Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 05

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On the opposite side of the hallway was a small dark wooden door, set in the wall beneath the staircase. Standing casually in front of it was a soldier in the uniform of Andrey's guard - a firelance sheathed at his waist. As Leonid approached he stood aside, allowing them to pass through the door, before taking up his position again behind them.

The door let them into a less well decorated part of the dacha, what Nataliya assumed to be the servants' area, though it was deserted when they entered. Leonid led them surely through several rooms - a living area filled with dark wooden furniture, what appeared to be a laundry room of sorts, a kitchen - which were all similarly deserted, before they emerged through a second small door into a further hallway.

Here the decor returned to the opulence and ostentation common to the rest of the dacha - tall arched ceilings, highly decorated walls hung with pictures of the ruling princes - but here there were no guests. At the far end a marble staircase twisted upwards, two more soldiers in Andrey's uniform standing at its base - these sinisterly out of context in chitinous armour, long firelances held ready.

Again Leonid led them confidently, ascending past the soldiers. The stairs led them onto a wide balcony, then on into the tower at the side of the dacha. Slowly, following Leonid, they worked their way up, passing through several floors marked by closed doors, the staircase decorated with ornate statues of the Nine set in niches along its length. Finally they stood before a pair of ornate wooden doors, their panelling picked out in gold. Here Leonid knocked, waiting for a summons before entering.

The doors opened onto a ballroom, smaller than the one being used by the party below, but still large - stretching away before them to a matching set of doors at the far end. Tall arched windows had been thrown open along both walls - admitting both an ethereal pale light and a light breeze filled with the scent of blossom from the gardens. On a raised dais a small orchestra waited, instruments ready but silent, and standing along the walls were a number of soldiers in Azarov livery, casually alert. Waiting alone in the centre of the room was Andrey.

Oddly, even though she had known she was going to see him, had expected this moment, his presence was still a shock. For a while Nataliya stood as if frozen, watching him from the doorway - afraid to approach him, unable to walk away. In that moment it was as if nobody else existed, just Andrey and her, facing each other across an empty room.

"I should hate you, you know," she said at last.

"And do you?" he said, smiling that damned smile of his.

She sighed slightly, stepping into the room. "No."

He held his hand out to her in invitation. His face was serene, flawless - utterly beautiful. Helplessly, like a moth drawn to a flame, she found herself closing the distance between them, closing it until she stood close enough to touch him, to feel his presence as a physical thing, until she found she could go no further.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he said, lightly, his hand still extended towards her. "It wasn't what I'd wanted."

Standing in the moonlight he looked almost otherworldly - ethereal, remote, unreachable. She groaned helplessly, took his hand.

The orchestra took it as their cue. Suddenly the room was filled with music - the chords of the balalaika singing in her veins, the rhythm familiar, powerful. For a second she stood stunned, confused - embarrassed.

"Would you care to dance, Princess?" he said softly, bowing slightly, gently drawing her into his embrace - that damned smile on his face again. The music was light, lively, almost daring her to dance.

"Andrey..." she said, her heart racing, conscious of the eyes on her, the empty dancefloor.

"Shh, please don't say no," he whispered, smiling secretly at her. "I've been waiting for this dance all night."

She stared at him, into his eyes, conscious of his hand resting on her hip, the closeness of his body, the feel of her hand in his. There, then - with him holding her, with the music behind her - it was as if the evening had never happened, as if there had never been any time before that moment. She sighed again, melted into his arms.

The music started slowly and quickly built up its rhythm - lively, familiar, simple dances full of joy and exuberance. Almost before she knew what was happening she was being swept about the floor, Andrey holding her tightly in his arms, looking at her as if she was the only woman in the world, the only woman that mattered.

Despite herself she felt her heart thrill, Andrey's attention sweeping away her despondency. Safe in his arms she felt her worries fade until she was throwing herself into each dance with enthusiasm - the two of them laughing for the sheer joy of it - totally oblivious to the presence of anyone else - her friends, the soldiers, anyone. The world was just Andrey, Andrey and her.

Yelena watched her, clutching Vasily's arm, a silly smile on her face. She hadn't seen Nataliya this happy since...forever. She watched as he led her across the floor - his feline grace utterly breathtaking, his beauty bewitching - the pair of them laughing loudly, lost in one another's eyes. Their joy was infectious. In that moment she thought she finally understood what Nataliya felt, the strange fascination at the heart of her passion for Andrey, and she envied her.

Finally, the sight of the two of them, the rhythm of the music, infected her, too, and she dragged Vasily onto the floor - her thrill at watching Andrey and Nataliya finally overcoming her embarrassment at dancing in the nearly empty room. For a moment Vasily resisted but the same feeling seemed to have taken him and he quickly relented.

Soon the ballroom was echoing to their laughter, the simple freedom of dancing banishing the gloom that had hung about their party since their arrival. Although the four of them barely made an impression on the empty space they nevertheless seemed to fill it.

Eventually, with the moonlight fading beyond the windows, the music slowed, changing to a more courtly pace, a greater formality. Her chest heaving, her heart pounding from more than just the dancing, Nataliya was grateful for the change of tempo. As the pace slowed Andrey held her closer, pulling her against him, his hand in the small of her back. Pressed against him she could feel every movement of his body, the play of his muscles beneath his shirt, his cheek against hers, his thigh on her leg. He smelt sweet, musky, male - of his own scent. Resting her head against his chest, moving gently in his embrace she felt something akin to panic, akin to it but warm and pleasant and overwhelming and like she never wanted it to end - but even as she thought it she felt a kernel of darkness at the heart of her joy.

Andrey seemed to sense it. Gently, he moved her back so he could look down into her eyes, his hand stroking her cheek. He was so close that she could feel the whisper of his breath on her skin, a small half-smile touching his lips. In the background the music continued unheeded. "Is everything okay, Natasha?" he whispered.

She swallowed nervously, not trusting herself to speak, nodded gently, her eyes never leaving him. Then: "You've never called me that before."

"What, 'Natasha'?" He smiled. "Do you mind?"

She shook her head.

He was so close, he was bewitching her, befuddling her. He was everything she wanted, everything she'd dreamed about. Why did things have to be so complicated - why did she have to go and fall in love with him, with a prince of the ruling house?

Suddenly - without knowing how it had happened, without knowing how she got the courage - she was kissing him, kissing him with a frantic, desperate passion - her lips pressed hard against his, her arms looping around his neck, pulling him firmly towards her. She felt his tongue brushing her lips, tasting her, sliding into her mouth - so good it made her gasp, made her grip him with a frightening intensity - his arms pulled her in, pulled her against him, holding her as his tongue swept around her mouth.

She felt dazed, her need for him making her weak, desperate. Oh, God, what was she doing? Her heart was pounding hard against her chest, his kisses were driving her wild, firing her passion - in moments she knew that she wouldn't be able to think rationally, would be entirely his...

Groaning with frustration, she placed her palms on his chest. "Andryusha... Stop, please..." she said breathlessly, pushing him away, struggling to disengage - it felt as part of her she could only feel had become entangled with him, as if he had part of her heart.

Reluctantly he loosened his arms from around her, letting her pull away, freeing her. "Natasha..." he said, his voice soft, his eyes bright. "What's wrong?"

She felt weak, disorientated - leaning on him to stop herself from falling onto the floor. Shook her head, unable to speak for a moment but allowing herself to be held, his arms still around her.

"Sorry..." she said, her voice hoarse, breathless. "Nothing's wrong, it's okay... Please, I just need to know..."

He looked at her, confused. "Know what?"

She looked up at him, her face anguished.

"What I am to you, Lord Prince?" she said finally, a note of despair in her voice. "Am I just a plaything? Someone you'll discard when you're done with me?"

"Is that what you think?" he said, breathing it against her head.

She shrugged, her eyes pleading. "I don't know. You make me feel so...helpless."

He smiled slightly at that, then he sighed. "No, you're not a plaything, Natasha" he said softly, pausing, thinking. "No, I have a horrible feeling that you're my doom."

"What?" She looked up at him, her eyes shining. He looked pensive, worried.

"All this subterfuge, everything about tonight - it's all to protect you," he said quietly, staring at her, holding her gently. "To allow me to be with you and still keep you safe from danger."

For a second she made no reply, looking confused. "Protect me? I don't understand. What danger?" she said, cocking her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, I know you don't," he said quietly. "But so far my efforts to keep you safe have cost me my position, my standing with my Lord Prince... They could yet cost me my life and the lives of those I care for - yours as well, Natasha."

She looked up at him, searching his eyes. Why did she need to be protected? "Andrey, tell me," she said softly. "I don't understand. What are you protecting me from? Stop being so mysterious."

He sighed. "Natasha, you may not like this..."

"Tell me."

For a moment he said nothing, holding her gently by the arms, his face turning serious. The music was softer now, slower, as if the orchestra was winding down. Finally he took a breath, exhaled slowly before speaking. "This isn't the ending I wanted this evening, Natasha..."

"Andrey, tell me, please."

He sighed again. "For a long while we have known that there's an illegal trade in old tech - collectors buying and selling it, rebels trading it to buy weapons - but the details have been scant," he said, standing still even as the music continued. "A few days ago we intercepted a courier going between smugglers on the wastes and a noble house here on the plateau. I was sent me to interrogate her - to find the name of her contact, the family she was dealing with." His eyes were luminous, intense, they seemed to see right into her. She shivered, suddenly cold. "I told Lord Prince Mikhail that she died before telling me."

Nataliya blinked, gazed up at him, fear flickering in the depths of her eyes. What did this have to do with her?

"And was that true?"

He shook his head, his hands gentle on her shoulders, his eyes soft. "No, it was a lie, Natasha, a lie to protect you," he said gently. "The contact was your father, it was your family."

She stared at him, disbelieving, her world lurching around her. It couldn't be true, there was no way. She knew her father and her father was no smuggler, no traitor - he made his money from farming the plateau, and barely enough from that! The Nine knew they were hardly rich. If he was a smuggler they'd be wealthy, wouldn't they? No, Andrey was lying to her, he had to be. Why would he do that? She felt sick, anxious, frightened.

When she looked at him again he was staring back at her, his face pensive, still. Why was he doing this? Wasn't it enough that he was from the ruling family and she from a minor house? Wasn't it enough that she was his plaything? Why did he want to destroy her father, her family?

"Natasha-"

She shook her head, stopping him. "No! It's not true, my father's a good man, loyal, he wouldn't - it's not possible," she said, pulling away from him, her voice turning hard. "Why are you saying this, Lord Prince? It isn't true - you're lying."

"Natasha, please," he said, quietly, reaching for her. For some reason he felt strange, disorientated, off balance. His head was hurting. "Why would I lie to you? You don't have to believe me, though, ask your father."

From the corner of his eyes he saw Yelena and Vasily stop dancing, drawn by the sudden tension between them.

She shook her head. "I don't have to ask him, it's absurd!" she said, backing away from him - angry at him, at herself - wanting to hurt him like he'd hurt her.

Andrey staggered, the room seemed to be spinning - he felt dizzy, like he was falling without moving, a sense of vertigo. Cold shivers ran down his spine. Something was wrong, very wrong. Had he been poisoned? How? Nataliya? He looked about - who could he trust?

Slowly his demonic soul was leaking out, sliding through his body. It was propping him up, strengthening him but it didn't feel right - he hadn't summoned it, didn't want it. It was all wrong - it felt greasy, as if he couldn't grip it, couldn't suppress it. He felt the first touch of panic.

"My father warned me about you, told me to stay away from you," she said, her anger making her reckless. It wasn't just what he'd said, it was anger at the futility of her love for him, at the gulf between them, at how he made her feel. "He was right - you're inhuman, a monster, and I was stupid to go near you."

He could see Nataliya shouting at him, her face angry, upset, but it was as if he was watching her through two sets of eyes. One part of him wanted to hold her, to tell her that he understood that she was upset, that he would give her time, time to understand the truth.

That he loved her.

Another part, a different, stronger part, wanted to lash out, to hurt her, to be cruel - and that part was getting stronger, overwhelmingly stronger, by the second. It was corrupting his feelings for her, he knew that, twisting them into a parody of the truth.

Wasn't it?

When had he started hating her?

With an effort he forced himself upright, his demonic soul feeding his anger, holding him steady, exerting a cold command over his emotions.

When he smiled it was a chilling, cruel thing. "Fine. Monster I may be, since it's what you all think," he said, his voice quiet, cold, steady even though he was struggling to stay on his feet. "But tell him this, tell him that if he goes to the Drissa Falls, Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov will be laughing at his execution - tell your precious father that!"

It had been so easy of late, holding the demon in place, controlling it - now it seemed impossible, its strength overwhelming. He looked about, taking in Yelena and Vasily, hovering close by, their faces shocked. Even as he watched them he felt his demonic soul strengthen, his doubts slipping away.

"And then tell him this," he said, straightening, grinning at her savagely, his eyes dark with hate. "When the twins are full he will send you to me, send his precious daughter to the monster he fears so much. Or I will come for him - for him, for you and for all your family. Tell him that, Princess!"

Nataliya stared at him, frightened but angry, angry like she'd never been before - an icy controlled anger like a knot in her heart. "I was wrong," she said, calmly, coldly. "I do hate you."

Andrey laughed then, a bitter, twisted mockery of amusement filled with self-loathing, horrible to hear. For just a second she stared at him, then she turned and ran, the hideous sound following her, echoing after her.

By the time she reached the door - throwing herself at it, desperate to escape that horrible laughter - she was crying, tears pouring down her cheeks, the sound of Yelena and Vasily hard behind her. The door sprang open, crashing against the wall beyond, and then she was running, sobbing uncontrollably.

She felt sick, sick and angry and lost and like she'd left something of herself behind - something she didn't know she'd had.

******

For a long time after she left Andrey remained still, staring at the door where he'd last seen her. Slowly a semblance of control returned. With Nataliya gone things seemed clearer, the ascendance of his demonic soul slowing but not stopping. He struggled to remember why he didn't want it to take control...

Monster. She'd called him an inhuman monster.

Coming from Nataliya that had hurt him like never before. The thought brought a further surge from his infernal soul, his human soul giving more ground.

Is that what she thought? What had he done to her to make her think that? Had he ever been less than solicitous? Hadn't he been kind and considerate, rescuing her when she was in trouble. He'd never allowed his power to touch her - had never corrupted her innocence. He'd protected her and her family.

So why did she think he was a monster?

Ignoring the soldiers, the gathered servants, he turned and strode out onto the balcony. From here he could see across the ornamental gardens at the front of the dacha onto the distant orchards, the vineyard. Gathered between were the collected flyers of the various families who'd sent representatives here tonight. He breathed in the cool air - slightly damp, fresh and cool.

Perhaps he was a monster, he thought, perhaps it was just that others could see it more clearly. He smiled bitterly. What else could he be? He was a killer, a torturer, a rapist - a weapon forged and used by House Azarov to bring fear to the lesser houses, to keep them in line, to discourage sedition with the thought that he might come for them, for their families.

For their daughters.

He laughed a little at that, a bitter chuckle.

Above him the twin moons shone brightly and, for a while, he stood still - listening to the chirruping of the cicadas below, the call of an occasional night creature in the forest. For once there was no comfort in it for him, no peace. After a while he saw what he'd been waiting for - a lone flyer black against the purple sky, heading north, north towards the insignificant lands of House Rostov.

If he hated her so much, why did that make him so sad?

Slowly, inexorably, his demonic soul completed its conquest. A tiny trickle, slowly pushing back his human soul, a tiny trickle that he couldn't even begin to stop. It was as if he'd been leaning on a crutch that someone had taken away - leaving him stumbling. And the soul... It was powerful, powerful beyond anything he'd imagined. He felt like a god. His human soul, weak, lacking the power, the ruthlessness of his demonic side, gave ground, fading, slipping into the background. It was still present, present like a stone in his shoe - but weak, suppressed.

Why had he struggled for so long to keep his demonic side suppressed? He could see everything more clearly now - fear, that was all people respected, all they understood. Fear and power, and the fear that power brought with it. He was foolish to have forgotten that. He could see that he had work to do, work rebuilding his power base, rebuilding his reputation. And he would have his revenge, too. Unconsciously his eyes traces the path of the Rostov flyer. Wasn't vengeance the sweetest feeling of all?