She laughed, the sound rich and appealing. "Don' you know it. Ol' Roderick there used to 'ave the run o' the 'ouse 'til the neighbors complained 'bout the squawking. Can't say I mind—'im was a nasty brute, despite them fine feathers. But wait 'til you meet the wombat. 'E's 'round 'ere somewhere."
"The wh—" I began, when I felt a sharp yanking on my skirt.
I looked down and screamed.
The giant-rat-tiny-bear-creature grinned up at me.
"Don't mind Willy," said a new male voice. "He's just curious about visitors."
Hux had already shooed the thing away, and it—Willy—lumbered off with a little smile on his furry face.
"Rossetti," Hux said as he stood to shake hands.
"Earl Huxton," the portly man replied, "a pleasure, a pleasure. Please, have a seat. Dear Elephant, haven't you served them tea yet?"
My mouth gaped at the awful endearment.
"Not yet, Rhino," came Fanny's nonchalant reply. "'Ad to entertain them, didn't I, since you were takin' yer sweet time."
"I'm here now," Rossetti pointed out.
With a grunt, Fanny departed.
"Women," he said. Then his eyes shifted to me.
His was an arresting face, despite the weight and lines that the years had added. On the ride over, Hux had filled me in on the details he knew about Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Half-Italian and half-English, Rossetti had been known as a hot-blooded man in his youth. His paintings of mystical women, sensual and undeniably erotic to the eye, continued to fire the imaginations of those who purchased them.
The painter bowed before me. He was a portly man no taller than five feet seven or eight, yet his bristling presence seemed to fill the room. To my surprise, he reached for my hands and pulled me to my feet. With his dark curling hair and warm complexion, one would have expected darker eyes. Instead, his were a curious light blend of blue and grey, and they skimmed over me with disconcerting interest.
"A pleasure to meet you, Miss ..."
"This is Miss Jones. My fiancée."
Hux's emphasis on the last word did not escape Rossetti, who chuckled and pressed a lingering kiss on the back of my hand. "Ah, you do well to guard her, my lord. She is a treasure indeed. I should like to paint her—the eyes especially. They capture light in the most intriguing manner." I swallowed as he circled me, his hand to his chin, his movements charged with energy. "Yes, you see? Different from every angle. You cannot tell if the light is being reflected, or if it is coming from within. The shining beacon of a pure soul. Yes, yes, I must have her …"
I stared at him.
"Sit for me," he clarified.
Hux's teeth were bared. "Her services are not for hire, Rossetti, so best get any thought of that out of your mind."
The painter looked affronted. "I wish only to paint her, my lord. A portrait. For your own collection. Though," he added, with a sly smile at me, "I reserve the right to do a sketch or two for myself."
"That is enough," Hux said, jaw clenched. "We have come today about the painting I purchased from you years ago."
Rossetti's heavy eyelids lowered as if in memory. "Ah, yes. Lady Lilith. One of my finest works, my lord. To this day, I regret how I parted with her for a song."
"'Twas more like a full-length opera, and you know it. At any rate," Hux said, his eyes turning to me, "Miss Jones has seen the painting, and she fancies the idea of having the bracelet in the picture for her own."
Rossetti looked at me with a puzzled frown.
Time to play my part. The one we had rehearsed on the ride over.
"Yes," I put in with a silly laugh, the kind I imagined a society belle would have, "I thought to myself, wouldn't it be splendid to wear the same ribbon round my wrist as is in the painting? It would make a delightful conversation piece. Me, accessorized with the picture! Why my friends would simply die of envy."
"Hmm. I am not sure where the bracelet is anymore," Rossetti said. "I painted that portrait years ago."
"Surely it must be somewhere," I said. "If it cannot be the bracelet, then the comb would do. How lovely it would be to have the same tines running through my hair as did through Lilith's."
Too late, I caught my slip; my gaze shot to Hux, who gave a faint shake of his head.
Fortunately, my ploy to appear as an empty-headed debutante was having the desired effect. Rossetti beamed a charming smile upon me. "How you flatter me, my dear! 'Tis an artist's greatest achievement when the subject becomes reality in the viewer's eyes. Very well, then, we will search for this magical comb and bracelet, the accessories of the Queen of Demons herself!"
Taking my arm, he propelled me toward the door. Just in time to narrowly avoid collision with Fanny, who bore a heavily laden tray in her hands.
"Come, Elephant," he cried, "we are on an expedition today! To the studio!"
Fanny's response singed my ears.
*****
The artist's studio occupied what I imagined to be the original dining room of the house. After passing out of the hall through a deep archway, we veered right through a door and into a spacious room with tall windows and a high ceiling. It was clearly a working area: canvases in various states of completion leaned against the walls, and notebooks and paper lay scattered in piles upon the furniture and the bare wood floor. Shelves lined the entire end of a room, crammed with books and boxes and various oddities.
"It's in here somewhere," Rossetti announced.
Muttering to himself, he headed for the desk and began shuffling through the drawers. The three of us waded in after him. I looked at Hux, who shrugged. Going to the bookcase, he pulled a box from the top shelf. He reached in and retrieved what appeared to be a human skull decorated with sequins and feathers.
"Just' make yerself at 'ome, dearie," Fanny advised. "This could take a while."
As Hux continued to go through the shelves, I wandered the perimeter of the room, sifting through the various baskets and boxes upon the floor. I could not help but study the paintings I passed, marveling at the jewel-like tones and the dreamy realism of the scenes. One unfinished canvas in particular caught my eye: it featured a woman fallen by the side of the road. Her face was averted, her figure hidden by a gaudy shawl. An earnest young man stood beside her as if trying to help. In the background, there appeared to be a calf; it was only half-painted, the beginnings of a rope extending around its grayish cream flanks.
A chill ran through me at the animal's eyes: they were dark, flat pits, devoid of any spirit.
"What do you think of it, my dear?"
I turned to see Rossetti behind me, his eyes upon the painting.
"Oh, I do not know much about art, sir," I said quickly.
"'Tis not art I am asking you about, but this painting. What does it evoke for you? What is stirred in you, looking at this scene?"
Hesitant, I studied the picture a few moments more. "'Tis a powerful allegory," I said finally. "I suppose it makes me feel ... grief. For the girl who has lost her innocence, the boy his first love. Like the calf, they are victims of a natural order."
Rossetti's eyes darkened, his expression emanating a sudden intensity, as if lit by an inner flame. "Yes, that is it exactly, Miss Jones. We are all subject to forces beyond our control. Loves lost, lives given to meaningless sacrifice. Things that cannot be changed no matter how we wish them otherwise."
"But surely there is self-will involved," I said, my skin prickling. "Some degree of control over one's destiny."
"Is there, Miss Jones?" The artist's light, piercing eyes caused disquiet to dance through me. "Or are we simply fooling ourselves into thinking we can determine what the universe has already set out for us?"
I licked my dry lips and tried to quell the apprehension sown by his words.
"Rissetty, stop pesterin' the guests." This came from Fanny, who came up to us with a lidded basket balanced against her hip.
"I am not pestering her," Rossetti said. "I am merely conducting a meaningful discussion about the nature of art.
Something you apparently know little about, though God knows I've tried."
"Sit bloody still for 'ours at a time, don't I? Don't move an 'air, do I, while you wait fer the light to be jus' right. Wots that, if not sacrificin' fer bleedin' art?"
Throwing his hands in the air, Rossetti stalked away.
Fanny rolled her eyes in a good-natured manner. "Ne'er mind 'im. 'E's jus' full o' piss 'bout this 'ere picture."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Been workin' on it for o'er ten years, 'e 'as. That piece o' cloth an' paint 'as more commissions than an army. And 'e still can't finish what 'e started." Fanny sighed with dramatic flair. "Ain't that jus' like a man."
I managed a little smile.
"Anyhow," she continued matter-of-factly, "I think I found what yer lookin' fer."
She flipped open the lid of the basket, and my breath jammed in my throat.
THIRTY-NINE
Silence filled the carriage as we rolled away from Cheyne Walk. Next to me, Hux sat in brooding tension. He had the basket in his lap, his hands fisted against the cover.
"You are certain you wish to do this?" he asked.
Blowing out a breath, I nodded.
His dark blue gaze continued to search mine. "If you've changed your mind, if you want to wait—"
Despite the instinctive shiver, I tried to keep my voice calm. Nonchalant. "No use in putting off the inevitable. I will be fine. I have the necklace and you to help anchor me."
"'Tis not inevitable. I don't want you doing anything that hurts you." His hands caught mine in a too-hard grip. "I couldn't stand it, Abby. I'd rather face an army of Lilin—"
"Give me the basket, Hux," I said firmly.
With a frustrated oath, he released me. After a minute, he placed the container upon my lap. His voice held the rough edge of helplessness. "What can I do to help you, my love?"
"Stay here beside me." I looked down at the lid of the basket, and the coiled pattern of the weave seemed to slither before my eyes. "Do not leave me, no matter what."
"I'll never leave you," he said hoarsely. "I love you, Abigail. For the rest of my life and beyond."
With those words echoing in my heart, I opened the basket. Inside lay three objects tangled together: a red ribbon with a tarnished bead, a small hand mirror, and a wooden comb. Indecision paralyzed me for an instant before I realized it did not matter which I chose. If Lilith had indeed possessed Fanny while the latter posed and touched these objects, then all paths would lead me where I needed to go. My heart pounding, I reached for the dark spikes of the comb.
*****
I am flying through fog. Thick smoke obscures my senses. An acrid sweetness fills my nostrils and lungs, a rush of dizzying freedom. Looking down between the clouds, I see patches of the earth below. Rage explodes within me, a feeling so violent and foreign that I am momentarily recalled to myself. This is a vision. This is not me. Yet even the necklace's soothing hum cannot assuage the anger quickening my breath. The fury that fuels my flight higher, faster through the heavens.
He is down there, the man who abandoned me. My thoughts roil red and frothing like a shark-infested sea. Cursed Adam, who wished to rut upon me as if I was some weak beast. Why must I recline upon my back for him? Why should I not take my pleasure as a goddess does, mounted atop her mate, taking his cock at her will? Adam will pay for what he did. His spawn, begotten by that simpering whore Eve, will pay for their father's sins.
I am flying through space and time. Power burns inside me. Nothing can contain me—nothing can hold me back. The time of ascension is near. I can feel it in the pulsing chants of my children, the circle of Lilin spirits who welcome me with love and adoration as I come to them in our shared astral plane. Here, we shed our corporeal restraints. We are wild and unfettered in this timeless place where I birthed them one by one. My daughters. My blood. The waves of the Red Sea lap behind us as we dance in orgiastic joy; above us, the sky turns scarlet with the dying of the light.
At last, it is time to speak to them. My voice resonates with the power of Darkness. I am my children's center; even without words, my every thought and feeling moves into them.
"Children, the time has come to fight for what is ours."
The Lilin clamor for me, their teeth baring, their breasts rising and falling with their eagerness for battle and bloodshed.
"Today I have received word of our enemies. The two who stand in the path of your Mother's reign." Their cries of outrage fuel my own thundering hatred. "One is a mere mortal, a man whose sword drips with the blood of your own sisters, my dearest daughters."
We'll kill him, The Mother. We'll tear him from limb to limb and eat him for supper.
I laugh with affection. They are loyal, my Lilin. All my daughters strong of my blood—all save one. Bitterness crackles upon my tongue as I announce, "The other enemy is far more dangerous. She is one of you."
My daughters gasp in unison. I can feel the shock rippling through them, for their thoughts and spirits are bound to me. The umbilical connection is never to be broken, except by death ... or betrayal. In that moment, I feel again the heat of my one daughter's treachery: it burns where it is forever branded. The tiny scar scorched at the base of my throat, the filthy cross which I can never remove.
"The Hidden One is found," I snarl.
The roar of outrage, of blood thirst feeds into my power. I can feel their energy charging through me. I am stronger than ever. This time, I will not be defeated. I will destroy anyone who stands in my way.
"This information comes at great cost," I continue. "Your sisters Agrath and Paadma discovered the identities of the foe. They battled the enemy, and Paadma was lost."
The wailing fills me with unspeakable sorrow and fury. Years ago in Italy, I toyed with the idea of obliterating that useless human when he failed me with his weak seed. His suffering, his delightful misery—that alone had kept him alive. At first, I found his torment charming, utterly entertaining. Then he had the gall to begin plucking my daughters off one by one; only one thing stopped me from crushing him then.
The prophecy.
I taste anticipation sweet as blood. At long last, my wait is over. I understand at last my soothsayer's counsel: Patience, my Goddess. Do not interfere, for he is unwittingly bringing the prophecy to pass. When your thirteenth daughter is in jeopardy, the Hidden One will be revealed. Then, O Sacred One, you will rise again.
Just as the wise augur had divined, I have found my disgraced daughter. When I have her in my grasp and take back what is mine, I will be unstoppable.
"Behold, children," I say joyously, "the targets of your fury!"
I project the images from Agrath's mind to all. My Lilin hiss and claw at the air as if the two faces were before them now. Sharing their revulsion, feeding it, I snarl, "Lucien Langsford and Abigail Jones, prepare to meet your end!"
Howls of approval rise into the sky. The Lilin are stomping, screaming, tearing at themselves with the eagerness to destroy. The sands swirl up around us, and the palm trees shake with the force of our wrath. Triumph sings through me as stars bleed into the night. My lips curl as I consider our destination.
Hope End.
A name most appropriate.
*****
"Abigail!"
My head snapped back. On a gasp, my eyes flew open. For a second, I floated adrift; I did not know where I was. Who I was.
"Abigail, say something."
I knew that urgent, low voice. I knew it as I knew myself.
"Oh God, Hux," I cried, burying my face into his chest.
He clasped me to him, murmuring fierce words of love as the sobs erupted from me. 'Twas as if I had surfaced from a place too deep and dark for air to reach; I was struggling to breathe, to talk, to release the agony of what I had seen all at once. What emerged was tear-choked, incomprehensible gibberish.
"Be still, my love. Don't try to speak now." Though his words were soothing, Hux held me in a too-tight grip. His muscles quivered with te
nsion as he rocked me gently.
I pushed away, desperate to have him understand.
"Hux," I said between chattering teeth, "sh-she's coming—"
His eyes flared. "Lilith?"
I jerked my chin. Yes.
"Where?"
"Hope End." My heart stuttered with each syllable. "She is coming to find us, and she will destroy all who stand in her way."
FORTY
The return drive took less than two hours, and yet every minute felt like an eternity. Taut silence filled the carriage. No words could express the anxieties of our souls as we each stared out the window, hoping against hope. Dusk had begun to settle, its fuchsia weight heavy upon the passing fields. By the time we reached St. Alban, the sky had darkened to violet. My heart thumped with anticipation. We were almost home. Within minutes, we would see Mrs. Beecher and Ginny. Lord help me, I would even be happy to see Edgar ...
I squinted through the window for any glimpse of the estate. I blinked, certain that the darkness was befuddling my vision. Yet I hadn't imagined it. There it was again, a flickering orange and pink upon the horizon. Pressing my nose to the glass, I beheld the most curious thing: a glorious sunset ahead of us, when we had already passed nightfall.
"Hux," I said, "do you see that?"
He came to my window.
"Devil take it," he said. Opening the window, he yelled, "Faster, damn it! Drive faster!"
Dread tightened my throat as I realized the cause of Hux's panic. Oh no, no ...
Minutes later, we broke upon the scene of hellish chaos. Hux was out of the carriage before it even rolled to a stop.
"Stay here!" he shouted to me.
I waited a minute and ran after him.
Everywhere was smoke and flame. From the gate, I had seen the raging inferno where the roof of the building had been; up close, the extent of the destruction took on horrific detail. Members of the staff, just returning from the weekend, were milling about, shouting and confused. Like them, I observed in shock the slashed brick of the walls, the shattered windows. I stared at the destroyed fountain, the heads of the nymphs lolling grotesquely upon the ground where they lay ripped from their stone bodies. My eyes traveled further up the graveled drive, and my stomach lurched.
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