Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  "Lillian!" I shrieked into the holocaust, but silence was my only answer. I knew I should try to find her, try to reach her room in the blinding horror, try to save Con's only sister. But all my life I'd had a desperate fear of fire, ever since I saw my best friend's house go up in flames with her parents screaming for help from the third floor windows, help that came too late for them.

  "Lillian!" I screamed once more, my voice hoarse from smoke and tears. And then I struggled down into the hall, one hand running along the terrifyingly hot walls, each step fearful that the next would plunge me into fiery nothingness.

  I came to the stairs sooner than I thought, and with foolhardy relief I took them two at a time, straight into the heart of the flames.

  But luck or God was with me. I knew the house well enough to be fairly sure of my surroundings. As the flames licked my skirts I ran through the hall and out into the cool, still night air to collapse, sobbing, into a snowbank.

  I don't know how long I lay there, the damp hissing against my smoldering skirts as Demonwood fell into flames. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, before I heard Lillian's voice.

  "Get up, Mary." I heard her speak, and I leapt up, overjoyed that she'd somehow managed to escape the destruction of Demonwood.

  "Lillian, thank God you're all right! I thought . . I took a joyful step toward her and then stopped short at the sight of the gun pointed straight at my breast.

  "You thought what, dear?" she questioned in her soft, gentle voice. "You thought I was trapped somewhere in that flaming wreck? It's unfortunate for you that I wasn't."

  "What do you mean?" I questioned inanely, suddenly, like a blind person given back her sight, able to see all too well what she meant.

  "You didn't drink your tea, Mary. That was very naughty of you, after all the trouble I went to to fix it. If you had you'd still be in there right now, and you would never have had to know anything. It would have been a painless death—you would have slept through it." She smiled then, a charming curve of her lips that with a sudden sharp, wrenching pain reminded me of her brother. "Come along now." She gestured toward the woods. "We haven't much time. The fire can be seen for miles around—I expect I'll have visitors before the hour's up. You'll have to be long gone by that time."

  "Gone where, Lillian?" I questioned dully.

  "Over Perry's Ledge with Con's other whore. You have to be punished. You can't be allowed to live, you know. Not after you tried to seduce my poor innocent brother. He's so susceptible to evil women."

  "Seduce him!" I exploded. "Lillian, nothing happened between Con and me."

  "You enticed him," she said sadly. "Looking up at him with those innocent green eyes, pretending to be Maeve when you thought you could get away with it. But you didn't know I was here to protect him from scheming hussies like you." She cocked the trigger. "Start walking."

  I had no choice but to do as she bid me. I stumbled through the snow, all the time acutely aware of the gun held in the plump, nervous little hands that were more accustomed to the intricacies of needlework than their weapon of death, of the avid, kindly eyes whose expression hadn't changed. "But they're going to hang him, Lillian. Unless you tell them the truth . . ."

  "I've thought about that," she admitted, in an entirely rational tone of voice. "And I've decided it's better for him to die a martyr's death than continue to profane his body and soul with evil sluts like you and Maeve. After he's gone I'll raise Daniel and this time there'll be no one to interfere."

  "Does Connell have any idea that you . . . that you . . ." I couldn't complete the sentence, so bizarre was the very idea.

  "Oh, I'm sure he knows. He's suspected for years, but Maeve's death was the final proof. So he'll go to his death protecting me, a final act of love and devotion."

  There was nothing I could say to her madness. It was the night of the full moon, but the angry clouds scudding across the sky blotted it out, so that the light along the dark, tree-lined path was fitful at best. The smell of wood-smoke was strong in my nostrils as we climbed, and I kept my eyes darting into the trees, wondering if I dared to try escaping into the underbrush.

  "Besides," she continued suddenly, prodding me in the small of my back with the gun, "other people have begun to suspect." She laughed softly, and my skin crawled. "And then, what with Cyril dying such an untimely death, and then Maeve . . . I need a scapegoat."

  "Cyril?" I stopped short, aghast. "The Colonel?"

  "Of course," she answered coolly. "Keep moving, my dear. He wanted to marry me. Con was pushing me until there was no way I could escape. So Cyril had to die." We had reached the knoll at that moment, and suddenly, as if on cue, the moon came out, bathing the woods and the breathtaking view in front of us with a silvery light.

  "I wish it didn't have to be this way, Mary," she said sadly, with real regret in her voice. "If you'd only taken my warning, kept away from my brother, it would have been all right. I thought you were safe— he'd never shown any interest in inexperienced little girls before. But I was wrong, and in that I'm partly to blame for this." She poked me in the back again with the gun.

  "And now, Mary, you must jump. They'll assume you died in the fire and a sad thing it will be. Or if they ever find your body, they will simply think you decided you couldn't live without Con and killed yourself."

  "With a bullet in my back, Lillian?" I questioned grimly.

  "Oh, no. You'll jump of your own accord—I won't have to shoot you. After all, what do you have to live for, with Con dead?"

  I turned to her, desperate for anything to stop the quiet stream of madness issuing from her mouth. "But I'll be with him, Lillian. I'll be with him throughout eternity."

  "No, you won't!" she shrieked angrily. "He'll go to heaven and live with the angels like my dear Papa, and you'll go to hell like all sluts. Like Kathleen and Maeve and Mama." Her features were distorted with rage in the ghostly moonlight. "Jump!" she snarled. "Jump, damn you!" And she reached out her little hands and shoved with all her might, and I felt myself falling into blackness.

  Flinging out an arm in desperation, by some miracle I was able to grab onto a root growing from the edge of the cliff. I hung there, my feet dangling over the drop, with a now totally-crazed Lillian screaming imprecations to the winds. She leaned over the edge to try and pry loose my desperately clinging hands. She pulled one hand free of its lifehold, and I grabbed at her. My hand caught her ankle and pulled, and she tumbled over my head and down into the endless gully with one long, wordless scream.

  I don't know how long I hung there. It seemed like hours and yet later they assured me it was only a matter of seconds before hands were reaching down and pulling me back to solid ground once more. Where my dazed eyes met the blank, unreadable ones of Connell Fitzgerald. And then I finally gave up in a dead faint, rather than face the accusations I knew must be beneath his bleak, distant countenance.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next few days were nothing more than a blur. By the time we arrived at the small hotel in the little town of Lyman's Gore I was delirious with fever, and it was three days before I took a lucid breath. All the while Constable Hardy and Connell and Peter waited to hear what had taken place at the now charred remains of Demonwood. When I finally regained consciousness, I was allowed a bowl of chicken broth and a bracing cup of coffee (I gagged at the thought of tea) before I was plied with a thousand questions from the officials of northern Vermont, and indeed, by that time their patience had worn thin.

  I gave my story in short, succinct terms, as emotionlessly as possible, all the time wondering how Con would react as I betrayed his sister.

  "It's all as Mr. Fitzgerald finally told us," Constable Hardy proclaimed importantly as the clerk took down my testimony, and I felt a small measure of relief. "Who would have thought sweet Miss Lillian had so much evil in her?" He took off his hat and scratched his ginger hair. "It's a wonder to me how people act the way they do, it surely is. Why, I would have bet ten dollars that
Connell Fitzgerald was the murderer. Just goes to show you never can tell." And he wandered from the small bedroom where I was holding court, shaking his head dubiously.

  A sober, official-looking gentleman took my weak hand in his thin, dry one and pressed it sympathetically. "We all thank you for your assistance in this dreadful and tragic matter, Miss Gallager. We'll leave you alone to rest now. In the meantime, there's a gentleman here who's been spending every spare minute by your bed during the last three days. I'm sure you'll want to thank him personally for his concern." And to my surprise he winked.

  My heart began to pound wildly. "But I. . . I must look a fright." »

  "My dear, you look charming," he assured me in a fatherly fashion. "I'll send him in." And suddenly the room was empty of all those large, strange men, and I sat up dizzily, alive with joy and anticipation. Then he must have forgiven me.

  But the strain I had been under, combined with my weakened condition, totally undermined my self-control, so that when Peter Riordan walked into the room, smiling, sure of his welcome, I burst into tears.

  "I guess it wasn't me you wanted to see," he said wryly, throwing himself into the chair beside my bed, his mouth drooping with just a trace of petulance.

  "I'm sorry, Peter," I hiccuped bravely, mopping my streaming eyes with his gallantly offered handkerchief. "I thought. . . I thought . . ."

  "You thought it was" Con," he said flatly, the light gone from his face and his warm brown eyes turned flat and hopeless. "Perhaps you should know, Mary, that after they brought you in he stayed just long enough to hear you were out of danger. And then he went to Stonewalls to fetch Daniel and we haven't seen or heard from him since. You could have died for all he cared."

  By sheer strength of will I stopped the copious tears from flowing. I blew my nose defiantly in Peter's handkerchief. "I'm not surprised," I replied with as much calm as I could manage under the circumstances. "There's no reason why he should care."

  "He's a selfish, ungrateful brute," Peter started angrily, but immediately I hushed him.

  "What's he got to be grateful for?" I demanded fairly. "I lied to him, helped his wife cheat on him, and believed him capable of murder. I don't find those very admirable things."

  "His damned crazy sister nearly murdered you."

  "That wasn't his fault," I sighed. "Where do you think they are, Peter?"

  "At the old farm," he replied after some hesitation. "Con never wanted to build Demonwood, you know, never wanted to move from the little place. It was all Kathleen's idea."

  "Oh, yes, Kathleen."

  "I suppose that's another part of his problem, Mary. We had a long talk about her before he took Daniel away. I thought it might bring him some peace, to know for sure that she died pure."

  I laughed then, a harsh, bitter sound in the still bedroom under the eaves. "So now she's Saint Kathleen for sure. And she can be enshrined forever in his memory as the one good woman he knew. I wish him joy of her."

  "Mary!" Peter protested, shocked. "Kathleen was a wonderful woman."

  "I know that full well," I said wearily, leaning back against the soft feather pillows. "And I know that in death she'll be a much more powerful adversary than in life. You'll have to forgive me, Peter. I don't know what I'm saying. It's just that I'm sick with jealousy."

  "You love him that much, do you?" There was fresh despair in Peter's face.

  I hesitated for only a moment. "Yes, I suppose I do. But don't you dare to tell him, Peter Riordan. It's too late for us anyway—I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's broken my heart."

  "And you're so sure he doesn't love you?"

  "As sure as the day is long, Peter," I said quietly. And suddenly the door was flung open and six brothers streamed into the room, all talking and shouting and demanding answers at the same time.

  "What the hell have you been doing to yourself?" Seamus demanded, folding me into a bear hug that left my ribs cracked. "Is it trying to kill yourself you are? When I got Connell's telegram I thought I'd choke. I warned you no good would come of this feather-brained notion. You're supposed to be old enough to take care of yourself. And what does Con think he's doing, letting you fall into the clutches of his crazy sister? I'd like to thrash him within an inch of his life if it weren't for the poor man being a newly made widower once more. And him with a young boy on his hands, too!" He continued in this vein as one by one my brothers embraced me, criticizing me for my lack of self-preservation. "We've come to take you back home, girl," Stephen said finally. "You've had enough of the fancy Fitzgeralds, I would think."

  Fresh tears filled my eyes, symptomatic of my weakened condition. "Aye, that I have," I agreed unhappily. "More than enough."

  Once the Gallager brothers made up their minds there was no stopping them. The castoff clothing donated by suddenly helpful and sympathetic townspeople was packed in two capacious carpetbags and before twenty-four hours had elapsed I was back in

  Cambridge, with Pauline and company bustling around me, cosseting me and letting me cry copious tears on their comforting shoulders. Peter had taken my rejection of his suit quite nobly, promising to visit me soon and swearing at the very least eternal friendship. I could tell my brothers didn't think much of him, and I was doubly relieved that I hadn't succumbed to my momentary cowardice and accepted his proposal. Even Daniel came to see me off on the train, tears in his eyes, promising he would come and stay with me as soon as his father would let him. But of Con there was no trace.

  The next two weeks were not the happiest either for me or for the long-suffering Gallagers. As the days passed my despair and depression grew instead of lifting. Connell Fitzgerald showed no tendency to disappear from my dreams, even if I could successfully wipe him from my daytime thoughts.

  "What you need is a man," Pauline would suggest stoutly, and as my loneliness grew I decided I had to take some action or I would end up screaming mad like poor, hopeless Lillian.

  It was a fresh spring day in late March—one of those warm, windy days that give out false promises of winter's early ending. But I was ever one to be lured on by false promises, and found myself out on the Cambridge streets for the first time since November, on my way to visit Michael Flynn and his constant devotion. It seemed the best option open to me, and I stifled my pangs of conscience. I was due for a well- deserved shock.

  "Mary, darlin', how glorious to see you!" he greeted me with an exuberant hug that in no way pleased the watery blonde hovering behind him in a proprietary manner. "I've been meaning to come see you this age, but I've been up to my ears in work. And how did you like hobnobbing with the rich folks up in Vermont?"

  "Considering that I almost met my death at the hands of those rich folks I find that question in very bad taste," I snapped with more than my usual acerbity, inwardly wondering why I wasn't crushed at the obvious failure of my evil plans. My eyes met the coldly challenging milky-blue ones of the overdressed lady, and Michael followed their direction with a small troubled expression on his dumb, handsome face.

  "Oh, Mary, I want you to meet Lotti Sorensen. You remember my boss, Mr. Sorensen, don't you? This is his daughter," he said unnecessarily, obviously ill at ease.

  Miss Sorensen had no such qualms. "We're engaged," she announced abruptly, staking her claim.

  A small spurt of mischief ran through me. I could take him away with just a wave of my finger, and then as suddenly as the devilment came it vanished, leaving me with the same ever-present, cold, lonely depression. "I hope you'll be very happy," I said woodenly, and then summoned up my best smile. "And I'm glad for you Michael. Truly."

  But I wasn't so glad for myself. It serves you right, I told myself sternly as I walked the long streets back to Seamus's house through the bright sunshine. You would have taken him to try and ease your pain, to provide children for you, and that would have done neither of you any good. You're nothing but a wicked, selfish girl, and you deserve the troubles you've brought on yourself.

  A few more bl
ocks in this vein and I was almost in tears. So caught up was I in my extravagant self-pity that I failed to notice the elegant hack standing outside my brother's house in the warm spring sunshine. As I felt the sun pour down upon my head I thought back to the snow-bound fastness of Vermont, where spring wouldn't come for another month yet, and a spurt of anger ran through me. Damn him, I thought, and damn me and" damn everybody! And I kicked open the kitchen door.

  Well, the Gallagers were all very merry this afternoon, I thought sourly, listening to the sounds of laughter issuing forth from the front parlor. Little do they care that their only sister is dying of a broken heart. At least I had the small consolation that none of them knew the cause of my evil bad temper—except Pauline, of course.

  They had all told me, without even knowing the problem, that I would soon get over it. "Time is the fastest healer," Seamus intoned, and was very lucky I didn't hit him. For two weeks now I had alternated between quiet despair and the foulest, blackest mood that had ever been seen this side of the Atlantic, and deep inside the wall of hatred and pain I. was truly grateful for their forbearance toward such an unhappy witch of a girl.

  "Oh, there you are, Mary." Pauline bustled into the kitchen with a tray full of empty cups and saucers. "Your brothers are having a family conference again, so needless to say it's enough of coffee they've had and on with the whiskey." She shook her pretty head in mock despair. "And God knows when we'll be having dinner." She smiled, and there was a secret smugness about it that immediately alerted me.

  "And what are they having a family conference about?" I demanded suspiciously. "It wouldn't by any chance be about me, would it?"

  "Whist, now! You'll be thinking you're the center of everyone's attention, and indeed, you're only the center of your own. Though, as a matter of fact, this time you're right." And she let out a little trill of mirth.

  "Pauline O'Brien Gallager, how dare you laugh!" I said in hushed fury, having reached the end of my tether. "What are they in there deciding?"