Of Midnight Born by Lisa Cach Read Free Book Online Page B

of the stores and maintain order among the servants? And what would all these men do without the distraction of women? They would descend upon a village inn and throw themselves upon the first poor serving wench they met, like hounds upon a fallen deer.
    The girl could likely buy herself a farm on the coins they’d give her, if she survived the ordeal. Poor wench.
    Still, the all-male situation was convenient for her, so she would not complain despite the curiosity it roused. With just men here, there was no reason to feel guilty about her methods of being rid of the filthy beasts. When Briggs was here, she had taken care not to frighten his wife, or any of the female staff. He would have been gone sooner if she had, but women had a hard enough time of life without her directly adding to their grief.
    But a household of men? Scaring them would trouble her conscience as much as killing fleas.
    Men. Men like Hugh le Gayne. She let the old anger bubble up into her chest, heating it quickly to a rolling boil. Murdering, perverted bastards. She stoked the flames beneath her caldron of hatred, imagining le Gayne’s head floating in the broth, his eyes melting in agony. Spawn of Satan. Lying, thieving, soulless smear of pig droppings.
    To be surrounded by the living was torture enough. To be surrounded by men was not to be endured. The time had come to act.
    She ran down the corridor, her footsteps gaining volumeas her fury rose, breaking through the barrier between death and life, becoming audible to the living, the sound a growing pounding upon the wood. Woding, where was Woding, the head of this house and the bringer of these men?
    She found his room, empty of all but furniture. Enraged, she grabbed the curtains on the bed and yanked, but they only waved under her efforts, too securely attached to rings and rails to come down unless she consciously made herself more solid. She was too angry to think of that. She jumped onto the bed, kicking at the pillows, tearing at the cloth on the underside of the tester above her head, succeeding only in leaving faint streaks in the cloth.
    She leaped off the bed, landing past the bed carpet on the bare wooden floor, her feet making a deeply satisfying boom, as if a log had been dropped on the floor. She ran to the paneled walls and banged her fists along them again and again, harder and harder, the sound growing, echoing, louder than what would have come from human hands on wood.
    A narrow door in the wall suddenly opened, revealing a sleep-befuddled man in his nightshirt. It was Underhill, Woding’s manservant-cum-butler.
    “Mr. Woding?” he queried, staring blindly into the dark room.
    Serena screamed at him, and when he did not hear her she threw herself at him, passing through him, the sensation of going through him bringing her instant nausea. The act brought her to her senses even as the man stumbled back, nearly stepping into her again.
    “Who’s there?” he cried.
    She left him, staggering through the room out into the corridor again, feeling sick, and angry at herself now as well for being so stupid as to pass through him. The experience always cost her more than it cost the living, leaving her drained and queasy.
    She moved silently down the corridor, her mind a welter of hatred and weariness. She stopped at the head of the stairs and sat, breathing deeply with her head between her knees, gathering herself together.
    Where was Woding? she found herself asking after several moments had passed. She sat up straight, and the feeling of sickness subsided.
    Beezely brushed against her side, purring, then stepped up onto her lap, twisting onto his back and batting at her hand as she scratched his stomach. And that hulking hound, Otto, where was he?
    A door down the corridor opened, and Underhill came out, dressed now and carrying a candle. Serena pushed Beezely off her lap and followed him.
    He went into one of the rooms left empty after the Briggses’ departure, only a few crates