Accursed Abbey: A Steamy Regency Gothic Romance (Nobles & Necromancy Book 1)

by Tessa Candle

  Silverloo dashed about the room, sniffing and whining. Then the little dog came and sat down at Canterbourne's foot and stared up at him with a significant look.

  “You are a faithful friend to Miss Whitely. We shall find her together, shall we? Only it might be dangerous, are you ready for the task?”

  In answer, Silverloo ran to the door and gave a single yip back over his little shoulder before dashing off. Canterbourne followed. Silverloo might not know where to go, but he certainly did. There was only one place she could be.

  He did not relish again meeting the evil maggot of a conjurer that had burrowed his labyrinthine hive into the side of the mountain, but Canterbourne was certainly not going to leave the lovely Miss Whitely in his clutches.

  Chapter 26

  By the time they reached the top of the stairway and stood at the yawning, toothless, decrepit opening to the old abbey, the servant who carried Elizabeth was panting, and Orefados was wheezing behind, not pausing in his inscrutable recitation.

  The servant set Elizabeth down, finally, on a little pile of rock, and collapsed in a heap from his exertions. She heard the rustling of paper, and Orefados began a new, less repetitive recitation.

  She could smell his foetid breath and rank sweat as he made utterances that only became audible briefly, before being hushed back into an arcane murmur.

  They sounded like, “Naiy aha martiya naiy Parsa… taumaya kasciy hya avam Masmoghan tyam magum… ”

  It was gibberish to her. She thought it must just be garbled fiddle-faddle, uttered by a madman. But what if the incantation was real? What if it had some effect upon her? Nonsense. The drugs were getting to her head.

  The incantation stopped suddenly, and one of her feet was lifted and placed awkwardly, just inside the front door stone of the collapsed abbey. It was all she could do to suppress the mad giggle that fought to burst from her lips, as she peeked out at this preposterous ritual.

  She saw Orefados withdraw a scarlet cord from his robe. She was forced to keep her eyes closed as he approached her, but she could feel him lift her head and fasten the cord loosely around her neck.

  Cold panic gripped Elizabeth. Would he tighten it? Would he strangle her? Should she give up the charade and try to get away? What if her racing pulse betrayed her?

  But the cord was not tightened.

  He raised his arm and babbled some more odd words with a tone of dismissal. Then she heard the servant and Orefados walk away.

  She opened her eyes and saw them enter the mouth of the ruins and stride through a tunnel in the rock. When they disappeared into the gloom, she stood up. Her head swam. She braced herself against a stone pillar and vomited.

  After a few minutes, she commanded control of her body and began to descend the stairs. She went as fast as she could, but her limbs were not coordinated, and she was shaking with fear and illness. Her eyes were dilated and objects wavered around her, but still she clamoured onward down the steps. She would roll down them if she had to, but she was getting herself out of this accursed place.

  Chapter 27

  Canterbourne stood once more before the great portcullis of a door at Abbazia Pallida. He knew not whether he should knock or attempt to gain entry by stealth. Silverloo stood beside Canterbourne and looked up at him inquisitively.

  Canterbourne cast about the area, looking for some other means of getting into the manor, but it appeared as a fortress. He stared again at the door and its massive copper knocker. His English instinct was to knock, but this was not a polite call.

  Silverloo huffed at his indecision. Canterbourne continued to stall, leaning upon the door while he thought. Against his every expectation, it swung open, and he had to scramble to avoid falling over.

  He laughed at the luck of it as he and Silverloo walked in. He could see someone must be about, for candelabras were lit here and there in the entry room.

  He knew not where to go, but decided to embark upon the only course he knew, the maze-like path to the little parlour where he had waited on Orefados. The hallway was conveniently lit by torches.

  He noticed, as he wandered among the nasty little wall-carvings, that there was a trail of red ash on the floor. A feverish fear that it was some sort of trick gripped his mind, but he dispelled it. A trail of ash was some sort of guide, at least, and otherwise he knew not where he was going.

  The trail coincided with his own memorized course through the maze, but only so far. When he caught sight of the green door to the parlour, the ashes led off down another hallway. Silverloo, expelled a snort of disgust at the smell of the charred trail, but seemed bent upon following it.

  Canterbourne reasoned that the little dog may not be a blood hound, but he surely knew his mistress' scent. Trying to shake off his sense of unease, he turned into the ash-lined hallway.

  Chapter 28

  Elizabeth had just reached the bottom of the long staircase when she heard the sounds of voices from the abbey ruins above her. They must have discovered her escape. She willed her drug-sodden legs to move faster and leaped over the embankment of rubble that separated the pathway back to the manor from the beginnings of the mountain forest.

  She would not go back into the ugly stone building, for once within that maze they would have her at most advantage. She would take her chances running through the woods down the mountainside, for she had a sense of the general direction to her aunt and uncle’s house, and there were places to hide in the forest.

  She found a swath of thick brush that was far enough from the torches that it stood in shadow. She crawled underneath it to hide, calming her frantic breathing and willing her heart to pound more quietly.

  She listened intently for sounds of their approach down the staircase as she waited for her eyes adjust to the gloom. At length she heard them make it to the bottom of the stairs. The strange, fluctuating timbre of Orefados' voice came into her hearing. He was speaking another language.

  She could not be certain if he were talking to the servant, or if he were still reciting his mad incantations. But he seemed to pause at the edge of the embankment. Sweat trickled down her back, and she feared that she would vomit again.

  Was it her fear-crazed imagination, or was he raising his voice to proclaim something over the brushy forest in which she hid?

  “Adani xsayaiya maenad, xsayaiya ashtar, xsayaiya enkidu, xsayaiya magiya xsayaiya uvadaya!”

  The babbling was incomprehensible as always. Then to her relief, they passed on and disappeared into the foreboding mountain manor. She rolled over and retched for several minutes, before pulling herself out of the brush and beginning the long journey down the hillside toward her aunt and uncle's cottage.

  Chapter 29

  He and Silverloo had only just turned the first corner in the hallway, when Canterbourne heard the sounds of someone walking further along the winding hallway maze. His best chance for locating Miss Whitely would rely on his remaining undiscovered. He hastily retreated the way he had come, hoping Silverloo would follow.

  When he came back to the green door and opened it, he was thankful to see that the little dog skipped into the room just behind him, then lay down on the floor. He closed the door as quietly as he could and waited with his ear pressed to the painted wood.

  He could hear the sound of their approach, footfalls becoming louder, a voice becoming distinct. It was Orefados, but it took a moment for Canterbourne to discern that he was speaking Latin. No, not Latin, but some strange language. He thought of the little bookshelf with the language book upon it. Perhaps it was ancient Persian.

  When the voice was directly outside the door, it seemed to pause. Canterbourne's heart was pounding in his throat and he thought the whole world must be able to hear it.

  “Kosh daiwas, enkidu!” Orefados seemed to call through the door, as though proclaiming something to his unseen guest.

  Canterbourne thought for certain he had been discovered. His hand went to his sword. But then the voice proceeded onward in the dron
ing recitation of what evil Canterbourne knew not. But all the hairs were standing up on his arms, and he could no longer discount it as mere madness.

  He waited a few moments to be certain they had passed on, then exited the little parlour, Silverloo in tow.

  Chapter 30

  The sluggishness afflicting Elizabeth gradually lessened as she scrambled through the brush.

  And yet, as her body became more adept at moving through the branches and thorns, her mind began to play tricks upon her. Out of the corners of her eyes she detected figures moving about her in the shadows, and she began to hear little whispers at her ear as the night winds picked up.

  She broke out in a sweat and struggled to contain the panic that lurked in her heart. Finally the winds moved the thick layer of clouds that had covered the night sky, and the moon shone down, illuminating the forest-scape in a relief of glimmering silver light and inky shadows.

  Her heart leaped with hope as a narrow pathway lit up before her. She fought through the brush to make her way onto it. It looked like a little deer path, not large, but she could move upon it much more quickly than through the brush.

  When she set her foot upon it, the whisperings around her seemed to grow louder. She turned this way and that to try to see the blue orbs that caught her sight, just at the outskirts of her field of vision.

  The forest was haunted, she thought. Or perhaps that fiendish man had sent some further horror after her. Elizabeth ran down the path as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Chapter 31

  With increasing alarm, Canterbourne followed the trail of red ash through a door to the outside and up the winding mountain stairway that led to the ruins of the pale stone abbey, for which the estate was named.

  The white rock was all around and added to the impression that a sort of moral fungus spored out from the structure to invade the entire mountainside. A frigid alpine draft rushed down upon him, making him gasp as he took his first step up the stairway.

  Despair crept into his bones with the chill. Surely if she had been taken out to the abbey ruins, it must be for some violent purpose. It would be one thing for Orefados to have abducted her and taken her to his bedchamber—though the very thought filled Canterbourne with a violent rage. But to take her to this abandoned place could have no normal purpose.

  He thought of the awful state of Miss Berger. Could she have been imprisoned here too, among the fallen stones and cold drafts of the abbey, tied up like an animal? His only hope was that Miss Whitely had not been harmed. Perhaps Orefados had only terrorized her and tied her up, as he had done Miss Berger.

  But Orefados would pay the price if he had harmed Miss Whitely in any way. Canterbourne gripped his sword. By the law, or by his own hand, the vile creature would be made to know retribution.

  Silverloo barked at him, and Canterbourne went further into the ruins, where he spied a tunnel penetrating the rock. He retrieved one of the torches that lit the stairway.

  He had to bend over to enter the small mouth of the tunnel, but when he was through, he found that he stood in a stone hallway with a high ceiling. Silverloo watched him curiously and followed along. There was no more ash trail to follow, but the passage only went straight.

  Canterbourne’s misgivings only increased as he walked through the stone hallway. What might have happened to Miss Whitely? Was she in these ruins, or had he been led upon a preposterous chase? For all he knew she might very well be somewhere in the maze of Orefados' manor.

  He might be lost in this dank old pile of rocks, led upon a fool's errand by a trail of ashes, meanwhile anything might be happening to her. The thought was maddening.

  He was suddenly distracted from these unpleasant ruminations by a peculiar scent. It was a sort of sweet decay, like the smell of rotting flowers. He cast about for a source, but could see nothing but the bare stone of the hallway. Then, not thirty feet onward he encountered a sudden flash of colour among the monotonous grey tones of the rock.

  It was a great red curtain, which hung from ceiling to floor, cutting off his passage. As he approached, the smell grew stronger. He saw that it was, in fact, two curtains, through the middle of which one might pass, if one could suffer the nasty, stinking fabric to touch their skin.

  By the time he reached the curtains, the smell had ripened into the reek of cloying perfume and decay. It held at once within its bouquet the allure of every sensual sin, and the attendant terror of death and unending perdition. The carmine velvet of this drape was embellished in places with golden threads that formed little symbols, flashing here and there. The gold strands seemed to join together in some cohesive diagram, but only when one did not look at it directly.

  He braced himself and reached out a gloved hand to part the foetid cloth. Even Silverloo shuddered, but they passed uneventfully through to the other side.

  The hallway opened into a room, cluttered with various objects, but with no sign of Miss Whitely. As he looked about the litter and arcana, he recognized the remnants of an altar. This must be the part of the ruined abbey that had held the chapel.

  He did not think it was his Church of England prejudice that made him incapable of taking any divine solace in this place. It seemed abandoned in an absolute sort of way—not merely passed over and forgotten. It had been stricken from a great cosmic list somehow, and lay desolate in the hinterlands beyond divine grace.

  Off in one corner another set of curtains cowered in gloom. He walked to them and the light of his torch lit up the sheer saffron cotton like a bright paper lamp. Canterbourne parted the curtains and entered into a small room that might have once been an inner sanctum. The air was thick with the same wretched scent, and the walls seemed to close in on him.

  Miss Whitely was nowhere to be seen, but on one wall hung a mirror. Its surface was as black as ink, as though it had been aged and worn beyond the power of reflection. Was it perhaps not a mirror at all, but a framed mass of polished obsidian? And what should a mirror of any kind be doing within the ruined sanctuary?

  The entire vignette had the oily grime of Orefados' hand imprinted all over it.

  He moved closer to the mirror to examine it and discovered that the frame was not silver, as he had first thought. It was bone, long polished so that it shone, not only in the light of the torch, but also in odd patches within the recesses of its surface where no light should strike it. Strange symbols had been roughly carved into this skeletal frame.

  As he leaned closer, an occluded face began to stir and emerge from the inky surface of the mirror. At first he thought he was seeing his own image, but then was startled to see the visage of a stranger come forth.

  Canterbourne took a step back and grasped his sword hilt. The face was the sallow colour of an olive-complexed skin that never saw the sunlight meant to ripen it. Beneath the head sat the collar of a priest. And some special vestment or other that priests wore for particular ministrations and ceremonies showed just at the top of each shoulder.

  “Who is there?” The eyes stared, unseeing, out into the room. The voice sounded frightened rather than menacing.

  An idea formed in Canterbourne's mind, and curiosity made him overlook the strangeness of speaking to a mirror. “May I hazard a guess that you are Martinus?”

  A faint look of hope glimmered in the sallow face. “Do you know me, my lord?” Then the face grimaced into that of a crying child. “Oh do you know me?!” it howled. “And yet I cannot see you, but through a glass darkly. Oh am I so condemned? But justly so...”

  The face in the mirror continued on, wailing and uttering strange phrases in Latin, as it spiralled into a fit of madness and despair, oblivious to Canterbourne's presence.

  Canterbourne shook his head. The entire situation was mad. He could scarcely believe what he was experiencing. Yet he knew that what he was seeing was real, although cobbled together by what evil arts, he could not fathom.

  He felt such pity for the ill-fated monk, and such disgust for the fell hand that had imprisone
d him in his framed hell.

  There were sacraments laid out on a rock bench below the mirror. Or perhaps they would be sacraments, a sickly white wafer of some sort of bread and blood red liquid in a clay bowl, if they did not emanate corruption and stink of damnation.

  As he swayed under the impact of moral revulsion, it occurred to him that Orefados had plans this evening. It was with a purpose that the maniac had laid out these emblems and lit the pathway to the abbey ruin with rows of torches. Canterbourne shuddered. This was meant for Elizabeth. He knew it. But where was she? Had he come too early? Was she being prepared in some way before hand?

  He turned back to the cleric in the mirror, who was now only moaning to himself. “Martinus, you must help me.”

  “I cannot help you. I cannot help myself. All is lost...” He degenerated into his awful wailing again.

  “If you will help me, I shall try to find a way to help you. I shall bring your friend, Giuseppe Marano here—or at least tell him where you are. What of that?”

  The monk paused in his wailing. “Giuseppe? You know Giuseppe? He is here?”

  “He has taken up a hermitage in the local village, where he does penance for you.”

  Canterbourne had hoped this would soothe the imprisoned holy man, but instead he dissolved into tears and mournful self-reproach.

  “Oh, that he should do penance for me! He believes me dead, then?”

  “Yes. And he suspects that Orefados is responsible for your death. Are you,” Canterbourne paused, but could not think of a delicate way of putting it, “um, dead?”