by Monica Burns
Quietly, he moved up the flight of steps, continuing to hug the wall. The corridor stretched out a few feet past the stairs before it made a sharp left. Light flooded the small landing, and he pressed himself flat against the stone wall. Inching his way along the damp formation, he took a quick look around the corner then jerked back out of sight.
Bloody hell, who the devil was wearing a death mask of Sefu? It couldn’t be Standish. The man was a common foot soldier, nothing more. He didn’t have the knowledge needed to act as a high priest of the Sefu order. And the man he’d just seen wore the distinctive robe of a leader of the sect.
The markings embroidered on the long sleeves and floor-length garment proclaimed his high ranking within the cult. From the sinister mask that covered half of his face to the elaborate robe, the man was a Sefu priest, and a dangerous one. The worshipers of Seth in Sefu’s order believed in blood sacrifices.
And Jamie’s slender form on top of the room’s stone altar illustrated how far this madman seemed willing to go to satisfy the Egyptian god of chaos. Somehow, Constance had managed to get within a few feet of the giant slab of rock. But she was still too far away to save the boy. Despite her calm demeanor, he knew she was terrified. Plan. He needed a plan of action. Somehow he needed to distract the priest.
He took another quick look, his eyes focused entirely on the man wearing the black hippopotamus mask framed with writhing snakes. The man suddenly spoke to Constance, a sneering laugh in his voice, and Lucien froze. It was a familiar voice.
Edward.
The shock of it held him rigid. It wasn’t possible. He remembered all the times the man had sat at his table. All the times the man had comforted his grandmother, comforted him. Solicitous and caring every time death had darkened the keep’s doorstep.
The son of a bitch. His grandparents, his own parents, had welcomed the man into the family. That Edward had been from the wrong side of the blanket had meant nothing to any of the Blakemores. He had their blood. He was one of them despite society’s ridiculous rules. A slow, burning anger gripped him. It spread its way through every inch of him, until his fingers ached with the need to choke the life out of the man.
The invisible weight of his brother’s hands pressed against him, trying to hold him to the wall. He shook his head. Waiting for help wasn’t going to save Constance or Jamie. There was no telling how long it would take Duncan to reach this part of the labyrinth. His pistol cocked, he propelled himself around the corner. Leveling his weapon on the man he’d come to see as a father figure, he strode purposefully into the small room.
“Let them go, Edward.”
It was the soft click of another weapon being cocked that drew him up short. The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed into the side of his head. Closing his eyes, he uttered an expletive of fury. He was a fool. In his rage, he’d completely forgotten Standish.
“Your weapon, my lord.” There was a sadistic glee in the man’s voice as Lucien lowered his arm.
Beneath the mask on Edward’s face, Lucien saw the man’s mouth curl into a menacing smile. Lucien’s gaze shifted quickly to Constance, and the relief in her eyes renewed his determination not to fail her. On the slab, Jamie lay still, and for a moment, he thought the boy might be dead. Then he saw his chest rise and fall with a slow rhythm. Drugged no doubt. Beside him, Standish took his pistol from him.
“Well now, what a delightful family gathering. So reminiscent of old times, if I do say so myself.” Again the man smiled with malicious pleasure. “I suppose you don’t truly understand the meaning of that statement, do you Lucien?”
Glaring at the man, he struggled not to leap forward, all too aware of the gun Standish still held to his head. “I’m not going to let you hurt Constance or the boy.”
He suppressed his emotions as he watched the man who was threatening everything he held dear. Cruel laughter suddenly reverberated off the stone walls of the small room, and he tensed.
It was unlike any laugh he’d ever heard, and it sent a river of ice splashing through his veins. It was the laugh of a madman. Beside him, even Standish seemed to find the man’s laughter unsettling as he softly cleared his throat. The laughter died away as the priest’s eyes studied him with a gleam of insane hatred.
“Come now, Lucien, do you really think that after all this time and effort I’m going to let you stop me?” A savage contempt twisted the man’s mouth into a thin line. “I didn’t let your brother stop me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Narrowing his eyes, Lucien sent Edward a hard look.
Satisfaction curved the madman’s mouth as he shook his head. “My word, I really outdid myself with that story about the Blakemore curse. Nigel didn’t believe it, but you did, and apparently still do.”
“You seem to know quite a bit for a by-blow.”
The man’s malicious grin vanished into a hard, thin line. “And you’re a fool for thinking some ridiculous curse killed your family. I slit their throats. I’m the curse.”
The words washed over him with a surreal calm. Constance had been right. His parents had been murdered. And his grandfather? Had Edward killed him? He didn’t realize he’d spoken until he heard Edward’s cold laugh.
“Thomas, William, your father, all of them. It was vengeance. Simple vengeance for the woman who loved a Blakemore. She left everything to be with him. Her home, her family, and for what? To bear a bastard who would never inherit even his father’s name.”
“If you’re referring to Maibe, she was well cared for. She wanted for nothing. My father saw to that.”
“She didn’t want money,” Edward snarled. “She wanted the man she loved to marry her like he promised to do. Instead he pushed her aside and married one of his own kind. Then he put her in a lovely cage to visit her whenever he had the urge.”
“And so you justify killing innocent people as retribution for something that only affected you from the standpoint of your birth.”
The bizarre sight of the mask’s hippopotamus snout and the man’s feral grin created a grotesque picture of evil. “There are no innocents. Maibe taught me that. She showed me how the god Seth could give her justice if I followed the practices of his high priest, Sefu. She showed me how I could avenge her.”
Desperate for time, Lucien realized Standish had shifted his position again. With the gun barrel no longer aimed at his head, he might be able to gain the upper hand. If he could throw the man off balance without the gun going off—of course it would fire, and he’d most likely be shot. But the odds of him reaching Edward in time were better if he did something now than if he waited.
“And the boy? Constance? How do they come into this? They’re not Blakemores.” He swallowed hard at the thought of losing her. He was going to lose Constance the same way he’d lost everyone else.
“True, but I need an innocent’s blood for my sacrifice, and the boy’s power is such that Seth will be greatly pleased with me. As for the woman—” Edward extended his arm as he pointed at Constance, “—she’s seen too much.”
“You’re a fool.” Constance’s voice rang out strong and certain in the small, windowless room. “Seth will desert you.”
“Silence,” he thundered as he turned to face her. She shook her head as the back of her neck tingled. The familiar drop in temperature confirmed she was no longer alone, and it was evident to her that Nigel wasn’t alone either. The temperature was far colder than anything she’d ever experienced.
“He’s already deserted you,” she said quietly. “Don’t you feel it? The cold?”
“You lie!” Panic echoed in his voice as he stepped toward her.
“You know I have the soothsayer’s gift, and yet you doubt my words.” Constance tried not to flinch as he moved forward, her heart skipping a beat with terror as he pulled a familiar blade out of the long sleeve of his priest’s robe. “Seth has already deserted you.
The heat of Egypt and the mother sun will never grace this temple or shine on you.”
Through the mask she could see the fiery hatred glowing fiercely in his eyes. But his hatred slowly gave way to fear as the air between them grew icy, and her words blew out between them in small crystallized clouds. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a white mist forming, and she pointed to it.
“Look for yourself. Would Seth let them come for you? Would Seth let them seek their vengeance on you if he’d not deserted you?”
The mist began to take first one shape then another until six specters hovered in the space around her. She’d expected Nigel and the woman, but the other ghosts startled her. At the sight of them, he emitted a shout of rage and turned toward the altar. Horror swept through her as she saw his mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl.
No. Not Jamie. Racing forward, she threw herself past the madman and over her son’s small body as the blade sliced downward. The knife pierced her back with the force of a hard blow. The shock of it stunned her, and she swallowed hard to control the nausea welling up into her throat. Why didn’t it hurt?
She expected it to hurt more, but the only thing she really felt was a sickening sensation in the pit of her belly. The nausea fluttered through her—growing stronger. It even suppressed the sudden throbbing pain of the wound itself. With her body still shielding Jamie’s, she waited for another stabbing pain to slice through her back.
When it didn’t come, she looked over her shoulder to see the ghosts circling her attacker. Their white, misty forms swirled around him as their unseen strength prevented him from striking her again. With an inhuman screech of fury and fear, the man lashed out at his spectral attackers. Over and over again, he sliced the air around him only to have his serpentine blade hit nothing solid.
Still clinging to the stone slab, Constance watched the glistening blade slash through the air with a sense of detachment. Her blood. It was her blood making his knife shine so brilliantly in the half-light. The sight of it suddenly made her stomach roil, and the altar stone beneath her fingers grew warm and clammy.
God help her. She couldn’t pass out now. She couldn’t leave Jamie unprotected. As her legs wobbled, she fought to keep her grip on the altar. The sudden move sent pain knifing through her, and she whimpered softly. The sound of a scuffle off to her right made her turn her head, and she saw Lucien struggling to wrestle the gun from Standish.
Blood trickled down the stocky man’s chin from a split lip as they fought for control of the weapon. With a grunt, Lucien drove his fist into the other man’s face once more. Standish responded by crashing the butt of the pistol against the side of Lucien’s head.
Pain ricocheted its way down into Lucien’s neck from the blow. A growl of fury blew past his lips as he slammed his fist into Standish’s jaw one more time. The punch forced a loud whoosh of air from the man’s lungs, and he gave way enough for Lucien to wrestle him down to the floor. With one knee pressed into Standish’s back, Lucien risked a quick glance in Constance’s direction.
The ever-widening circle of blood on the back of her gown made his mouth go dry with fear. The size of it grew quickly as she sagged against the stone altar in her effort to continue shielding Jamie. Christ Jesus, if she died— No. He wouldn’t consider that possibility. He wasn’t about to lose her now. His gaze flitted toward Edward.
Enveloped in a dense white mist, the man seemed to be struggling with someone as he fought to raise his arm to strike another blow at Constance’s back. Bloody hell. A violent strength ripped through him as he yanked the revolver out of Standish’s hand and took aim.
The weapon fired, and the noise of it reverberated like a cannon blast in the small confines of the room. Unfazed, Edward continued to fight an unseen enemy in the white mist in his effort to attack Constance. Sweet Jesus, he’d missed. Desperation made his fingers clumsy as he struggled to cock the gun one more time. He raised the pistol to fire again just as Edward’s blade sliced downward. Before he could shoot, a second shot rang out. For several seconds, Edward stood frozen in place before the knife slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly against stone. A grotesque gurgle bubbled out of the man as he sank to the floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien saw Duncan entering the room. It was about bloody time. Releasing his hold on Standish, he didn’t bother to acknowledge his friend’s arrival as he scrambled across the floor to reach Constance. Less than two feet away from her, Edward lay on the floor with his mouth contorted like a dying animal. The strange mist settled around him, engulfing him as he uttered one last death cry.
With a soft moan, Constance slid toward the floor. The blood seeping through her gown wet his hand as he caught her in his arms. He bit back a shout of fear as he realized her injury might be worse than he expected. Gently he eased her downward until she was cradled in his arms. Her eyes fluttered open, and she released a gasp of pain.
“Jamie?”
“He’ll be fine, yâ sabāha.” Tenderly, he brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “Everything is going to be just fine.”
A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up into Duncan’s worried expression. “Let me take a look at her wound.”
Carefully, Lucien lifted Constance into an upright position as his friend knelt behind her. Fabric screamed a protest as Duncan ripped her gown apart at the wound’s entry site. The man’s gentle prodding of the area pulled an agonized moan from Constance.
“For God’s sake, Duncan.” Lucien glared at him.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no easy way to do this.”
Duncan sent him a grim look as Constance went limp against his chest. Relief surged through him. At least unconscious she wouldn’t feel anything. He watched his friend’s expression as Duncan sank back onto his heels and tugged at his shirt.
“It’s a deep wound, but she’ll be fine as long as we staunch the bleeding. The real danger is if she loses too much blood,” Duncan said grimly as he ripped a strip of material off the bottom of his shirt and folded it into a flat bandage. “Here, hold this against the wound and keep constant pressure on it.”
“And the boy?” Lucien jerked his head toward the altar. With a nod, Duncan rose to his feet and stepped around the altar to check on Jamie.
“He’s been drugged, but I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s breathing easily enough,” Duncan said with a note of relief in his voice. Clearing his throat, he sighed. “Sad thing that, a father having to kill his own son.”
Stunned, Lucien turned his head to see a grief-stricken Edward gingerly lifting the Sefu death mask off Oliver’s face.
Chapter Seventeen
Moonlight dusted the gardens below as Lucien stared out the window of Constance’s room. His shoulder pressing into the wooden framework, he shifted his position slightly and winced. The move tugged at his sore ribs and back. Straightening, he turned his head to look at the bed where Constance was sleeping. It had been several hours since the doctor had left, but the laudanum he’d given her was still working. A small fire burned behind the firebreak as he sank down into one of the large chairs facing the hearth.
Elbows resting on his thighs, he pressed his chin against his interlaced fingers as he stared into the flames. The past few hours had been charged with emotion. Shock from Oliver’s betrayal, guilt over his mistaken thoughts about Edward, fear for Constance and the subsequent horror of watching Oliver try to kill her.
There would be another inquest. He welcomed the thought with a sense of relief. The Blakemore men would no longer be considered deranged madmen suffering from a family blood curse. And it would set him free. Free to love Constance.
He reclined back in his chair. For the first time since he was a boy, he actually felt a sense of wonderment and hope. The Blakemore curse didn’t exist.
The freedom the thought gave him was so new he kept expecting someone to say it was a mistake. To think he woul
dn’t sink into madness made him feel as though a great weight had been lifted off his chest. A weight that had been present from the moment he saw his parents lying dead in the library. Murdered by his cousin.
The idea still staggered him. God, how had his cousin managed to keep everyone in the dark for so long? Even Edward had been blind-sided by Oliver’s murderous insanity. In the space of only a few hours, Edward had aged more than twenty years. He looked old and beaten down. Guilt twisted his insides as Lucien remembered how he’d thought Edward had been the one threatening Constance.
He wasn’t the only one experiencing guilt. Edward was struggling with the fact that he’d been forced to shoot his own son to save Constance. They said losing a child was devastating because one should never outlive one’s children. For Edward, he’d not only outlived his son, he’d been forced to kill him as well.
With a sigh he rubbed the underside of his chin. His cousin had hid his murderous tendencies so well, not even his father suspected. He couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen when he’d killed the first time. The thought of a child committing such a heinous crime didn’t occur to anyone. Ironically the statue of Seth everyone had looked for over the years had been in Oliver’s possession all along. He’d killed his grandfather and uncle to possess the damn thing. But it wasn’t just the statue of Seth or the papyrus he’d wanted.
No, Oliver had wanted retribution for his grandmother’s dishonor and shame. Vengeance for the one thing he could never own—the Blakemore name. Maibe had done her work well with her grandson. She’d filled Oliver with hate and her own desire for revenge. But when had his hatred become insanity? And it could only be labeled madness simply because of Oliver’s conviction that a human sacrifice would gain him magical powers.