The Rakshasa's Bride by Suzannah Rowntree

Author:Suzannah Rowntree
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bocfodder Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Why? Why did you bring me here?”

It had been another interminable, wandering, echoing day in the palace of the Rakshasa, with no better company than her own dismal thoughts. So tonight, as she knelt at the dinner table across from the monster, the question broke out of her for the third time. And he had only asked how she had spent her day, and if all was to her liking.

The Rakshasa seemed displeased by her question.

“I have asked. I ask again. Marry me, Preeti.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you have said no.”

“And if I say no tomorrow night?”

“Then you have said no tomorrow night.”

“And the night after?”

“Also.”

“How long am I to go on saying no?”

“Just as long as I please.”

“How long will it be?” Under the table, Preeti clenched her hands into fists. “How long until you tire of asking? How long until you kill me?”

“Bus!” The word came out so quiet and low that it rattled the bowls on the table and every bone in Preeti’s body. “Know this of me,” he rumbled. “I do not tire. I do not lose patience. I wait as long as I have determined. But no longer.”

Preeti ducked her head and murmured, “How much time do I have?”

“That I do not say. Bargain with yourself for time. But know that it is running out.”

Preeti fidgeted with the border of her sari. “What shall I do in the meantime? The days are very long.”

“You are provided with books and music.”

“I cannot read.”

He lifted a terrible claw. “That I can mend. Come here.”

She flinched.

His eyes flamed at her. “I have promised you time,” he said in the same low growl that hummed in her lungs. “Do you disbelieve me?”

“No. No, my lord.” She stood and went shrinkingly toward him until she came within a pace or two of his throne, keeping her head bent so that she would not have to look at him so close, so terrible.

There always had been a stink about him, but suddenly she identified it as rotting flesh, the scent of death.

He lifted his clawed hand; she closed her eyes and managed, though a mad voice screamed in the back of her mind, to hold her ground while he laid it on her head.

She thought she heard him say a word, but it was in no tongue she knew. When his hand lifted she opened her eyes and glanced up at him.

To her astonishment, he was no more terrible at this close range than he had been far away. Or were his teeth less long and sharp, the red streaks above his eyes less angry?

Was there even a gleam of kindness in his eyes?

Whatever it was, it drew a tight answering smile from her, and for a moment she felt merely an uncomfortable intimacy, and not the terror that seemed to her, in its sudden absence, more fitting.

“Take up and read as you will,” he said.

“Thank you.” She retreated to her place at the table, and to the terror she had until now always felt for him.

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