Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1)

by Grace Callaway

  I watched, numb with horror, as he knelt there, skewering the creature to the cross. A chant emerged from his lips. The ancient cadence evoked a primal awareness in me, raised goose-bumps over every inch of my skin.

  Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde.

  I exorcise thee, every unclean spirit.

  The woman's head snapped up; she was hideous now, her skin mottled with darkness, the poison of her soul being pulled to the surface. Her lips peeled back in a snarl. Hux continued his growling rhythm, his free hand making the sign of the cross.

  Tu autem effugare, diabole. Appropinquabit enim judicium Dei.

  And to you, O devil, begone.For the judgment of God is at hand.

  She was writhing now against the cross, yowling like a maddened animal. "Release me! The Mother help me—"

  In nomine Dei, patris omnipotentis, et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti.

  In the name of God the Father Almighty, and in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord and Judge, and in the power of the Holy Spirit.

  Her gaze pounced on mine, held to it like the last desperate ledge before the fall. Her voice exploded in my head. Though her lips were not moving, her pleas echoed in my ears. Shuddering, I tore my eyes away.

  Beneath Hux's hand, the hilt of the sword began to glow silvery blue. The light blazed between his fingers, then a spark shot up the blade and into the screaming creature. For an instant, it lit her from the inside out. I blocked my eyes, the shock of light too dazzling to bear. Her dying cries reverberated in my ears.

  When quiet settled, I took a shaky breath and peered out. Hux had risen to his feet, his chest moving heavily. With both hands, he grasped the hilt; I cringed as he yanked it from the slumped figure. To my shock, no blood flowed. In fact, there was not so much as a mark where the sword had penetrated the flesh. My eyes widened as they travelled over the spotless silver blade and back to the smooth torso turned alabaster once more. I looked to her cheek; it, too, had regained its youthful, unblemished perfection. Her lips were rosy and plumped with blood.

  "How can that be?" I gasped.

  Hux's eyes met mine. They were as cold and bleak as the winter sky.

  "There's no time to explain now," he said. "Help me gather her things. We must act before she awakens."

  TWENTY

  The next few hours passed in a daze of unreality. Mayhap it was that surreal aura which enabled me to function with a degree of competence. I followed his instruction as I always had, as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred. As Hux unchained the woman from the cross, I doused the candles with sparkling liquid from the flask he had handed me. Silver vapors danced upward to the ceiling. I stored the sword and chains in a trunk and held the door open as he carried her out from that place.

  When we arrived through the darkness back into his chamber, he placed her upon the bed. He departed to his dressing room, returning with a dressing gown. Without speaking, he placed it over my shoulders. I quickly tied the garment, hiding my nakedness with shaking hands. Then I did as he bade: I arranged the still-breathing body upon the mattress to appear as if she had indulged in a night of passion rather than one of supernatural horror. All the while, he attended to the room, righting the furniture and gathering the candles and other paraphernalia I did not recognize.

  Numb though I was, I could feel the warmth of the woman's skin as I tucked her into the bed. I smoothed her tangled golden brown hair—soft now—from her forehead and tried to quell the quiver in my stomach. Dear heavens, what had happened to her? She was undoubtedly human again, and she was beginning to stir. Her lips parted on an unquiet sigh. Trembling, I lowered the bed curtains and backed away.

  I jerked at the touch upon my shoulder; I spun to face him.

  Hux had tossed a shirt on. It hung unbuttoned, soft panels parted to hard, shadowy ridges. His jaw held the grimmest edge I had ever seen, and the arm that had reached for me remained suspended in the air. Slowly, his hand curled into a fist and dropped to his side.

  "You are not hurt?" His voice was raw, gravelly from exertion or pain.

  "No," I managed. "You?"

  He shook his head, his gaze held to my throat. I realized my necklace lay revealed above the V of the dressing gown. His dressing gown. My throat flexed as if he was touching me there; I could feel human warmth emanating from the tiny cross.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "It was my mother's," I said. "It came to me ... after she died."

  His eyes leveraged to mine, a deep and violent blue. "'Tis powerful protection, a mother's love."

  I swallowed. My voice felt trapped beneath the small weight of the charm. A rustling came from behind the bed curtains, followed by a faint moan.

  "You must go now, Abby." As his gaze swung to the bed, I saw it harden. Tension rippled the planes of his chest. "She will soon awaken."

  My voice freed itself. "Sh-she is not dead? You have not killed her?" I knew the answer, yet my brain could not right itself around that reality.

  "No. 'Tis not her I have killed. I can't explain now—but I will, I promise. I ... I owe it to you." He broke off and looked away. Despite the urgency of the situation, I understood how difficult the words were for him to say. He was not a man to be indebted. In truth, the last thing I wanted was his obligation.

  "You don't owe me anything," I said.

  His gaze returned to mine. For an instant, the terrible longing there pulsed between us, potent as the smoting glow of the sword. My breath hitched.

  Dark lashes lowered. The knuckles of his fists whitened.

  "Lucien," came a groggy voice from the bed, "Lucien, is that you?"

  "Go now," he said roughly, still not looking at me. "I will come to you when this is finished."

  I was only too relieved to comply.

  *****

  Dawn came and went. As I sat against the pillows, my knees hugged to my chest, I was scarcely aware of the returning day. My mind was occupied with the incredible events of the hours past. I now had inexorable proof that my visions were real. No longer could I doubt my own sanity or those of my unfortunate ancestors. I ought to have been rejoicing; instead, I experienced a spreading terror. If I was not insane, then what was it that I had seen?

  In the visions involving Lady Priscilla and Mrs. Cunningham, I'd supposed their wickedness to be mortal in origin. Perversions of a human order. Yet there was nothing human about the thing in the tower. I heard again the echo of the creature's dying words. The ones that had exploded in my head moments before she perished.

  Help me. Don't let him do this. Help me, please ...

  I shuddered, pulling my knees in tighter. Why did this supernatural evil speak to me so keenly? Why was it that I heard what no one else did? Could there be some kind of connection between those ghastly creatures ... and me?

  Icicles pricked my nape, and I shoved away the thought. I had no affinity with the vile beings, whatever they were. All my life, I'd fought against them, against the metaphysical assaults they'd launched upon me. I felt an affirming tingle at my throat, and I touched the necklace. Since the encounter in the tower, the cross had hummed with a pleasant, barely perceptible vibration. 'Twas an ambient warmth, a hidden energy, that it had never evinced before. Though I did not understand the charm's new power, its resilience seemed to bolster my own. I did not feel as alone as I once had. Mayhap it was as Hux had said: a mother's love was formidable protection.

  The scratching sound made me start. A cheerful voice followed.

  "It's Maggie, Miss Jones. Gotcha breakfast wif me."

  Wiping the dampness from my cheeks, I called her in. I experienced a bewildered sort of gladness seeing Maggie set a tray upon the table and proceed to tidy the room. She palavered the whole time. Everything so normal, so routine. It could have been that last night had never happened. I let her guide me to the vanity and assist me with my toilette.

  "I ne'er slept so sound in m'entire life," she declared a
s she ran a brush through my hair. "Why, yer bed were as soft as a baby's ar—arm. Like the bloke in that story, I could 'ave slept fer years an' woke to find evry'one turned all grey an' withered."

  "You didn't wake once?" I managed to ask.

  "Not at all." The soothing strokes eased some of the tightness from my scalp and neck. "An' I ne'er thought to sleep so well, on account o' the ghosts."

  I tensed. "Ghosts?"

  "Oh, all the folk talk about it in the village," she said cheerfully. "His lor'ship's dead wife what wanderin' the Great Hall. Rumor 'as it one o' the footmen saw 'er 'imself. An unrestful spirit, they say."

  I shivered. Little did they know.

  "Anyways, I can put all that prittle-prattle to rest, can't I? Not a sound, not even a mouse did I 'ear. There now, I got that hair o' yers all pretty an' nice. Don't it look be'er this way? Not so pulled back, but looser like. Suits you, Miss, if I do say so meself."

  I had paid no attention as she'd dressed me; now I studied the looking glass. I felt as if I was looking at someone else. The woman in the mirror looked calm, pretty even, with her brown hair gathered in a loose chignon, tendrils hanging at the ears. Large grey eyes dominated her pale face.

  "You do need a spot o' color, you do," Maggie said. "I 'ave some paint—"

  "No. No paint." Seeing her crestfallen expression, I collected myself and said, "You've done a lovely job, and I'm much obliged, Maggie."

  She brightened. "Me sister-in-law's a ladies maid. She's taught me a few tricks o' the trade."

  "You'd do well at it," I said.

  "Gor, who'd take me on?" Ducking her head, she walked over to the armoire. "Hmm, now that's strange. I can't seem to fin' yer dark dress, Miss. The one you were wearin' jus' yesterday."

  Mayhap because it was incinerated by eyes of flame.

  "Seems like you'll 'ave to wear the new one," she said in innocent tones.

  What choice did I have? At this point, it was either that or go as I was born. And after everything that had happened, wearing the elegant gown seemed a rather minor concern.

  "Bring it over, then," I said, sighing.

  Maggie clapped with glee. With amazing proficiency, she helped me into the new undergarments and frock. She took care to put minimal stress on my left arm, though, I realized with some surprise, she needn't have worried. My arm did not seem at all bothered by last night's exertions. I moved it this way and that. How could it be? I felt no pain at all. Indeed, my arm seemed good as new.

  Maggie gave a low and very unlady-like whistle. "Oh, Miss, 'tis a picture you are!"

  Dragging my attention from the miracle of my healed limb, I looked at my reflection. I could not disagree with her. I had never looked finer than in this violet gown. Its rich hue lent my face color; its stylish lines hid the plainness of my figure. If only it could transform the depths beneath the surface and make me normal, like everyone else.

  "Thank you, Maggie," I said, pressing the heels of my hands over my eyes. "Now if you wouldn't mind I'm tired—"

  I stopped, hearing the creak of hinges, a door opening on this floor. Then the voices: one male, the other unmistakably female. There was laughter, flirtatious and floating, as their footsteps descended the stairs.

  "I reckon his lor'ship's company's leavin'," Maggie whispered with a wink. "What wif 'er in the 'ouse this whole time, you didn't need no chaperone after all. That ought t' set those waggin' tongues to rest once an' fer all, don't ye think?"

  "I suppose." I heard the approach of the carriage, the opening of the front door. I experienced a burning need to assure myself that last night had not been some sort of lucid dreaming. "Maggie, could you go to the window and describe her? I ... I am rather curious."

  I didn't have to ask twice. Maggie sprang eagerly to the window. Parting the sheer under-curtain, she peered outside. "Oooh, 'ere she comes, Miss. She's a beauty, that's fer sure. Got brown 'air wif sunbeams streaked through an' bosoms to make a girl green wif envy."

  "She appears well?" I managed to ask. "Not ... ill or anything?"

  Her eyes glued to the action below, Maggie snorted. "Looks spritely as a filly after a good ride."

  "Oh," I said faintly.

  "'Is lor'ship's seein' 'er off now. 'E ain't gettin' in wif her, though. I reckon 'e's 'ad enough o' 'er—what wif the way she's clingin' like some o'ergrown ivy—"

  "Thank you, Maggie. That's enough," I said.

  She released the fabric panel with obvious reluctance and turned to tidying the room. My heart was pounding. I could not stem the images rushing into my head. A delectable female form curled beneath the covers. His shirt, open and loose. What had passed since I had left Hux's chamber this morning? I shook away the ridiculous notions. How could I be thinking such things? How could I trouble myself with petty jealousies when confronted with a multitude of greater concerns?

  What had possessed this woman who now walked and flirted in the daylight? Why had Hux brought her to that chamber and performed that ... ritual? And why had that iniquitous force spoken so directly to me?

  I heard familiar footsteps, the unmistakable stride. I had expected him to come for me; even so, I quaked at the rapping on the door. Maggie flew to open it.

  Hux entered. Freshly shaven, he appeared his usual magnificent self in a claret jacket and checked waistcoat. Despite everything, pleasure curled up my spine to see him. My employer, my Hux, alive and well.

  He flicked his gaze, intense and unreadable, over me before giving a curt bow. "Good day, Miss Jones. I trust you slept well?"

  "Yes, my lord." I understood the pretense, and yet I had to struggle to maintain my composure. Aware of Maggie's fascinated gaze, I gave a little cough. "And yourself?"

  "Passably so. I should like to speak to you about your work on the library. It is an urgent matter that cannot wait. Will you meet me there in a quarter hour?"

  On the surface, his request was entirely circumspect—that of employer to employee. But I felt the undercurrent passing between us. The waves of anticipation and dread. "Yes, of course."

  "Excellent. I shall see you then, Miss Jones." He turned to Maggie. "And you, Miss Little, I trust your first night here passed without disturbance?"

  I could see Maggie's shock at being directly addressed by the earl and so virile and handsome a one at that. Her cheeks turned pink. She gawked at him for several moments before finding her voice.

  "Oh yes, milord. I mean, thank ye, milord. 'Twas perfectly fine."

  "I am glad to hear it," Hux said. To me, he added, "A quarter hour, Miss Jones."

  And then he was gone.

  "Oh, my," Maggie breathed, as she closed the door, "'is lor'ship is a powerful charmer, ain't he?"

  She did not know the half of it.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I entered the library as I had so many times before. Yet there was a new hesitance to my approach—an awareness that everything had changed between the man standing in front of the fireplace and myself. I paused at the threshold, my throat tightening as I took him in. He had his forearm propped against the mantle, his strong physique bent as he contemplated the fire. He lifted his head; flames continued to leap in his eyes as he stared at me. Slowly, I closed the door behind.

  "Abigail," he whispered.

  My heart ached to hear my name from his lips. But I did not move. Time seemed to crystallize between us; only the snap and crackle of the fire marked its passage.

  "Please, you must sit," he said finally. "You should not be standing so recently after your injuries."

  Though I could not explain it, the wounds I had sustained a week ago had healed completely. 'Twas not only my arm that no longer ached: my entire body from head to toe felt as limber as it ever had. As I walked to the settee Hux indicated, my feet moved in a strangely innervated step.

  I sat, and, after a moment, Hux took the wingchair adjacent to me. Brim-full of emotion, I found I could not look at him. My eyes went first to the portrait above the fire, but the smirking smile—so eerily famili
ar to the one I had seen last night—twisted my insides. I redirected my gaze to the fireplace, the play of gargoyles and roses in stone, and tried to calm my pounding heart.

  "Abigail, please. Look at me."

  The deep resonance of his voice flowed powerfully through me. Nerves needling with pleasure and fear, I did as he asked. His eyes captured me as they had always done; they washed everything away, everything but my awareness of him. I was drowning in those depths of blue. Drowning as I had been since the very first time we met, though I had tried to hide this fact from myself. From him. Lord only knew I could not bear his revulsion—or his pity.

  "Abby," he said, "how did you find me last night?"

  Uncertainty gripped me. I thought of the disgust and fear which had greeted my abnormality in the past, and my mouth went dry. I loved him; would he despise me if he knew? If I told him I could hear the voices of evil in my head, that I could feel their sensations, that their foul lusts possessed me ... Sweet heavens, he would be repulsed! Mayhap he would think I was allied with these demonic spirits ...

  Quaking, I knew I could not tell him—not until I had answers for myself. Self-preservation, the habit of a lifetime, took over. "I—I heard the screaming from my room. Your door was open, and I went in. The door to the—the passageway was ajar, so I followed the sound of the voices to the tower room."

  I waited, my heart rampaging in my chest. As lies went, 'twas not an accomplished one. My true reactions I could hide with a degree of proficiency; outright lying was another matter completely. How I wished I had thought ahead to fabricate a more elaborate tale. Biting my lip, I bore his slow scrutiny as best as I could, certain that the fire on my cheeks would give me away.

  Apparently he believed me, for after a moment he asked, "Do you hate me?"

  Hate him? My chest seized in a bittersweet spasm. He did not know my heart, then; for this one mercy, I should be glad. "No," I said in suffocated voice. "I don't hate you."

  "You should. I would not blame you if you did. Only—" he stopped, his fingers gripping his thighs. "There are things I must tell you, things I have never shared with another living being. I owe it to you, Abby—you, who have seen me through unnatural horror." His stark gaze pinned me. "And yet I fear to tell you; I fear to burden you with the sins of my soul."