Page 68 of Backwoods
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Dinner with Master Westbrook was a gut-wrenching affair for Amiya, and the loathsome experience began with the food. Not her food—the server brought her a platter of roast chicken, petite potatoes, and carrots—hisfood.
The dish set in front of him was some sort of thick stew in a deep porcelain bowl, and the broth was blood-red. She saw the raw head of a small, skinned animal still bearing its eyes—a squirrel, maybe—floating in its depths.
“Ah, Brunswick stew, my favorite.” Westbrook snapped out a white cloth napkin and tucked it into his collar. He seemed oblivious to Amiya’s disgust.
If she could have gotten up and fled out of the dining room she would have done so. But Westbrook had seated himself at the head of the long table and insisted on her sitting next to him. This would be yet another grin-and-bear-it tribulation she had to endure.
“Let us say grace,” Westbrook said. He reached across the table for her hand.
She suppressed a wince at the coldness of his grip, bowed her head. Westbrook cleared his throat.
“Our ancient lords of darkness, we thank you for another night of celebration,” Westbrook said. “We are grateful for the abundance you’ve granted us. I am grateful for yet another opportunity to open my eyes and appreciate the beauties of this world.” He squeezed her hand at that, sending fresh spicules of ice through her blood. “May we bring honor to you on this fine night. Amen.”
“Amen,” Amiya said. She had mentally phrased her own, abbreviated prayer:God, please give me the strength to keep on.
“Now let’s dig in. I feel as if I could eat a whole hog,” Westbrook said, and dipped a big spoon into his bowl.
Amiya averted her gaze and focused on her own plate. She picked at the food, though she knew she probably should have tried to eat something; she had no idea when she might eat again if she tried to escape.
Another well-dressed server, a woman, brought a bottle of Bordeaux. Westbrook poured a glass for Amiya and insisted on her sampling it. The wine was superb, but Amiya had decided she couldn’t allow herself to enjoy it, as she suspected that part of Westbrook’s strategy to seduce her was straight out of the good ole boy handbook: get her drunk and turn her as pliable as putty in his cold, eager hands.
Westbrook’s sharp teeth made quick work of the raw animal floating in his monstrous stew. Amiya heard him snapping bones in his mouth. The noises turned her stomach and she put down her fork for good.
Westbrook didn’t appear to notice or care. He picked up his bowl with both hands and lifted it to his lips, slurping every last bloody drop, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each disgusting swallow.
I could slit his throat, right now, Amiya thought. She envisioned the fine dark line she could slash across his neck withthe blade, a clean cut of his carotid artery. She imagined the jet of hot, spurting blood . . .
But she hesitated, and the moment was lost.
Would slitting his carotid artery have had any effect, anyway? Did real blood stream through his veins? Did he possess a living, pulsing heart?
Westbrook placed the bowl back onto the table and dabbed at the corners of his lips with the napkin. He regarded her coolly, as if he’d been aware of her murderous thoughts all along.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, my lady,” he said.
She straightened in the chair. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t think I’ve made much headway with you this evening. If things keep moving along like this, I don’t think I’ll get anywhere with you tonight, or anytime soon.”
“Don’t men of power appreciate a challenge?” She offered what she hoped was an inviting smile.
He chuckled. “You’re a clever one. I might yet spare you the Overseer’s mark for a while.”
“Where is the Overseer?” She tried to mask her anxiety.
“He’s not on the premises at this time, a fact for which all of you should be grateful,” Westbrook said, in a lowered tone. He glanced over his shoulder at the windows.
“All of us?” Amiya asked. “But you’re the master of the plantation. It bears your name.”
“I couldn’t expect you to understand these arcane matters,” Westbrook said. He tossed back the remaining wine in his glass, picked up the bottle, and poured more for himself, and her, though her glass was still half-full.
“Try me,” Amiya said. “I’m a quick learner.”
“Indeed you are.” Westbrook swirled the Bordeaux in his glass, deeply inhaled its bouquet. “The Overseer brokered the contract that makes all of this magic possible.” He indicated the room with a sweeping gesture. “I am merely a beneficiary of thedeal. I get to rise each sunset and wander the plantation, waxing nostalgic about the days of yore, and the staff refers to me as ‘master’ and pays me respect, and yes, I can romance beautiful maidens such as you. But this isn’t my Westbrook anymore.”
“It belongs to the Overseer,” Amiya said.
