Dark Hero; A Gothic Romance (Reluctant Heroes)

by Silver, Lily

  Elizabeth’s eyes grew dim. She clutched her temples, fearing she was about to faint. Donovan’s bloody hand moved from its punishing grip on her upper arm to Kieran’s chest as he took to investigating the wound. “Giles, your shirt.” He commanded and received the hastily removed fabric quickly. Donovan wadded it and stuffed it against Kieran’s ghastly wound. “It hit the left clavical bone. A few inches lower and you would be finished.” He told Kieran. “Still, we need to slow the bleeding until I can remove the ball and cauterize the wound.”

  Blood, everywhere. So much blood. Kieran, Michael, Donovan, Mama . . .

  Elizabeth crumpled. She held her head in her hands, fearing she was about to retch as the bitter taste of copper filled her mouth. She was panting, frantic, about to lose control and start screaming. Good God in Heaven--how she wanted to scream--needed to scream. Would this senseless killing ever stop?

  “Oh God, so much blood--so much blood.” She murmured, over and over as her body shivered and shook and her heart threatened to explode from all the violence surrounding her.

  “Elizabeth, the blood.” Kieran shouted. He was sitting up, with help from Giles behind him. His hand reached out for hers. Was he squeamish, too? Did he feel ill when he saw blood?

  She shook her head, unable to fathom his determined look or his pleading. She sat quiet and still as Donovan had instructed her to do. She hugged her knees with her good arm. She was going to be still for once and wait for Donovan to get them out of this. She was going to sit right here with her teeth chattering, her eyes burning, gasping for each breath, and wait for the carnage to end. Wait for someone else to take charge and save Michael for a change.

  “The blood.” Kieran said again, rising slightly and scuttling awkwardly toward her. Donovan was between them. Kieran’s bloody hand came towards her. She flinched and ducked, trying to escape the grisly grasp. “Use it.” Kieran insisted. “Use the blood to call forth the ancestors. You can do this. Use our blood and the power of three!”

  Kieran touched her. She felt strength flowing from Kieran’s soiled fingers on her arm. “Cast the circle, secure the guardians, open The Veil and bring them here--it’s the only way.”

  The Veil Between the Worlds? The dark, gloomy place where spirits lingered?

  Kieran wanted her to raise the dead, for what purpose? To confront Fletcher?

  “Yes. You are their bridge between the worlds. Call them forth.” Elizabeth started at the voice so close to her. Maureen was beside her. The ghost had left Gavin’s side. Unable to reach him, she came to help Elizabeth. “The blood calls us. Take up the blade, draw your blood, and cast the circle. Use your blood mingled with the other priest’s to open the gates.”

  Blood. Elizabeth swallowed. She hated the smell of blood. It made her sick, the sight of it made her remember Mama’s blood on the floor on that awful night.

  Kieran let go of her knee. His eyes rolled back in his head. He wilted before them. Donovan cursed, and bent over him, muttering something about shock with loss of blood. Donovan was trying to save her brother’s life. Trying to staunch the flow of blood from yet another victim, another family member fallen by Fletcher’s blood lust. As Donovan turned away from her to focus on Kieran, Kieran’s eyes opened. He looked at her, his blood drenched hand reaching for hers, his turquoise eyes insisting she return to the one place that frightened her beyond words.

  She eased up on her heels again and peered at Fletcher over the sofa top. He was almost done with his drink. Donovan was clever. Papa was a slave to the drink.

  Fletcher noticed her looking at him over the sofa top. Those murderous brown eyes met hers. “Now that this brat’s caught his breath shall we see if he’s ready for another gibbet dance?”

  “No!” She cried, rising, and Donovan responded by grasping her shoulder and pulling her back down. There was no way she could go to Fletcher. And Gavin would die because of it.

  “Don’t look at him.” Donovan instructed harshly. “Don’t listen to his rambling. He’s trying to bait you, Elizabeth.”

  “He’s going to kill Gavin.” She told him, and clutched his soiled shirt. “He’s going to kill that child unless I stop him.”

  “You are not going to stop him, Elizabeth. He’s going to kill you if you go to him.”

  A noise from the hallway drew their attention to the splintered door. Ambrose stood there with several men behind him. “My lord.” He intoned. He lifted a long black cylinder and aimed it at Fletcher. “The road is awash from heavy rains. Sorry we were late.”

  The steward’s gun fired.

  Gavin shrieked. Elizabeth screamed. Donovan swore.

  Giles muttered a Catholic prayer.

  In those horrifying seconds when Ambrose lifted the musket and pulled the trigger, Fletcher had jerked Gavin up and placed the child in front of him to shield himself from the ball.

  And Michael lurched up in front of Fletcher and shoved Gavin out of the way.

  She was going to faint, in the very least.

  Elizabeth watched her little brother crumple with agony contorting his features.

  She watched as Fletcher grabbed him, open mouthed, as shocked as the rest by Michael’s action. He clasped Michael’s body to him, drew the lad across his lap.

  She was going to faint, in the very least.

  She needed to faint, now.

  If not, she didn’t think she’d ever stop screaming.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Donovan stood. He stared, open mouthed as he watched the lad crumple in pain. He cried out. His oath was swallowed by the sounds of his wife’s hysterical screaming.

  Michael would have fallen to the floor in his agony but Fletcher grabbed him and pulled him onto his lap, cradling him across his knees in a maniacal antithesis of the Pieta sculpture. There was no tenderness or grief in this macabre tableau, only evil.

  The clicking sound at the door told him Ambrose was reloading, determined to take down the villain at any cost. Donovan held out his hand. “Hold your fire.”

  Fletcher looked over at him, noting him for the first time. “Not dead? Bad Irishman.”

  “I’m not so easy to kill.” Donovan said as he sank down and huddled close to Lizzie. “It’s almost over, love. Michael was hit in the upper thigh, maybe his hip as far as I can tell. There is a possibility the ball could be deflected by the hip bone. If I can get to him quickly he’ll be all right. Shhh, love. Can you hear me?”

  His heart was in shreds. Lizzie was in shock, he was sure of it, distraught beyond reason as any girl her age would be in the face of such wanton carnage against her family. He rumpled her hair. “Hold on, sweetie. I’m going to end this.” He snatched up the machete once more.

  “The blood. There’s so much blood.” She kept murmuring. She was staring straight ahead, at nothing. Giles was tending to Kieran, keeping the shirt pressed tight to Kieran’s wound to staunch the bleeding as Donovan instructed him to do.

  “I have to help Michael.” Elizabeth mumbled. “I have to go out there.”

  “No. I’ll go this time.” Donovan told her. He took her cold hand, wondering if she could hear him. “If anyone is going to play the hero, it’s going to be me, not my wife.”

  Releasing her hand, Donovan stood. “Fletcher, it’s over. Your son has been shot. Surrender and I might be able to save him.”

  The canny military captain looked up from Michael’s pain filled face. “I’ve still got a hostage, don’t I? Two, if you count the weeping pile of Irish shit on the floor.” He nodded at Gavin’s cowering form at his feet.

  The meaning of Fetcher’s words took a moment for Donovan to absorb.

  “You would use your wounded son as a hostage? You insane bastard! He’s going to bleed to death within the hour.”

  *******

  “The blood, Elizabeth. Use it to call forth the ancestors. Use your power.”

  Kieran’s voice echoed in her mind. She pulled herself out of her lethargy. He was lying on the floor beside her, awake and looki
ng hopefully at her.

  “Cast the circle. I will help you. We can do it; together. Don’t be afraid.” He was actually speaking, she realized, it wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her.

  Kieran wrangled about to move closer to her, grimacing with agony as he did so. Giles was kneeling behind him. At her brother’s insistence, the butler helped Kieran into a sitting position against the back of the sofa so he was sitting upright beside her. Kieran reached behind Elizabeth and withdrew the dagger that had fallen beneath the sofa after Donovan removed it from his shoulder. He held it up between them and gazed at Elizabeth with knowing eyes.

  Donovan was standing above them. He was trying to talk Fletcher into giving up.

  “I can’t.” Elizabeth shook her head. She held up her bound arm. “You must hold the knife. Hold it firm.” Lifting her good hand, she dragged the fleshy heel of her hand across the razor sharp blade; not a deep cut, just enough to draw blood. She made a fist, milking the flow of blood until her hand was coated with it. She then removed the wadded cloth from Kieran’s wound and squeezed at the gory hole in his shoulder, making him gasp in pain.

  “Here now!” Giles protested. “What’s this--“

  “Family business.” Kieran ground out through clenched teeth. “Leave the countess be!”

  His rebuke silenced the servant. As Giles watched, Kieran took Elizabeth’s blood soaked hand and rubbed her wound against his, mingling their blood.

  Elizabeth wiped her hand on the blade and then took the knife from him.

  “By the power of three, bound by blood; my blood, your blood, O’Flaherty blood!” Kieran chanted aloud, looking intently at her. “Cast the circle first. Call forth the ancient guardians to guard the boundaries. You must contain the spirits within the circle.”

  “What about him?” She gestured to Donovan above them, attempting to beguile Fletcher with reason when physical force failed. She wouldn’t get far without Donovan stopping her.

  “Leave it to me.” Kieran whispered as he leaned into her so Giles couldn’t hear. With that, he sank to the floor on his side and started moaning. Donovan quickly crouched beside him to discern the cause of this strange new symptom. Kieran clutched his wounded shoulder and screamed as if he were on fire, giving Elizabeth shivers. Donovan started tearing Kieran’s shirt away and took to inspecting his wound with concern, giving Giles curt directions to assist him.

  While the two men tried to contain his thrashing body, Kieran turned his face to her and in the sparse second their eyes met he mouthed one word. “Go.”

  Elizabeth slipped off her shoes and moved around the sofa in her stocking feet. She understood now, bare feet helped the priestess connect with the earth and draw up the powerful energies within it into her body, enabling her to cast the circle and perform magic.

  She held the dagger straight out before her as she approached Fletcher.

  “Ach, you mean to come after me with that knife, little girl?” Fletcher scoffed. He still held Michael on his lap, unconscious, propped in front of Fletcher’s torso so the men could not fire at him without hitting Michael. “It’ll take more than a scrawny girl to bring me down.”

  Elizabeth ignored Fletcher. Donovan was right to tell her not to listen to him. He was a master at intimidation. He knew just what to say to hurt a person, and he used that talent to strike an emotional blow on his enemies. She kept her right arm extended in front of her and held the dagger in a horizontal line. She walked in a circle around his chair, keeping out of his reach.

  “Here is the boundary of the circle of stones. Naught but love shall enter it, naught but love shall emerge from within. Charge this with your power, ancient ones . . .” She repeated the chant in Gaelic until she completed the circle by returning to the starting point. Once there, she sealed the sacred circle and called the guardians by rote, as Sheila taught her years ago.

  She could only hope Donovan didn’t drag her away before she opened the Veil and released the power of the ancients. Kieran couldn’t hold him off indefinitely with his false groaning. And there were Donovan’s men at the door. Elizabeth turned, realizing Ambrose or one of the others might decide to come after her with the notion that they were helping her spouse by protecting her, and thus prevent her from working her magic.

  “Maureen! Secure the doors.” She commanded. The twin doors to the salon slammed shut and the lock clicked. Maureen’s spirit materialized before them. She nodded for Elizabeth to proceed.

  “Lizzie?” Donovan shot up from behind the couch, the machete in his upraised hand. “Come here, now. Come back to me.”

  Kieran’s coppery head rose from the back of the sofa. He pulled himself up and hung over the sofa by one arm, looking pale and exasperated. He lunged forward and clutched his arms about Donovan’s waist. “Stay out of this. Elizabeth must fulfill her destiny. Don’t make me summon a Fetch to restrain you. They’re obnoxious and very hard to control.”

  If not for the dire circumstances they found themselves in, Kieran’s remark might be humorous. As threats went, it wasn’t much. Donovan had no idea what her brother was talking about, and would assume a Fetch was an imaginary creature Kieran made up to scare him.

  “Trust me.” She said, turning to glance at Donovan. “As I trust you.”

  She shivered violently. Cold enveloped her body. She felt as if she’d just been plunged into an icy sea. A queer feeling swept through her, the bizarre feeling of being inhabited.

  When she spoke it was not of her own accord. “Trust us, Lad. We will not harm the seer.”

  *******

  Donovan choked back a shriek. His wife just spoke to him with a man’s voice.

  And her eyes were . . . strange. Shimmering, glowing in a most unnatural fashion.

  Kieran was hanging on him like a leech and chanting in Gaelic. A very heavy leech, Donovan thought, as he felt the Irishman’s weight pulling on his hips and torso.

  Damn. It was impossible for that skinny Irishman to weigh so much.

  What was that revolting smell? Rotten eggs, sulfur, and vomit? Donovan scrunched up his nose, gagging from the sudden stench rising from O’Flaherty.

  He tried to move. He could not. He couldn’t make his legs budge. He twisted his upper body, but he could not move his feet away from where he was standing. Something was restraining him and it was not Kieran O’Flaherty. He felt hot, noxious breath on his neck. It was real, because it was moving his hair with each intake and outtake of breath.

  “Do not interfere. Let her summon the ancients. The judgment is overdue.”

  Donovan turned his head toward the throaty feminine voice to his right. As he feared, his dead grandmother was standing next to him, talking to him--again. When had the twin pillars of logic and reason shattered in his mind? This wasn’t real, she wasn’t real. She couldn’t be. Yet, his mama’s long deceased mother was here, speaking to him! He looked down at O’Flaherty hanging upon his waist and felt as if the gravitation pull of the earth was holding him in place. He was trapped, a useless statue still clutching the machete in his sword hand.

  He looked desperately to his wife, fearing for her life if Fletcher released Michael and grabbed her. She held the dagger aloft. She had her eyes closed, and was chanting in the language of her ancestors. The room was becoming thick and oppressive. The hair on his arms was lifting, as were the hairs on the back of his neck. It was the same feeling he had on the voyage, when Miss Pemberly’s ghost appeared in his cabin to harass Elizabeth---only this time, the heavy, oppressive atmosphere was much more intense.

  He watched Lizzie fearfully, and then looked to the men at the door, hoping for help.

  What? The door was closed? How did that happen? He heard Ambrose shouting and the men banging on it. He saw Ambrose peeking in the small hole made by the ball Fletcher fired at him earlier. Ambrose was trying to see what was going on.

  As Elizabeth chanted, a curious black mist began to swirl and wend gracefully about her body. “By the power of three, my blood, Kieran’s
blood, O’Flaherty blood . . .” She spoke now in English and her voice was her own. Her hand was bleeding, he noted, as the scarlet jewel of bright translucent fluid sluiced down her upraised forearm.

  He didn’t understand what was happening.

  But make no mistake, whatever it might be, Elizabeth was at the heart of it.

  *******

  Elizabeth was between the worlds. She stood inside the Veil, yet she was also still in the salon. She could see it beyond the protective circle she created. It appeared as if a sheer curtain of black lingered between her and the room at large. She could see Michael clearly, propped on Fletcher’s lap. He seemed to be unconscious. He was bleeding from his hip, bleeding all over Fletcher as the man held him upright across his lap, a fleshly shield against the men gathered to conquer him. Looking at Michael’s crimson soaked thigh she realized she had a second triad of power to call upon that would strengthen first triad.

  “By the power of three, bound by blood; my blood, Kieran’s blood, Michael’s blood--Wentworth blood, I call forth the spirits beyond the Veil. I ask you as the seer and high priestess of Clan O’Flaherty to come to me and assist me in this time of great crisis. I call you to witness these rites and to judge the violent soul before me. I call those of O’Flaherty blood and those of Wentworth blood . . . as I will it, come to me, come to my aid and set us all free.”

  The Veil was opened, she could feel it leaking into the sacred circle she’d created to contain the spirits. The black mists grew heavier as they swirled around her. She felt the cold, damp, cloying air of that place Kieran had taken her to two weeks ago filling the room. She did not know what or who would emerge at her summons. She could only sense that something was coming, more souls were slipping through the Veil, filling the circle, coming at her summons.

  Coldness swept through her. She could see her breath. She was no longer alone before Captain Fletcher. She felt them hovering behind her, waiting for her to direct them.

  Fletcher’s face became grey. His eyes were the size of shillings and his mouth was agape with horror. Good! It was time this wretched fiend tasted the fear he inflicted so often on others. Elizabeth swallowed the sudden gorge that rose in her throat. It was an acid bitterness. She felt as if she might become violently ill. She stiffened, fearing Donovan’s admonitions were about to come true; she was going to have a seizure, a nasty one, in full view of her stepfather, when she was trying to use magic to conquer him. It would be utter humiliation.