gasped. Beads of blood graced the kitchen knife. Dermot had to stifle the urge to lean over and drink it off the edge.

‘What?’ Dermot mocked, marvelling at his own cruelty. He thrust against Tristan, giving the bastard the measure of his strength; he was a man uncastrated and whole. ‘What do you think happened to him?’

Tristan cried out. Fascinated, Dermot watched as tears shone and fell. His face did not turn red like Dermot’s, which Robert likened to a pig on the roast. He was sombre in his pallor.

‘I remember when we first met,’ Dermot said, contemplative. ‘You said you wouldn’t be able to pronounce my name. Why don’t you try now?’

Tristan stared at him, ashen. His eyes were so much like Aubrey’s, but Robert was there too. ‘My brother…’ he murmured, despite the pain.

‘Do it,’ Dermot said, twisting the knife so Tristan gasped in agony.

Tristan averted his eyes, hair veiling him like a martyr. Never before having observed his nobility, Dermot pressed the knife further until Tristan relented. ‘Dermot.’ Perfectly enunciated.

No longer was he their pet foreigner. Fascinated, he thrust against Tristan so his erection was felt. Maldred had been his only lover, despite the dozens of men he’d fantasised about since knowing what he was. He stroked himself to incubi every night. Every villain who tormented him could be conquered in time, just as the schoolboys who’d laughed at him now lay dead while he lived on.

Dermot went at him like a man possessed; perhaps he was, by an entire village gone to the flame. The intimate play was a cruel parody of the men they were. He thought of Amy and Noelle, Tristan’s head on his shoulder as he committed the very wrong always held in his heart as the foulest.

‘My brother…’ Tristan murmured. Every word that came from him meant more blood on the knife.

‘Lord Robert!’ Dermot shouted, startling himself. ‘Ordered you here, didn’t he? To kill every man and woman in the village.’ He was hardly able to breathe. His body beat harder against Tristan’s back until at last he was satisfied. And, after that, he slit Tristan’s throat.