Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  “Stop it.” Kieran shouted. “Stop trying to scare her. Leave this place.”

  Donovan frowned at Kieran. “What the devil is going on?”

  “Blood. Don’t you see it?” Gareth gestured to the pool at the bottom of the stairs.

  “No.” Donovan snapped, refusing to look where Gareth indicated. He cupped Elizabeth’s cheek, directing her gaze away from the ghost to look at his face. The anxiety she saw there was mirrored in his voice. “She isn’t bleeding. I can set this. It takes six weeks for bone to heal—“

  “--You cannot see the blood?” Chloe’s high screech interrupted Donovan’s determined mumbling. “On the floor, my lord, below us!” She pointed to the bottom of the stairs.

  “No.” Donovan’s panicked eyes darted to the crimson pool below and then he fixed his gaze determinedly on Elizabeth’s face. “You’re going to be fine, Love, I promise.”

  “Get out of here!” Kieran went rushing down the stairs, his right arm outstretched and his hand splayed in a commanding gesture as he started speaking in a language Elizabeth hadn’t heard for some time: Gaelic.

  Mama’s ghost glared up at them and then melted away like a misty mirage.

  The blood reverted and slipped slowly into the crack in the tiles as they all watched.

  Oh God, the blood . . . there was so much blood.

  Elizabeth shook her head and clamped her jaw tight over her teeth, containing the scream rising in her throat. She’d scrubbed and scrubbed the parquet floor in Mayfair until her hands were chapped and raw. Still, the stain remained; a permanent reminder of her betrayal.

  “Lizzie, listen to me.” It was Donovan reaching into her panic to wrestle her free of its cloying hold. “There is no blood. Your bone didn’t break through skin.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, desperation rising to choke her. Had she said it aloud?

  “I say, would somebody tell me what is going on?” Michael asked.

  Donovan answered without taking his eyes from Elizabeth’s. “Your sister was sleepwalking. She fell down the stairs and broke her arm. Now, we’ve the devil to pay, as I have to set the bone back into place. Kieran,” His tone became severe as he addressed her elder brother. “I want Mr. Barnaby here, immediately.”

  “Agreed. Barnaby will know exactly what to do. I can be at the docks in a trice.”

  “No. You aren’t leaving, Kieran. I need you here.” The fear in Donovan’s tone was unmistakable. Elizabeth realized he knew what was happening and he was terrified, just like the rest of them.

  “Gareth,” Donovan directed, “Have Ambrose and Gus sail to Basseterre to bring Mr. Barnaby here. Tell them to kidnap him if need be, but I want him here by dawn.”

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Elizabeth was being escorted, en masse, to Donovan’s room.

  They moved rapidly down the hallway, as each candle sconce they passed wavered ominously from the rush of people and cast odd shadows on the walls.

  Donovan carried her with Gareth keeping step with him, holding the pillow that cradled her twisted limb. Chloe, Michael, Kieran and several servants followed them.

  Donovan set her gently on the bed and barked orders at the troop behind him. Warm blankets, a fire, two twenty inch boards, leather bindings and Laudanum. He wanted them last week, judging by his sharp command.

  Pearl, Giles, Alice, Sally, and Chloe spun about, bumping into each other as they moved to obtain the requested items. The room emptied quickly as they hurried to obey.

  “I don’t understand.” Michael was standing close to the bed, peering down at her with worry. “Liz, what is everyone blathering on about? Blood and spirits? You fell and broke your arm. It’s the same one you broke when you were ten, your left. Remember? Mama had to send for the doctor to set your arm after one of Papa’s tirades.”

  Fletcher broke her wrist. And Mama made her lie to the doctor when he came. Elizabeth forgot the incident. Is that why Mama led her to the stairs, not to kill her but to remind her of the violence in their home? The awful throbbing in her limb grew worse.

  “Michael, out.” Donovan turned from his discussion with Kieran and Gareth. “I’ve a nasty job ahead splinting your sister’s arm. I can’t have you crying or fainting. Off with you.”

  “No.” Elizabeth hardly realized she’d spoken, but the three men across the room gazed at her as if she’d just done the impossible. Donovan and the others were standing near the veranda doors conferring about what needed to be done.

  “Michael should not be in here, darlin’.” Donovan approached the bed. “I’ll give you something for the pain before we set the bone, but he shouldn’t see this.”

  “I’m not a child.” Michael chimed in. “He’s allowed to stay.” He pointed to Kieran.

  “Michael.” She understood his resentment at being sent away when he was upset and frightened. She offered him her uninjured hand and when he took it, she tugged at him to sit on the bed. “I’ll need you to hold my hand through the worst of it.”

  Michael eased carefully beside her, clutching her hand. He laced their elbows together and their fingers, just like in the old days when they stood against Fletcher.

  Mama would surely kill her one day, or she’d be exposed for the coward she was.

  How would they all feel about her when they knew?

  A tortured moan emerged from her lips. She didn’t kill her mother, but she’d covered up the crime and that was just as bad.

  Someone pushed a blanket over them, shoving it tight against her neck. She was so cold, and shivering. Ice surrounded her. Her heart ached, but her feet, her hands, even her nose felt the frigid January winds coming off the Thames. Her teeth were chattering.

  A cup was pushed against her lips. She drank it greedily.

  *******

  It was done. Elizabeth wasn’t screaming anymore. The bone was set. Donovan sipped the scotch his uncle placed in his hand as soon as he stepped away from the bed. He stood near the veranda doors, bathed in sweat, heart pounding as he watched his wife and her brother sleep.

  Christ, they look like children. Orphans clutching each other’s hand as they slept as if all they had in the world was each other.

  Donovan swirled the last of the scotch in his glass and tossed it down the back of his throat. The stinging was comforting. He managed to distance himself from Elizabeth’s cries as he realigned her wrist bone. Gareth and Kieran held her arm still while he managed to bind the damned splints with leather straps Pearl had fetched from the stable tack room.

  As soon as it was done, he turned away so she wouldn’t see his tears. And Gareth wisely shoved the glass of scotch into his trembling hand. The three of them watched over the pair in the bed, and didn’t speak again until Elizabeth and Michael were asleep.

  “What does your mother want from her?” Gareth asked.

  Kieran O’Flaherty’s eyes were wide, his lips bloodless. “That creature was not our mother.” The scalding pain in Kieran’s voice made Donovan wince. Kieran’s eyes swung to the pair on the bed and then to Donovan. “She wouldn’t do that—not the sweet woman who held me as a babe and sang me lullabies.”

  Gareth touched Kieran’s shoulder as the words cut deeply between them.

  A mother’s ghost returning to harm her own child? It was unthinkable.

  Donovan saw the woman at the bottom of the stairs. He tried to avoid those malevolent eyes. He saw the phantom blood. Saw it sink into the tiles like a mirage. Even so, he did not want to admit he had seen the bizarre manifestation. It defied logic.

  “Kieran!” An aged gentleman with grey hair tumbling about in disarray came striding through the open hallway door. The man was at O’Flaherty’s side immediately.

  “Barnaby—she tried to kill Elizabeth.” Kieran choked. His voice was tremulous.

  Mr. Barnaby looked to Donovan. “Someone tried to kill Mrs. Beaumont?”

  “A spirit. Our mother!” Kieran blustered, not trusting Donovan or Gareth to explain.

  “Shhh!” Miss
Ramirez vaulted up from her chair where she’d been keeping a silent vigil over the pair on the bed. “Do not disturb my mistress.”

  Gareth nodded toward the veranda and tugged at Kieran’s elbow. Barnaby took Kieran by the arm and they escorted the Irishman out onto the porch. Donovan followed them. It was daybreak. The golden sun was warming the cold grey skies.

  After several precise questions from the elder spirit catcher and rambling answers from his apprentice, Donovan inserted himself into the conversation, explaining the progression of events Kieran knew nothing about.

  “So, it began after your arrival.” Barnaby summarized. “Hmmm. Something awakened the spirit recently, my lord.”

  “Tell him about the pouch, my lord.” Miss Ramirez insisted as she joined the men on the porch, tugging her shawl about her shoulders against the chill morning air.

  Donovan gestured for her to proceed.

  Miss Ramirez explained how Elizabeth discovered the ancient book and the charms made by her grandmother when they were unpacking her trunks shortly after her arrival. Chloe said her mistress assumed the charm would ward off nightmares and she placed it under her pillow, and the haunting began shortly afterward.

  “The spirit was awakened by the charm when Madame began using it.” Barnaby concluded. “Charms can lie dormant until sympathetic magic, such as Madame’s yearning for home and family revived the charm as she touched it and used it. This in turn gives the spirit linked to the charm more power.” He let the words trail off, leaving them bewildered as he descended to mouthing obscure mutterings.

  “I took it away from Elizabeth.” Donovan confessed. “I locked it in the drawer in my laboratory three weeks ago and the attacks stopped. Until tonight.”

  “Uh-huh. Mmm? Indeed.” The old wizard fondled his chin and stared haplessly into space, as if pondering the ramifications of Donovan’s statement. “The spirit wants something from your wife, sir. As time passes and my lady does not do what the spirit wants her to, the spirit is becoming angrier, and hence, the attacks are becoming more violent.”

  “What can we do to protect Elizabeth?” Gareth asked.

  “Place a circle of salt around the bed.” Kieran said with conviction, glancing about at the gathering as he spoke. “Salt repels spirits much the same as vinegar bowls placed under furniture legs repels insects. Spirits can be kept out of a room with a boundary of salt.”

  “A temporary fix.” Barnaby raised his finger in protest. The old man put his upraised finger to his lips momentarily, appearing deep in thought, and then asked, “Each time Madame was attacked, was there a lull of inactivity afterward?”

  Everyone looked at everyone else with uncertainty.

  “Yes.” Miss Ramirez spoke up. “Each attack happened a few days apart.”

  “That is typical.” Mr. Barnaby nodded as he looked about the gathering. “When a spirit uses energy to cause a physical manifestation, it weakens them.” Barnaby placed a hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “The good news, my lord, is the spirit will not have the strength to attack your wife for several days. And it gives Kieran and me time to figure out how to stop it.”

  Chapter Forty

  Cloistered upstairs in his guest room, Kieran was pouring over the O’Flaherty Book of Secrets that Miss Ramirez had given him. Barnaby paced the room with restlessness.

  The room was luxurious. Kieran did not recall being surrounded by such splendor in his lifetime. His father’s castle had been ancient stone, rather cold as he recalled, and the furnishings echoed a sparse medieval flavor. Here at Ravencrest the furnishings might be several decades old, but they were the finest, evidence of the unrivaled prosperity of the sugar lords. The four poster bed would house three people comfortably, with room to spare for a dog or two at the foot. Lush red brocade silk hung from the tall louvered windows and heavy mahogany furniture brought from England at mid-century filled the elegant suite.

  Situated at the back of the house, the room overlooked the gardens and stables. It did not have access to the pillared veranda that swept across the front of the plantation house, bracketing the rooms of the immediate family. Still, the room Kieran had been assigned was larger than necessary to house one person. As the remaining guest rooms on the second floor were inhabited by Grandfather, Michael, and Kieran himself, he had offered to share his room with Barnaby as the recent influx of guests left little choice for his mentor aside from sharing a room with Michael’s tutor, in the attic. Kieran preferred his mentor to be given the same luxury as himself as they endeavored to resolve the haunting.

  While Kieran studied the book, Barnaby paced and kept rearranging scraps of paper on the bed in an attempt to make sense of the events of the haunting. The old man had written out each incident on a separate scrap of paper and each new fact gleaned through their interviews with the witnesses. He kept puzzling over them, trying to piece together some clue as the reason for the haunting. Kieran had been scanning through the journal for two days, trying to find an entry recorded within it that would verify Donovan’s tale of a curse his grandmother’s ghost insisted had been placed upon their English mother by an O’Flaherty.

  Barnaby had interviewed Elizabeth and Michael regarding their mother’s death. Michael told them everything he knew, which was nothing. He’d been told what happened the morning after by his sister. Elizabeth remained circumspect regarding the haunting, Barnaby noted. They were uncertain if it were a reluctance to speak about an event that had obviously been disturbing for her—or something else that made her edge carefully around every question they posed.

  “Here is something.” Kieran remarked, rising from the desk to stand beside the bed where Barnaby was pondering his web of clues. “The entry is June 12th, 1795, on the night before mother’s funeral. It says here Granny Sheila created two spells.”

  “Hmmm, wrought when in extreme anguish.” The old wizard commented, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “A dangerous form of magic, indeed.”

  “The first spell she recorded was to summon a redeemer to take Elizabeth and Michael into his protection. Sheila used fresh rose petals, dried heather, one of Elizabeth’s baby teeth, a lock of her hair---and a tin knight of Michael’s. A knight. That’s clever, don’t you think?”

  Barnaby shrugged his indifference and rubbed his aching brow with his thumb.

  “The knight. Not only does it link Michael with the spell as the item belonged to him, but think Barnaby, a knight signifies many things; honor, integrity, duty, romance, chivalry . . .”

  “Posh. You are lending too much significance in the choice of catalyst, my boy. Perhaps the woman simply grabbed what was readily accessible.”

  “This spell is very specific.” Kieran insisted. “Listen to the wording, it is very precise: Send a Dark Hero, faithful and true; with hair black as midnight, and eyes bonny blue. Send a Dark Hero, one we can trust; with a will forged in iron, yet, tempered and just. Send Elizabeth a champion with the soul of a Celt, with a heart full of love, a sword on his belt. Bring a Dark Knight” He paused, giving the old man a significant look before continuing. “To fulfill all her desires. With a soul that’s been purified; through blood and through fire.’”

  The old man tossed up a hand in dismissal. “The count has blue eyes, many people do.”

  “It’s not his eye color that concerned my grandmother. She wrote Send Elizabeth a champion!’” Kieran couldn’t contain his excitement. “A champion is a knight, a trained warrior capable of defending the weak. And a knight’s first duty is to protect the weak, namely women and children. It’s no coincidence Sheila put a knight figure in that charm bag.”

  Barnaby didn’t comment, but his look was one of impatience.

  Kieran glanced down to where he’d marked his place with his finger, reading the line again. “Send Elizabeth a champion with the soul of a Celt? Donovan O’Rourke. His mother named him after her parents’ clans. And in Gaelic Donovan means Dark One. Strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say, when Sheila was summoning a dark hero? Brin
g a Dark Knight to fulfill all of her desires, with a soul that’s been purified through blood and through fire? That is how he was tortured. I saw it that first time I touched him. Every word of this spell fits the count precisely.”

  Barnaby moved about the room, fingering his goatee, his habit whenever he was puzzling over something. “Your grandmother was obviously adept in spell casting. But finding this spell does nothing to aid our present dilemma.” The old man rubbed his eyes and glanced wearily at the papers arranged on the bed. “We have to figure out what it is the spirit wants before she returns and tries to murder Lady Elizabeth again.”

  Kieran’s excitement died with that chilling reminder.

  Elizabeth was in danger. The count vowed he would not sleep until he knew his wife was safe from her mother’s vengeful spirit. That was three nights past. If the man’s surly temperament was any indication, he was keeping that punishing vow.

  Kieran returned to the table and sat down. He turned the page and began scanning the next spell, the one Granny Sheila completed directly following his mother’s burial.

  “Here’s a spell listing the ingredients in that pouch.” He pointed to the offending charm before him on the table. “Sheila took rosemary, a lock of father’s hair, mother’s and mine. She braided them together. She cut open her hand and let her blood drip over the braid. She invoked the power of three, bound by blood.”

  “Ah, blood is a powerful medium.” Barnaby agreed. “What was the spell’s purpose?”

  Reading on, Kieran’s heart sank. “Oh, Granny Sheila, what have you done?”

  *******

  “Let him sleep, the poor man.” Barnaby said, when they entered the laboratory to find their host hunched over the desk with his head on his arms, sleeping soundly.

  Barnaby gazed about the count’s private lair with wonder. The wooden workbench in the center held a curious array of glass jars, vials and globes. There were iron pincers, saws, scalpels and other devices of the medical trade. A microscope was perched on a table near the wide, tall windows. Jars lined the shelves, holding pickled organs of the human body. Stuffed creatures perched on shelves if by some magic incantation and were ready to pounce on an unwelcome intruder should the right words be spoken.