An Excerpt from “Spirit of Revenge”, Book 3 in the Disfigured Series

I just reached my milestone of 50 pages and feel like the book is really perking along now. I took my first chapter to my writers group, Gold Country Writers, for a critique and it was helpful and inspiring. I thought, to celebrate, I would post a brief, tantalizing excerpt from Book Three of my Disfigured Series, titled “Spirit of Revenge”. In this excerpt, Sylvie is nursing Erik after he was attacked while out riding and almost killed.

“I watched over him all night long. I kept a candle lit near the bed where he lay, so that I might see if there were any changes, but he never woke. He was not still, however. Now and then he would twitch and mumble unintelligibly before lapsing back into unconsciousness. Dr. Olivier was concerned he might fall into a coma, and this terrified me so much that every now and then I would pinch some part of his anatomy. This would cause him to rouse a bit and mutter crossly. I found this greatly reassuring.

As the night wore on, it brought with it a sense of dreamlike unreality. The flickering flame of the candle sent distorted shadows across the walls, and cast a weird light upon Erik’s form in the bed. The rest of the bedroom was dark, and I had pulled the curtains across the windows to shut out the blackness outside. Once a servant came with a hot cup of tea for me, and an armload of wood, and built the fire up again. I found the warm, gently crackling fire to be immensely comforting. Wrapped in my robe, my hair in a tumbled braid, face pale with worry, I found my own reflection disheveled and wan.

Once or twice I was able to prop Erik’s head up on my arm and get him to swallow a few spoons of now-cool broth. He needed fluids, according to Dr. Olivier. I had to exercise great caution in performing this maneuver, to avoid touching the bandaged part of his head. An ugly, green and purple bruise was forming on his temple, and it pained me just to look at it.

It was about five in the morning when the change I was hoping for came at last. Erik became increasingly restive, muttering and moving his arms. His eyelids flickered as though he were trying to open them. Finally I had to catch his arm to prevent his putting a hand to his head and pulling on the bandage.

“No, darling, do not do that,” I murmured gently. His arm abruptly flew out at me, catching me across my shoulder, and sending me flying to the floor. Fortunately, I landed on my derriere. When I clambered from my knees to my feet by the bed, Erik was awake.

He was staring blankly up into the canopy of the bed.  His hand came up slowly this time, and gingerly touched the bandage on his head. He winced in pain.

“Erik,” I whispered, my heart pounding. He was awake at last! At the sound of his name, he turned his head on the pillow to look at me. His eyes seemed to take a moment to focus, and then his gaze slid past me to look around the room, finally returning to me again. He stared at me silently, a bewildered expression on his face.

“Will you take some water?” I asked, fetching a glass from the bedside table. He nodded warily. Helping him to lift his head, I assisted him to take a few sips of water. Then he fell back, exhausted from the effort.

“How do you feel?” I asked worriedly, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.

“Like hell. Like I’ve been run over by a hansom.” His voice was raspy and thick. Suddenly he reached out and grasped my hand, pulling it away from his face almost roughly. “Do not touch me,” he muttered peevishly. I gaped at him in surprise.

“Where am I? Who are you, a servant? What the hell happened to me?” His sharp words rapped out like blows. It was like being slapped in the face.

“What…Erik, it is me, Sylvie. You are home, safely in bed.” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I wondered if the blow to his head had caused some sort of temporary confusion. I must speak to Dr. Olivier about that when he came tomorrow (no, today).

Erik closed his eyes and subsided onto his pillow. “My head hurts,” he muttered crossly. “What happened to me, whatever your name is?”

“My name is Sylvie, as you know perfectly well!” I exclaimed, beginning to feel real alarm. One eye cracked open, and he fixed me with an irritated scowl.

“Fine. Your name is Sylvie. It is of no matter to me what your name is. What does matter to me is that I am not where I should be, I am somewhere else, and my head feels like someone is pounding on it with a hammer.” I sank slowly into my chair by the bed, gazing at him in consternation. Perhaps if I told him what little we knew of the attack, it might help his memory.

“You were set upon yesterday when you were riding back from seeing Monsieur Dubois. Someone hit you very hard on your head, and knocked you off your horse. It was a near thing – you were almost killed. The doctor says you have a bad concussion and a cracked rib, and must not move about.”

Erik opened both eyes and glared at me murderously. I had not seen that look in his eyes for a long time.

“You are talking madness, woman. What horse? I do not know anyone named Dubois. Where the hell am I? Are we still in Paris? I want to go home.” Understanding was beginning to dawn on me, and I was horror-struck. Had the blow been hard enough to cause amnesia? I had heard of such cases, but usually they were of short duration.

“Erik, you do not live in Paris any longer. This is your home, and has been for four years. I am your wife.” I said slowly, as though speaking to a child.

He started to sit up, but I reached for him quickly and tried to push him back down. He gripped my wrists with his hands in a painful grasp, holding me there balanced above him, so that I was looking down on his angry, frustrated face.

“You stupid woman!” He snarled into my face. “I do not have a wife, and if I did, she would certainly look better than you. How do you know my name? I never tell anyone my name.”

“How rude!” I exclaimed, beginning to feel rather angry myself. “I’ll have you know that I have been at your bedside, caring for you, for the entire time since you were found. I am sorry if my appearance does not please you, but I had more important things to worry about.”

My wrists were released. “You can go now, whoever you are. One thing is certain: you are a damned shrew.”

In spite of how aghast I was at this unexpected turn of events, I felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rising in my throat. I pressed the back of my hand over my mouth to hold it in.  He used to always call me a shrew, but now he only did it to tease. Except he meant it this time. He did not know me. I was a stranger to my own husband.”