Page 38 of Bluebeard’s Key

“Get your filthy hands off me!” she shrieked, but he gave her a sharp shake, silencing her cries, then roughly deposited her on a stone table at the center of the room.

With quick and practiced motions, he shackled her wrists to the table, growling, “For once in your life, be obedient, my wife. It will make it easier for both of us.”

She kicked and managed to bite his arm once, but he was implacable, restraining her legs and fixing a tight band of iron over her middle. She was left helpless, struggling but bound inextricably to the table. What evil did Bluebeard have planned? He had to help her, but how? He was no match for Bluebeard’s blocky strength, and Bluebeard was intent on his foul task, whatever it was.

“Zayan,” she commanded, her eyes catching him watching from the shadowy crypt. “Stop him! Come and release me!”

Bluebeard seemed to notice him for the first time, and said simply, “Good. You’re here. Pay attention, apprentice.”

He plucked the ring of keys from the floor and wiped the gold key on his shirt, leaving a smear of blood. Then he strode to the door and locked them in.

“What are you doing?” Zayan asked, and then louder. “Let her go!”

With no hesitation, Bluebeard strode over and backhanded him, hard, sending him spinning to the floor.

“You’re mine, apprentice,” he said, staring down his nose with steely eyes. “Bought and paid for, so none of that foolishness.”

What did he mean? Did Bluebeard seriously expect that he would be a willing accomplice to, what, murder? Of his wife? Because he had paid him a few bags of gold?

“You can’t,” Zayan said, all he could manage, reaching up to his aching jaw and coming back with blood on his fingertips. A gash across his cheek seared with pain.

Bluebeard said, busy restraining Beatrice and barely paying mind to him, “I can and I will. You have two choices now, apprentice. Learn the secret of immortality, or I’ll add your blood to hers. Think carefully and make your choice.”

Beatrice screamed the entire time, calling for Thierry, demanding help from Zayan, imploring the Mage to have mercy.

“Nobody can hear you, my wife,” Bluebeard said tenderly, stroking her brow, turning his back on Zayan. “Nobody is coming. I’ve enjoyed your sounds of pleasure these many months, in anticipation of these delicious sounds of your ultimate marital duty.”

Zayan rose from the floor, aghast at the scene playing out before him, and picked up a heavy mortar from a crowded table, intending to stop this horror one way or the other.

“I wouldn’t try, young apprentice,” Bluebeard said, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “I have shackles for you as well, but I trust they won’t be necessary.”

Bluebeard affixed her bleeding hand over a large stone basin, and the intent was clear. Zayan felt his head go light, unable to believe the atrocity his mentor was committing right there before his eyes. The full extent of it crashed through him, and he spun around, taking in the crypt of bodies. All of these women must have suffered the same fate.

He felt a powerful hand on his shoulder and Bluebeard said, “Take a moment to gather yourself, nascent mage. This is delicate work, glorious work, and to do it properly, you will need to exult in the grandeur of it. Sit and reflect, then join me when you’re ready to defy death.”

Would it be worth the cost to live forever? There was blood, so much blood. More blood than he’d ever seen, ever thought imaginable. Beatrice no longer had the energy to scream, but lay there, silent, gaze fixed on him, accusing. Could he put a stop to this, or was it too late? The easiest thing was simply to look away.

He stood transfixed, clenching his fists, looking for options, unable to decide what action to take. He said, “Mage Bluebeard, surely that’s enough. Can’t you stop now?”

Bluebeard narrowed his eyes and said, “Once the Key makes its judgment, there is no stopping the penalty. I will take all that my treacherous wife has to give, so if you have nothing intelligent to say, say nothing at all.”

Could he realistically put a stop to this? He had mere minutes to devise a plan and launch it into action before she was gone. There were many options within easy reach—stab him with a knife, crush his skull with a swing of the heavy iron tongs—but he’d never been one for physical violence. Cunning and intrigue, maybe, but he always ran when the danger got too intimate. He walked over to a display of swords hanging on the wall, pausing and considering, and Bluebeard looked up from his task, giving him a pointed look. Bluebeard, in contrast to himself, was clearly no stranger to a fight. His bare forearms, blue hairs slicked with sweat and smears of blood, were crisscrossed with scars, telling the story of many successful altercations.

Would it be worth the cost? Living a century, two centuries, three, seeing the world change while staying ever young? Now would be the time to do it, while he was still in his prime. That was something to consider. And he’d certainly have no trouble supporting himself, with his newly found skills in transmutation. A long, good life…that was certainly something to consider.

“Mage, if I may, how long have you lived?”

Bluebeard laughed at this, a deep, rich laugh, and gestured to the crypt. “Count the wives.”

Centuries, then. What could he do with centuries of youth? And what of Tom? Tom would never sanction this. He probably couldn’t even imagine that such evil existed in the world. But given the possibility of immortality, even Tom’s upstanding morals might bend to incorporate this new reality, as his own seemed to be doing.

Thierry must be benefiting from this dark magic, that much was clear. In his own subservient way, he had Bluebeard’s force of will, unwilling to acknowledge anything but his own way of living, forcing others to bend to his will. He didn’t see it in Charlie and Hoyle. They were probably one step removed from Bluebeard’s inner circle, a small step, but the step between mortality and immortality. And remarkably, inexplicably, at this moment, Zayan himself was being courted to join that exalted group.

Would he grow an ego to rival Bluebeard’s? Examined dispassionately, he was certain it was true. He had always attended to himself first, had to, in fact. Life was never easy on him, and he took every advantage that dangled in front of him, knowing he deserved it. Prickling there in his heart, he knew this would be no different. The obvious advantages would outweigh the disadvantages. He would accept his fate and eventually embrace it.

“Master, how do you bear it?” he asked, truly unable to fathom it.

Bluebeard looked at him, and for the first time since arriving at Château des Fleurs, he saw approval in his eyes.