September 2, 1695
Forest of Dean, 7:14 AM
Sunlight that bespoke an early dawn sank gently into the room, languidly stretching across the mahogany floors like a great leviathan, consuming the darkness that dared linger and giving greater life to the opulence that had been so enslaved. Golden carvings inlaid into dark wood furnishings lent the room a certain lavish air. Crisp white walls further illuminated the interior as the sun slowed in its devouring conquest, crawling up and over a four poster bed that rested against the opposite wall. Its rays breathed life into the sole inhabitant, bringing movement to the still linens.
Subtle warmth stirred her from a dreamless slumber, yet she burrowed deeper, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of peace. When it proved too elusive, she sighed in defeat, rolling to face the inevitable day. As sudden as the breath of life, crystal clarity broke through her hazy mind, shattering the illusion of sleep. Annabel shot up in the bed, eyes wide as the room came into focus. What is this place? How did I come to be here? The room was more lavish than anything she had seen all her relatively short life.
Quick shallow breaths made the room spin as panic threatened to take hold of her befuddled brain. Mentally berating herself, she gripped the coverlet, forcing slow, steady breaths to cleanse her lungs and mind. Last night... I can't remember last night.
The revelation was chilling, but before she could search her mind further a single door to her left opened, causing an instinctive scramble from the bed. Her legs tangled in the sheets and her mad dash left her toppling to the floor, away from the intruder. She landed in a graceless heap much to her chagrin, kicking away the sheets with haste.
Tentatively, Annabel peered over the mattress edge, watching as a tall lean figure pushed in a handcart that was laden with tea and pastries. She glanced further up to assess the man himself, taking in his immaculate attire.
He wore black fitted breeches and a simple, silver buttoned waistcoat. White lace dripped from his sleeves and spilled from his throat. The colors merely accentuated his pale skin and black hair which currently covered his face. When he lifted his gaze to meet hers she gasped, feeling as though all the air had left her body. His eyes, a piercing shade of red, brought her memories slamming into her full force. Those haunting eyes that watched and waited ever patiently as she waded through the images. Reminded her of the bargain she had made.
"You," she breathed out. A barely perceptible smile was his answer as he turned to the cart. "Tea, my lady?" he questioned, pouring a cup before she could answer. Using the bed as support she stood up and looked down at herself for the first time. A white lace nightgown flowed from high on her neck down to her ankles. Modest, yet elegant.
A strange acceptance seemed to wash over her as she turned to watch what she could only guess was a demon, preparing her tea. At the thought a laugh bubbled up from her throat to spill from her lips. She clamped a hand over her mouth when he turned to look at her quizzically, but it only gave way to more laughter until she was holding her sides and leaning against the bedpost, gasping for air as the fit took its toll. She couldn't be sure whether she was gripped by madness or shock but it kept her from panicking.
Finally, out of breath, and feeling better than she had in ages, she walked around the bed to the tea cart, ignoring the questioning look and instead, taking the proffered tea. She sat down, at the bed's end, inhaling the aroma of peppermint as she brought the delicate china cup to her lips. Sipping lightly, she sighed as the soothingly sweet concoction eased down her throat, warming her from the inside out.
She held the cup close to her lips so she could still enjoy its scent while she watched her "savior". He too, watched her with an interested gaze, obviously waiting to see what her next move would be. As the comfortable silence stretched she took another sip and took the time to observe his handsome features. High cheekbones, fair skin, dark hair. In another world perhaps she would have held favor for him. Even those red eyes held a certain allure.
"So, demon," she began, breaking the silence and bringing a twinkle to his eye, "What shall I call you?" His head bowed in a subservient manner before speaking, "Whatever would please you, my lady." Her lips thinned into a disapproving line. The thing couldn't just give her a name by which to call him? She tapped the cup with her right forefinger as she eyed him.
"Sebastian, then," she finally declared, thrusting the now empty cup back to him. He nodded his assent as he returned the cup to its place. He would no doubt be less amicable to the name choice if he knew her reason.
Sebastian had been the name of the stray black cat she had once taken in. It made him seem less intimidating. Less of a demon in her eyes. "Now then, Bastian," she began shortening the name, "I shall get properly attired and then I want to speak with you about this entire... situation," she concluded, emphasizing her point by gesturing about the room to everything at once.
"As you wish, my lady," he answered, stepping back to the doorway but tactfully leaving the cart that held the sweet bread and jam. When the door was shut she let out a heavy sigh and ran anxious fingers through her messy hair. Well this is an odd affair. Not to mention, he was strangely subservient for a demon. Not what she would've expected at all.
Stepping towards the cart, she retrieved a crescent roll and smothered it in the strawberry preserves that sat beside. An involuntary groan left her lips as she bit into the sweet and savory mixture of heaven. She ate the first roll in mere moments, then a second even quicker before her hunger eased. Arranging a third, she turned to survey her surroundings a bit closer as she ate.
She walked to the armoire that sat nestled between the two far windows. Upon opening its door, a number of fine garments graced her eyes. Stuffing the rest of the roll in her mouth, she made sure her fingers were clean before letting her fingers run over the rich fabrics, each one more luxurious than the last. Finally, she chose the simplest dress she could find. A satin fabric in dark forest green with ivory lace trim that complemented her eyes.
Removing the nightgown took longer than originally estimated as she fussed with each button. Pulling it up and over her head, she ran cursory eyes over her form. Pink scar tissue stretched along her side and wandering fingers ran over a line that was as long as her hand. The touch made her wince as she remembered the feel of Death's blade. It now appeared to be months old and fully healed. The same fingers toured up to run along her ribs which had started to show, then down to pointed hip bones.
Changing quickly, she turned to the ivory framed mirror that hung above the vanity table and cringed internally at the sight. The dress was beautiful but she had become so malnourished that she was unable to fill it properly. Square cut from her shoulders, her collarbones were overly prominent. The sleeves ended at her elbows, exposing her forearms and fragile wrists. The bodice, even laced up fully, still appeared somewhat loose on her frame. Her eyes, once vibrant, now sat in dark sunken circles that rested on hollowed cheeks. At least her hair hadn't changed.
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The curly mess of tangles surrounded her head like a fiery halo. A silver handled brush sat on the table and she began the slow work of raking through to obtain some semblance of order. She winced as the bristles inadvertently ran across the back of her neck, causing pain.
Curious fingers probed the sensitive area which was raised and bumpy. Lifting the matching silver hand mirror, she turned this way and that to get a view of what injury she had sustained. She glimpsed what appeared to be a tattoo, black and bold against her skin. A five pointed star surrounded by a circle and then a circle of spikes outside that. The devil's mark.
Perhaps I am a witch now after all.
The thought made her smile. Using pins from inside the table she pinned the hair back from her face, allowing the curling waves to fall over her back and hide the mark for now. Thus prepared, Annabel Vanguard stood and stepped to the door, ready to face her demon.
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"-but most of all, I shall act as a teacher, protector, and servant until our contract is fulfilled," Bastian finished. He stood stone still, face solemn, and features unreadable with his hands clasped behind his back. The man had spent the last hour explaining the intricacies of their contract.
Annabel however, paced relentlessly in front of the great stone fireplace that dominated the study. There were too many questions for her mind to untangle.
The demon itself was an enigma that she was unsure how to handle. He seemed like nothing more than a man but there was an occasional inhuman glance or movement but only when she studied him. And then there was the matter of payment. Her soul. Had she been too hasty in promising it to him? No, she would pay anything for her vengeance.
Sighing, she stopped and lowered herself into one of the two wing chairs that sat in front of the cold hearth. Already, her body felt fatigued and worn down and the sun hadn't even gained full height. Her head dropped to her hands as she attempted to regain focus.
"My lady?" Bastian intoned, surprising her when his voice portrayed his close proximity. She slowly lifted her eyes to find him but a foot away, kneeling down, with a cup of tea in hand.
"I am not thirsty Bastian," she replied, leaning back into the chair cushions to place some air between them.
"It is not meant for your thirst but for strength, my lady," he replied unmoved, holding it out further to her, his eyes urging her to take the offering. She took the cup in one hand, then quickly steadied it with the other as it shook in her grasp. Pathetic. I have become weaker than I imagined. Carefully, she lifted the cup to her lips, taking a tentative taste. It was bitter, overlaid with a slight sweetness but she recognized the flavors.
"Ginseng," she noted. "Thank you, Bastian." He nodded in reply and stepped back. Taking a larger draft of the drink, she turned to look out the window at the falling leaves. Autumn was well under way, painting the ground in a myriad of colors.
"What is the significance of the mark upon my neck?" she asked distractedly, not facing him with the question.
"It is the symbol of our contract," Bastian replied. "It connects us. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of placing it upon your neck young mistress."
"Connects us?" she prompted, turning her gaze to him. Wordlessly, he lifted his right hand to his mouth, clenching the fingers of his white glove between his teeth in a captivatingly sensual manner. Slowly, his hand slipped free, revealing the black symbol beneath.
A tattoo, much like her own, adorned the back of his hand. Before her eyes, the mark began to glow as Bastian flexed his fingers. Simultaneously, she felt a warmth radiating from her own mark on the nape of her neck.
"Connected indeed," she murmured, reaching back to graze the mark with her fingertips. Bastian relaxed his hand and allowed the symbol to fade to black. Returning the glove to his hand, he resumed his manner.
"Would you like a tour of the estate, my lady?" Bastian questioned when she turned to look back outside.
The thought wasn't an unwelcome one but she needed some time to herself. His constant hovering was doing nothing for her nerves. But she wasn't about to let him know that.
"I am more than capable of showing myself about, Bastian," she replied setting her tea cup on the side table and firmly rising to her feet. The ginseng helped the movement appear strong.
"Of course, my lady. I shall go now and prepare dinner. Merely call out should you need anything." He gave a deep bow before stepping back to the double doors and exiting the room.
Annabel released the breath that had filled her lungs so tight it had held her torso straight, expelling the air in a sudden whoosh. Fingers, shaky with ginseng and nerves, ran over her face and up, through her hair. What am I doing? She turned to look out of the window, watching a leaf float languidly down. Time still moved even though she felt suspended outside of it.
Pulling away from her musings she walked to the doors, sliding through the opening Bastian had left. Stepping into the hallway, a pair of black laced riding boots, scarf, gloves and a green cloak waited for her on a chair against the opposite wall.
Who knew demons possessed all the qualities of a perfect butler? Once she was appropriately attired she followed the hall to what appeared to be the front door. Learning the inside of the house could come later. First, she yearned to get out into some fresh air.
Leaves crunched beneath her boots as she stepped outside between a set of cracked pillars. A light breeze chilled her cheeks but the clothes she wore kept her wonderfully warm. From the front door there was an inlaid stone path that led to what may have once been opulent gardens.
A wide fountain, empty of water sat in the middle of the walkway with galloping horses in the center, overtaken by thorny vines. Other statues were scattered about the empty courtyard area, all various animals some cracked, others in pieces. She supposed it had once been an opulent garden but without care it had become a wild barren place.
Turning, she cast her gaze over the weathered stone manor. It was grander than anyplace she had lived prior, fit for a lord or wealthy merchant. Although it had obviously been lacking in upkeep in recent years.
Continuing to walk she came upon large empty stables and more signs of abandonment. There was a small pond around back that miraculously still housed fish with scales that glistened like jewels. They were beautiful, swimming about in a rainbow of colors. Annabel sat on the pool's edge as she mused about the path unfolding before her.
Somehow she would need to bring down her mother's killers. It had been locals from her village, yes, but they would have never acted without outside influence. Still, they would pay. They would all pay.
"My lady," a voice sounded, no more than a foot behind her. Annabel jumped in spite of herself, turning to eye the man with a glare.
"You have got to stop doing that," she snapped, her green eyes sparking with her irritation. Bastian merely gave a respectful bow.
"Forgive me milady," he spoke, his voice smooth and demure, sliding against her skin like warm silk, "I am merely here to ensure you do not catch a cold, you should come back inside and rest before dinner young mistress."
A part of her wanted to refuse him just for the sake of it but he was right. It was pointless for her to overdo it as she recovered. With a slight nod in answer, Annabel stood, giving the fish a final look before turning to walk back to the manor.
Sebastian trailed closely behind her and she tried to quell the unease and goosebumps his presence brought. He opened the door for her and she stepped inside, overwhelmed by the warmth that seemed to splash her in the face. Without words he was peeling the cloak back from her shoulders and hanging it up. Then he was knelt down in front of her, moving so fast that she hadn't even seen him. It was disconcerting to say the least but something she would have to grow accustomed to.
Bastian glanced up at her as he reached for the laces at her boots. "Please allow me young mistress," he spoke, looking back down as he untied and loosened the laces in quick order. She hadn't even had a chance to refuse before he was lifting a leg by her calf to slip the boot free. Swaying she instinctively gripped his shoulders, feeling a heat suffuse her cheeks. How dare he touch her in such a familiar manner?!
Her mouth dropped open but the words were stuck in her throat. He quickly repeated the move with her other boot and then he was on his feet. Whatever she had been planning to say fled as her hands slipped from his shoulders and he towered over her, his presence consuming.
"If you would like to rest in the library," he began, gesturing down the hall, "I can bring you some refreshments and snacks before dinner." She could've sworn when he turned that there was a slight smirk on his lips. It was infuriating.
Turning on her heels, Annabel walked towards the door he had pointed out, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Bring more of those pastries," she ordered without turning back, her back stiff.
"As you wish my lady," was his reply.