It was an odd hour for the man to be wandering the estate. Especially given that she’d had expected him to still be pouring over plans with Lord Albert. That could only mean the baron had passed out prematurely from the drink. She held back her uncharitable thoughts, knowing they would do nobody any good to dwell on. He must need something, she thought. There were so few members of their staff about the house, it was the only thing that made sense.

  “You’re Victoria, aren’t you?” Lord Grace asked, and she had the distinct impression it wasn’t really a question at all.

  “Yes, lord Grace,” Victoria replied and awkwardly curtsied, attempting to hide her embarrassment and lack of proper decorum. She must look like a mess. It seemed as if the world conspired tonight to humiliate her. Just as she expected him to pass her by, ignoring her altogether, he took a step towards Victoria. The spacious corridor suddenly seemed so much smaller. For once she was grateful for the dim lighting.

  “May I be of service?” She asked, careful not to let herself make another awkward misstep. She was absolutely terrified that at any moment she would say or do something so monstrously foolish that their guest would quit the estate then and there.

  The viscount’s eyes slowly looked her up and down, really seeing Victoria, “I would like some fresh air,” he said softly. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten how compelling his voice was. Victoria’s agitated nerves calmed. She’d clasped her hands together nervously in front of her skirts, and now they fell calmly to her sides.

  She chose her next words carefully, “I shall see to opening some windows for you.” As Victoria spoke, she kept her eyes downcast in deference. Surprisingly cold fingers lifted her chin upwards, forcing her to meet Lord Grace’s gaze. Confused, she opened her mouth to say something else, but the words died on her lips. He leaned closer. The man wasn’t especially tall, but he might as well have been a giant with the sheer force of his smile and confidence.

  “You needn’t touch any windows, my dear. Just show me the gardens.” He didn’t release her chin, as he continued to speak, “can you do that?” It was a command. Were she a little more naive, she would simply take him at face value - - that he just wanted to see the gardens, and might have asked anyone else to show him.

  There was a soft, logical voice in the back of her mind urging Victoria to somehow extricate herself from the viscount’s presence. Not that she could. A servant did not have the privileges of a lady when a noble wolf knocked at the door. He had all of the power in the world as far as she or anyone else in the house was concerned.

  “The gardens,” Lord Grace repeated, his words brushing away every reserve in her mind almost immediately. Every thought but that she absolutely needed to take him to the gardens. She felt as if she was slipping into a warm bath, and her worried expression melted into a complacent smile.

  “Yes, Lord–”

  “Frederick,” he interrupted her.

  She hesitated, “I don’t–”

  “Call me by my name, Victoria. It can be our little secret. Will you do me that small favor? I would enjoy such a pretty escort as yourself while I become acquainted with my new home.” He released her chin to allow her a quick nod, then tucked her arm under his and allowed the maid to lead him down the corridor towards the front door that led to the main path to the gardens of Sommer Steppe.

  It was odd. His new home? Surely he had misspoken. Yet it was hard for her to even hold onto that simple thought. She felt peculiar. Light. It was as if some core part of herself was locked away, unable to think or guide her actions. Victoria was someone else. She should, but she didn’t want to question why. She was simply too tired. Of everything. Tired of being lonely. Tired of being responsible. Tired of fighting the moment. What was the harm in a short stroll?

  The early evening air was indeed refreshing. Still, beside the viscount’s glamor, she felt like a grey duck waddling beside a swan.

  “You know, I do believe autumn and winter are far more captivating than the warmer seasons,” Lord Grace remarked, gravel and dried leaves crackling beneath his feet as they walked.

  “As you say, Lord–” Victoria caught herself when one of the viscount’s elegant eyebrows raised ever so slightly, “--I mean Frederick.” Saying his name felt strange. Dangerous.

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  The sparse path into the gardens led them through a small copse of fruit trees, the tallest among them being their head gardener’s prized apple tree. The fruit it gave was sour, but large. Ideal for Mrs. Pragajh to stretch out a variety of desserts with. Mister Wilferd loved the garden with all his heart, and even with the estate’s meager fortune, his work showed.

  “In the fall and winter, one sees all creatures for what they really are,” Lord Grace remarked, pausing beside a rose bush at the edge of the path, just beyond the trees. Another frost or two and it would begin to shed its leaves. The flowers had long since been pruned. He drew his free hand over one of the branches, fingers just grazing some of the hidden thorns. His skin was unblemished. She noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves.

  “I think spring and summer are beautiful,” Victoria said, attempting to follow his line of thought. She wondered what it was about the rose bush he found particularly interesting.

  “Spring is fleeting,” the viscount replied, his voice suddenly taking on a sharp edge. For the first time, she found it didn’t sound quite as enchanting as before.

  “So is winter and fall,” Victoria pointed out, attempting to smile. She didn’t know what she could have done to upset him.

  He looked at her for a good long while. She almost felt like those sharp blue eyes of his were cutting her to the bone, stripping her apart layer by layer. Her fear of a reluctant tryst in the garden seemed silly, all of a sudden. There was nothing romantic or lascivious about this man. He was–

  “--death is forever. Winter and fall never leave us, my dear.”

  “Frederick,” she said his name very slowly, bringing a hand up to gently pry at the arm that held fast to hers, “I think I’ve shown you enough of the garden. I must see to the young mistress.”

  His hand gripped her a little tighter, refusing to politely let her go.

  “Ah, but you see, I know that isn’t true. You don’t have to lie to me, little girl,” he whispered, leaning in close. His lips brushed over her neck, which was damnably bare because of her tightly-held braids and kerchief. She shivered. He was so very cold. It was unnatural.

  “I want to go,” she said, a little more firmly, “let me go. We can forget this happened, Lord Grace–”

  “Frederick. Frederick!” He snapped now rearranging his hands so that they both gripped at her shoulders. “You call me by my name, understood?”

  All pretense of poetry and metaphors dropped, Victoria squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to draw her leg back to kick him. She didn’t care what happened now. He may be pretty, but he was just as ugly to her now as the dead leaves beneath her shoes. Why was he so strong?

  “My name,” he said again, “or if you don’t like that, then master. How about that?” His face was against her cheek now, cold as snake skin. Cold as death.

  “Let. Me. Go!” She shrieked the final word, putting the full force of her strength into her kick. He cursed, his grip loosening just enough to allow her to tear herself away. She didn’t even flinch when unusually sharp nails drew red streaks of blood across her arms.

  Victoria lifted her skirts and ran back towards the house, feet slipping only once or twice over the uneven gravel. She heard him cursing behind her, but paid it no mind. She would get to the parlor, find the poker if she had to defend herself. Worry about the consequences later.

  Just as she was about to reach for the door, a sharp pain shot through her head, and she was jerked back with full force by one of her braids, and sent screaming to the ground. A cold hand wrapped around her neck and another one covered her mouth. He was crouched above her now. Victoria’s heart stopped cold at the sight of his face.

  Devil! She thought, bemoaning the many Sundays she’d avoided service and prayer.

  His elegant visage was gone. In its place, his blue eyes peered down at her through hollow sockets, glazed over with a thin film of grey as if he were dead. His mouth hung wide in a silent laugh, two very large and vicious canines extending from them, sharper than the rose thorns in the garden.

  “Now, now,” he chided, voice no longer enticing in the slightest, but deep and gravelly. It was a death rattle given words. “This will only hurt for a moment. You’ll thank me later.” He leaned down closer. She could smell salt, and iron, and earth through the fingers clamping her mouth shut. Silent tears poured from her eyes and Victoria still tried to struggle beneath him to get away. She was no match for whatever this - - thing - - was.

  He paused. His smile disappeared.

  “Victoria, try to look a little less morose, darling. This is our wedding night.”

  She tried to scream through his fingers, to shake him off, to do something. His cold laughter echoed in her ears and her mind all the while, even when she felt those horrible teeth bite into her throat. Not just bite, but tear. Crush. Ravage. Black specks danced in her vision, and she could no longer scream through the pain and evisceration of her neck. He devoured her flesh and blood. She was thankful for the blessed darkness that finally settled over her when she heard his horrible groaning and felt him shuddering in ecstasy.

  Spring was indeed fleeting. She only wished she’d gotten to enjoy it more.