Serpent's Gate

by Jade Astor

  Later, lulled by the aftereffects of the hot water and exhausted from the stress of the day, Stephen crawled back onto the bed in his bathrobe and dozed a while. A few hours’ sleep definitely helped. Hazy images of robed Victorian demon worshippers and strange rituals consuming Justin’s carpet now seemed as ridiculous as a bad dream, or an even worse low-rent horror film, the kind cable stations showed after midnight for laughs. How could he have been so silly? Though he didn’t think he had a concussion, Stephen wondered if the accident had jostled his brain somehow. For all he knew, he had dreamed Malcolm’s entire visit.

  He sat up when, once again, someone started rapping on the door. He opened his eyes to find that the room had gone dark and a bright quarter-moon hung outside the window like a jeweled ornament. The rainstorm had finally moved off.

  Mrs. Mulgrave was calling to him from the hall.

  “It’s trays for everyone tonight,” she called through the closed door. “Mr. Malcolm thought you ought to rest. If you can open the door I’ll bring it inside and set it up for you.”

  “Thank you,” Stephen shouted back. Still groggy from sleep, he dragged himself out of bed and fumbled for the light switch. Blinking against the sudden glare, he flung the door open and froze. Mrs. Mulgrave was indeed waiting with a dinner tray in her hands. And right beside her stood Roark, holding Stephen’s own travel bag, which he only now remembered leaving in Justin’s wrecked car.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mulgrave,” Roark said, motioning for her to precede him into the room. He waited in silence while she arranged the covered dishes and placed an incongruous-looking can of soda on top of Stephen’s bureau. Stephen didn’t speak, either, except to mumble his thanks when she excused herself and slipped back out of the room. When they were alone, Roark held up the travel bag and dropped it into the chair in the corner.

  “I thought you might need this. I found it in the back of Justin’s car. Looks like you were packed up and ready to hit the road.”

  Stephen pretended not to hear him while he examined the food Mrs. Mulgrave had brought. It smelled delicious, as always—some sort of stroganoff with succulent baby carrots glazed in some sort of sauce and two tender, freshly baked rolls with butter oozing out of the center. He wished Roark would leave so he could eat in peace, but apparently Roark was also adept at ignoring social cues.

  “Stephen, I need to ask you this again, and please don’t lie to me. Do you know where Justin is?”

  “I don’t. Sorry. Haven’t you looked for him at all? You’ve had all day.”

  “I tried, believe me. Leo and I have walked the grounds and checked every structure on the estate. We even went inside the cottage where you and your uncle stayed. There’s no sign he’s been to any of those places. It’s like he just vanished into thin air the moment his car hit the gate.”

  “I wish I knew where he was…though I might not tell you if I did. A moot point, because I’m as stumped as you are.”

  “If it’s any consolation, there wasn’t any blood in or around the car—nothing to suggest he was badly hurt in the collision. My best guess is that he just stepped out and walked away.”

  “Your cousin seems to think there’s nothing to worry about. Justin knows exactly what he’s doing, he says.”

  “He’s probably right about that. I’d still like to find him, just to be on the safe side.”

  “So you do suspect he was hurt in the accident?” Stephen asked, dropping the lid back on his dinner and turning.

  “No—but I’d like to sure, obviously. He was well enough to run away from the scene.”

  “Was he? That’s the part I’m having trouble with, Roark. You seem to think Justin would have just run off and left me there inside the car. The only way I could believe that is if he went to get help. But he didn’t. Leo didn’t see him by the gatehouse, either. Isn’t that where he would go?”

  “Maybe. It depends, I guess.”

  “On what?”

  Roark shrugged stiffly and gestured toward Stephen’s bag. “When I went down to see the car, I found his suitcase in the back seat, too.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Stephen couldn’t resist flashing Roark a smug little smile. “He and I were going away together. But I suspect you already knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you made sure we didn’t get through the gate.”

  “I had nothing to do with the gate closing that way.”

  “I suppose it was a ghost, then—the one who was crushed when he reached for your great-great-grandma’s travel trunk? Or maybe it was the snake. He seems to get around a lot for a critter with no legs.”

  “Stephen, there’s something you need to know. When I came back to the house, I opened Justin’s suitcase. There was nothing in it. No clothes, no toothbrush—nothing.”

  “What?” Stephen felt his whole body go cold and still. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you packed up your things as though you were actually going away. Justin didn’t. He was trying to trick you.”

  “No. That’s not possible. Going away together was Justin’s idea. He told me—well, never mind that right now. The point is that there has to be another explanation. Like maybe someone stole his stuff.” Or maybe he took it out of the suitcase himself so he could go into hiding, Stephen thought. He didn’t mention that theory to Roark. The last thing he wanted to do was sabotage Justin’s escape attempt. “Did you ask Leo? Maybe he took it for some reason.”

  “Without the suitcase itself?” Roark asked incredulously. Then he blew out an exasperated breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I’ve said what I had to say. What you do with the information is up to you.”

  He started for the door. Stephen stepped into his path.

  “You can’t let things be, can you, Roark? You’d do anything to keep me and Justin apart.”

  “Why would you say that? I already told you that I wish you the best—and I hope he’s up to the task of making you as happy as you deserve to be.”

  “I don’t need Justin to make me happy. Maybe I see it as my task to do that for him. You don’t know anything about our relationship, Roark.”

  “That’s true. I’d say I don’t want to know, but the simple fact is that I want to be able to protect you.”

  “That’s ironic—here I was thinking I needed protection from you, just like Justin does.”

  “I have never wished my brother any harm. Who told you differently, aside from Justin himself? Hardly an unbiased source, don’t you think?”

  “No one needed to say it. I have eyes, Roark. And not only that—” Stephen stopped himself just before he blurted out what Malcolm had said to him about another possible reason for Roark to want Justin out of the way. He felt uncomfortably vain even giving credence to the idea that Roark was pining after him, but it did seem to fit.

  Unfortunately, Roark picked up on what he had left unsaid. “Go on,” he urged. His voice turned harsh, as though he were teetering close to the edge. Stephen struggled not to show his fear. “Tell me what else you’ve figured out.”

  “I know about your feelings toward me,” he said, knowing Roark wouldn’t let the matter rest. Maybe confronting him was the best solution after all—it would throw him off balance, at the very least.

  “Well, good for you. Actually, I would have been disappointed in you if you hadn’t gleaned that much. It’s not as though I’ve been very successful at hiding them.”

  Stephen felt his eyes widen with surprise. If Roark’s recent behavior was how he demonstrated love, he really would have hated to see the flip side of that particular emotional coin. How could anybody be so out of touch with the basics of normal human interaction? He supposed being trapped inside Fairbourne House for one’s whole life had something to do with it. Justin had fled, and the results were plain to see. He couldn’t help pitying Roark, in one sense—though the fact that he was the fruit of a hideously twisted family tree didn’t make him any less dangerous.

  “I really don’t know w
hat to say,” he muttered when he realized Roark was waiting for some kind of response.

  “No. I don’t either. That’s another difference between me and Justin. He always has just the right words—even when they don’t mean anything, and he doesn’t really mean them either.”

  Stephen frowned. He couldn’t deny that Roark had a point. Justin was superficial, almost glib. A defense mechanism, probably, to keep other people at arm’s length. He’d probably had to develop that caustic humor to survive his upbringing in this strange house, where people identified as witches and aspired to consorting with demons.

  “I’d like to think that Justin and I understand each other. It’s true he doesn’t let people close, at least not easily. It’s something I’d like to work on with him, over time, if he’s willing.”

  “I hope he has the courage—or maybe I should say the sense—to take you up on that. If you ask me, it’s more than he deserves. You’re more than he deserves, Stephen.”

  Roark’s cheeks flushed as he swept past Stephen and hurried down the hall. Oddly, Stephen didn’t feel as much relief as he had expected to once he was gone. His pity for Roark’s awkwardness faded, too. Whenever they spoke one on one, Roark always sounded so sincere, as though he were struggling to heal some deep emotional wounds and longed for Stephen to help him. At those times, he seemed totally different from the Roark that came out when they talked about Justin’s supposed transgressions and Roark’s duty to the Fairbourne legacy. If Stephen didn’t keep his guard up, he might still find himself sucked into Roark’s dark little vortex.

  A sudden pang of hunger returned his attention to Mrs. Mulgrave’s delivery. He wolfed down his dinner standing in front of the bureau, relieved that his back and shoulders felt better and his thoughts were becoming less tangled by the moment. It seemed he didn’t have a concussion after all.

  Afterward, he stacked the dishes and empty soda can back on the tray and replaced the metal cover. Just to be on the safe side, he closed his eyes for a few moments and walked back and forth across the room. No sleeping aids this time, at least not as far as he could tell. By morning, he hoped the lingering effects of both the accident and the medication would be gone.

  Because he had to leave here soon. Roark knew almost everything now—he knew that Justin and Stephen cared for each other, perhaps even imagined that they were planning a new life away from the estate, and worst of all he knew Stephen was wise to his manipulative ways. Maybe it would have been safer and wiser if he had pretended to be swayed by Roark’s efforts to beguile him, but it was too late now. The only solution was to collect Uncle Vernon and hopefully Justin and leave Fairbourne House behind forever. Roark could keep his silly demon book for all Stephen cared. Maybe he and Ivy would find pleasure in trying to decipher its strange symbols together.

  He only wished the image that flashed through his mind, of the two of them bending their heads together at the long polished table in the library, didn’t bother him so much.

  Tomorrow, he decided as he picked up his tray and carried it to the door. Tomorrow he would leave this place.

  The moment he bent down to deposit his empty dishes in the hall, a horrific sound shattered the peaceful summer night.

  A high-pitched, gut-wrenching shriek dragged out for several moments, loud enough to hurt his ears. Then it crescendoed and abruptly stopped, as though whoever had screamed couldn’t scream anymore.

  Chapter 17

  Within minutes, Fairbourne House came alive as the scream shook the inhabitants awake. Hearing footsteps and voices in the hall and on the stairs, Stephen fumbled for the bedside alarm clock. Two in the morning.

  On his way out of his room, he pulled on his robe and shoved his feet into his sneakers.

  Downstairs, the front door stood open. Roark and Mrs. Mulgrave stood together at the top of the terrace steps, looking out over the darkened garden. Malcolm was kneeling on the brick path, wearing a white t-shirt and dress pants, obviously an outfit he’d thrown on when he leaped out of the guest bed. His feet were bare. Beside him, a huddled shape lay on the ground. He kept one hand raised, signaling the others to stay back while he spoke into his cell phone.

  Stephen pushed past Roark on his way to the rail. “What happened? I heard a scream.”

  “Stephen, don’t look,” Roark said, reaching for him, but he was too late. The moon and the light from Malcolm’s cell phone provided just enough illumination to reveal a horrific scene. Ivy sprawled on the bricks in a mangled heap, a dark puddle spreading around her.

  “Fell from the roof, it looks like,” Malcolm called back to the group on the terrace. “Ambulance is on the way. Better not to move her, the 911 dispatcher said.”

  “Is she alive?” Stephen asked, doubtful he would get a positive answer.

  “We don’t know,” Malcolm admitted.

  Stephen glanced at Mrs. Mulgrave, expecting to find her in hysterics. Instead, he found Ivy’s mother in a green terry bathrobe and flipflop slippers, her hair pinned up and her expression calm and disengaged. In shock, no doubt. For that matter, Stephen wasn’t far off himself.

  Malcolm shifted his attention to Roark. Stephen noticed that he was fully dressed, as though he’d never gone to bed at all. Was he an insomniac, or was there a more sinister reason he was still awake and prowling the estate?

  “Mrs. Mulgrave, are you all right?” Stephen asked, feeling he should offer some kind of support on principle. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Ivy was careless,” the housekeeper replied in a flat tone, her face utterly devoid of sentiment. “She ought to have known better.”

  “But what was she doing on the roof? And at this time of night?”

  Mrs. Mulgrave fixed Stephen with a withering stare. “I’m sure I have no idea. As you probably know, my daughter did as she pleased. I assumed she went up there for reasons known only to her.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I only wondered—”

  “Leave it alone,” Mrs. Mulgrave ordered. There was no other way to characterize the bluntness of her tone. “You can’t do anything about it. Ivy has followed the same path as her father. Perhaps it was fate. ”

  Stephen gaped, astonished at the woman’s lack of concern for her own daughter, but at that point Malcolm returned to the terrace. Stephen snuck an anguished look at Ivy, lying alone on the bloodied stone path.

  “It’s all right, Stephen,” he said. “None of us has the necessary training to treat her. We have to keep calm and wait for the authorities. Try not to disturb anything.”

  “You’re assuming she’s dead, then?” Stephen blurted, then realized Mrs. Mulgrave was still beside him, listening. He began to apologize, only to find her soulless gray eyes boring into his.

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted. “It seems probable, doesn’t it?” His gaze drifted to the roof, and Stephen’s followed. Ivy had fallen at least three floors, directly onto brickwork. He had to admit Malcolm was most likely correct. Ivy didn’t seem to be moving.

  He also had an idea how such an unfortunate accident might have happened. He motioned for Roark to follow him and stepped away from Mrs. Mulgrave, who didn’t move from the terrace rail.

  He lowered his voice so she wouldn’t overhear him. “Did you know she was up there, Roark?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So you had nothing to do with this supposed accident.”

  “Me? How can you even ask that?”

  “If I can ask it, the cops will too, so you might as well be prepared. Let’s be honest with each other. You and Ivy were involved. You’re the logical place for them to start their investigation.”

  “Ivy and I weren’t involved.”

  “Maybe you’d use another word for it. I could, too, but I don’t want to be crude. All the same, you’d better get your story straight, Roark. You’ll have questions to answer at some point.”

  Roark’s dark brows sank on his forehead, and his upper lip pulled back in a smirk. “I’m sorry you choos
e not to believe me. Guess I’ll have to take my chances with the police. As it happens, I have nothing to hide. So bring it on.”

  Still scowling, he turned away from Stephen and stalked over to join Malcolm at the rail. The two of them stood talking, occasionally glancing back at Stephen. Were they co-conspirators? Given Malcolm’s determination to defend Roark at any cost, the idea didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility. Stephen shivered. First his uncle, now Ivy. What the hell was going on around here? He edged closer in hopes of overhearing their conversation.

  “Leo isn’t answering the gatehouse phone,” he heard Malcolm say. “Must be asleep. One of us should run down there and have him unlock the gate for the ambulance. If you can’t rouse him, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  “I’ll go,” Roark offered. He jogged down the steps and ran off into the night. Stephen noticed that he gave Ivy’s broken body a wide berth as he passed.

  There didn’t seem to be much else to say. Malcolm returned to stand watch over Ivy, brushing his hands clean, while Stephen and Mrs. Mulgrave waited on the terrace. He could hardly believe that Mrs. Mulgrave made no effort to approach her daughter or even ask Malcolm to feel for a pulse. Nor did she seem especially curious as to the whereabouts of her son.

  Shock, he decided.

  The group waited in silence until Roark came hurrying back across the lawn.

  “Leo wouldn’t answer the door, so I propped the gates open,” he shouted.

  “Good work,” Malcolm called back. “Hopefully they’ll stay that way for a change. At least long enough for the emergency people to get here.”

  Before long, the first sirens blared in the distance. The path to Fairbourne House must be familiar to the local rescue vehicles by now, Stephen thought. He hoped the workers weren’t counting on another relatively minor mishap like Uncle Vernon’s. If so, they were in for a shock.