by Lauren Smith
“Jane, Isabelle had a younger brother. Joseph Braxton. He was often called Brax as a nickname according to letters we have from Richard and Isabelle.”
What he said took a moment to sink in. “Wait…you’re saying that I’m…related to you?” She covered her mouth, horrified.
He gripped her shoulders. “Jane, we’re several generations apart, from a distantly connected bloodline. But yes, we’re family. You are blood of Isabelle’s blood.”
For a second Jane just started at him. She and Bastian were related. Related. If it hadn’t been so many generations apart, she would have been freaked out. But then again, being related was…amazing. She was connected to Isabelle’s line.
“Okay, so we’re connected a common ancestry.”
“Yes,” Bastian said. “What else did Isabelle mention? You said something about a dovecote and blackened earth?”
A bone-deep chill burned through her as an awful idea surfaced.
“Bastian, you don’t think that…” She gulped, unable for a moment to voice the horrifying thought. “That maybe there’s a body buried there?”
He had been stroking her hair, but his hand stilled, and his fingers tightened in the strands.
“What makes you think it’s a body?” he asked.
She tensed. “Isabelle said I had to get ‘her’ out, and I saw this woman with a decaying face and blond hair. She was…horrifying. It seemed like Isabelle was frightened of her and wanted me to get her out of Stormclyffe. How would we know if there’s a body there?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” He gently set her aside and headed for the dovecote’s door.
The storm had melted into a heavy rain. He went outside and disappeared around the side of the building, soon returning to the doorway with an ancient shovel in his hand. She drank in the sight of him with his rain-slicked, golden hair. He glanced about on the ground and then looked back at her.
“Where did you see the spot?” he asked.
She moved into the doorway and pointed at the particular area she remembered all too vividly from the dream. With a heavy nod, he slammed the shovel’s tip deep into the earth and pressed his foot on the metal, using his weight to plunge it even deeper. Rain sluiced over his body and the cold earth as he dug. For the next hour, she watched in fear and silence as he continued to dig his shovel into the soil. When the hole was three feet deep and three feet long, he suddenly dropped the shovel and stumbled back a step with a guttural shout.
“What is it?” She crept out of the building and placed her hands on his shoulder.
He pointed toward the hole. Apprehension dug its venom-tipped nails into her spine as she crept to the edge and peered down. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream.
Pale bones. Human remains jutted out of the blackened soil. Remnants of a red velvet cloak tangled with the dirt and white fragments.
“There are bones in my gardens,” he declared slowly. “Bones. Christ, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Call the police?”
She gripped his arm hard as she felt something foreign move through her, whispering to her. “Destroy them. Cast them into the sea. She must not stay here any longer.”
“We have to get rid of them. Throw them over the cliff,” she urged.
“What?” He glanced down at her, startled. “No, Jane, we have to call the police.” He grasped her shoulders and shook her.
She cast the strange compulsion aside, ignoring the need to obey command to destroy the bones.
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. They’ll need to process the scene.” She knew from the look of the cloak that the body wasn’t from this century.
“Come on.” He took her hand, lacing their fingers together and leading her away from the shallow grave.
…
Bastian was worried, more than he cared to admit. Jane was shaking so violently that her teeth were chattering, and he feared she might get ill if she stayed outside any longer. He would have the cook make her hot soup, and then he’d get into bed and warm her up, with his body if he was lucky.
Guilt settled like stones upon his chest. He’d brought her out here, not knowing what would happen. She was sensitive to the castle and its history. He hadn’t realized just how deep that sensitivity ran. Perhaps it was her genetic connection to Isabelle, but he couldn’t be sure. More important though, he couldn’t deny that what she was seeing and experiencing involved a history she would know nothing about. His family kept their secrets well, and the fact that she was finding out things even he didn’t know meant something was going on. He didn’t want to label it as paranormal or supernatural. He wasn’t ready to do that yet. But Jane had witnessed a vision that led to him digging up a body.
Protecting Jane was paramount. The blank look on her face as her voice turned cold and hard as she demanded he get rid of the bones had chilled the blood in his veins. In that moment, he was reminded of his grandmother and her strange behavior in connection to Stormclyffe. His mother, too, had always behaved oddly whenever he mentioned the Hall. He glanced over his shoulder back at the hole near the dovecote and the bones.
Whose remains were they? And how had they ended up there? What did they have to do with Isabelle?
Randolph stood at the top of the stone steps near the south door, facing the gardens. A large black umbrella curved over his head like bat wings. When he noticed them, he jogged out to meet them, handing Bastian the umbrella to shield him and Jane.
“Thank you, Randolph.” He nodded at his butler and wrapped an arm around Jane’s shoulders as he took her inside.
“You’re welcome, my lord. Is there anything else you need?” The older man shrugged out of his coat and reached for theirs.
“Yes, please phone the police and tell them to come at once. We’ve found human remains on the property, old ones.”
Randolph stilled, his gray brows lowering over his dark eyes. “Remains?”
Bastian pressed a kiss to Jane’s forehead, drawing strength from her closeness before he answered.
“They are by the dovecote.”
“How did you find them?”
It was Jane who replied to Randolph this time, and Bastian wished she hadn’t. “I saw it in a vision.”
Bastian’s body absorbed the shudder that racked her, as he stroked her hair back from her face. She was so damned strong, but still, she roused every protective instinct inside him and drew out every gentle and sweet need in him to care for her and reassure her. He’d never felt this way with any woman he’d been with in the past. Sex was all he’d ever sought. He wondered if some part of his subconscious avoided romantic entanglements that might put any woman he started to care about in danger from his family’s tragic curse. But Jane was proving impossible to avoid.
She was the exception to every rule he’d made in his life. She was a snag in the grand design, a twist of unexpected thread in the dull tapestry destiny was weaving. It was all coming undone, and the loose threads were spiraling around him in tantalizing patterns and colors. She was saving him from the slow slip down a dark, lonely path. She dragged him back, forced him to live, breath after painful breath, until he started to become the man his father would have been proud of.
“My lord, before you call the police. I must speak with you.” Randolph’s eyes were wide and sorrowful. “Both of you.”
Bastian gave a curt nod. “Let’s go to the Egyptian room. The fire should be lit, and it’s a good place to talk.”
Randolph led the way through the halls and they passed through the room of marble statues. More than once, Bastian’s skin crawled, and he could have sworn that some of the heads of the marble men and women turned his way as he passed by.
The Egyptian room was one of his favorites. All of the furniture had lionlike paws on the legs and several of the couches had sphinx bodies holding up the armrests. Gilded palm fronds extended up from the base of the walls and a rich red paint covered the top part of the entire room and turned purple
toward the ceiling, making it feel as though one were actually in Egypt watching the sun set over the banks of the Nile. The ceiling itself was dark blue with dozens of constellations made from diamonds embedded in the plaster. They glittered sharp and clear as any stars in the night sky.
He took a seat on one of the couches, pulling Jane down beside him while keeping his arm firmly around her shoulders. Randolph paced over to the fire, peering into the flames.
“I know you do not believe in spirits, my lord, but I must speak of them tonight.” He turned to face them. Outside, twilight was creeping along the horizon, her mauve tendrils slithering through the clouds as she slowly devoured the day.
Randolph had never spoke of ghosts, never seemed to give credence to the ghost stories told by the townspeople. So to hear him even say the word was…chilling.
“Many years ago, when I was a young man, I spent my first summer here as a lad working for your grandfather. He was a good man. When he fell in love with your grandmother though…ahh how he loved her,” Randolph paused. “That was when the trouble began. She started having nightmares, ones that made her scream.”
Jane flinched and burrowed closer to Bastian. “Like me.”
“Shh…it’s all right,” he murmured in her ear.
“She began to walk in her sleep, roaming the halls, talking of shadows and a woman in red. An evil woman who we had to get out of the house. And then…Nessy, your grandmother’s, maid died. The police ruled it as a suicide, but I knew her; she was a friend. She would never have killed herself.” His voice broke a little. “Rumors flew around town blaming your grandfather. But none of it was true. That…that evil thing was what killed her.” Randolph uttered the last few words so harshly that both Bastian and Jane clutched each other tight.
“What evil thing?” Jane asked, although she feared she knew the answer.
The butler smoothed a hand over his balding head. “A ghost, a spirit, a demonic presence? Whatever it is that dwells in this house, it is jealous. Any woman who dares to love a man of Carlisle blood has met a bloody end. It was the reason your grandfather took your grandmother and fled this place. He saved her.” Randolph sank down onto the couch opposite them, his eyes deeply focused on something long years past. “I thought the cycle was broken, but your father…came back. And it took him like it did all of the others who’ve tried to live happy lives. I didn’t want you to come here either, but you were so stubborn, so drawn to this place.” He smiled. “Like father, like son. Now that evil has its hooks in Miss Seyton. She’s in danger, my lord. You must acknowledge that, even if you choose not to believe in spirits.” He stood again, as though any period of immobility disturbed him.
“Whatever you have uncovered by the dovecote, it must be removed. Have the police take it away tonight if possible. We might rid ourselves of the evil at last.” He walked to the door and looked back. “I will have Mrs. Beechum make soup for you, and I will call for you when it’s ready.”
Bastian’s throat was so tight he could barely breathe. The butler was always taking care of him, just as he cared for the two previous earls of Stormclyffe, and it had cost him nearly as much as it had cost Bastian.
“Thank you, Randolph.” He hoped the elderly man would know his words went beyond a simple thanks.
“It is my duty.” Randolph bowed and disappeared.
“Do you believe me now?” Jane’s voice was quiet and she looked up at him, her lovely lashes framing those eyes he adored.
“Against every logical bone in my body, I’m starting to.” He slid his hand in his pocket, retrieved his phone. It was time to put an end to the vicious cycle that was hurting his family and those he cared about.
A female operator answered the phone. “999, what’s your emergency?”
He cleared his throat. “I need to report a body.”
Chapter Eleven
The police arrived half an hour later, swarming Stormclyffe as they studied the bones by the dovecote. From the safety of a window overlooking the gardens, Jane watched the activity. An anthropologist, who’d come upon Bastian’s request, finished photographing and mapping the site. The bones appeared to be very old.
The authorities removed the remains, packed them into a coroner’s vehicle, and drove off after midnight. A breath of relief escaped her lips as she watched the last van’s taillights fade into the darkness. She should have felt better now that the body was gone, but she didn’t. Had she expected the stones around her to expel a sigh of relief when the source of evil had been removed? Probably. The feel of a dark taint still clouded her senses, as though the bones had leached evil into the soil and air.
Whatever she and Bastian were caught up in might not be over yet. The air around her seemed charged like minutes before a storm was about to break or on the eve of battle, when warriors put on their polished armor, slid broadswords in their sheaths, and prayed to their gods for victory in hushed voices as dawn grew upon the horizon.
“If only we knew what we are facing,” she murmured and turned away from the window. She was back in the Egyptian room. It was fast becoming one of her favorite places. She was comforted by the distant gazes of the sphinxes. The palm fronds seemed to almost ripple with the gentle rustle of real plants. If she closed her eyes, the room would carry her away, like a boat upon the waters of the Nile.
With a little shake, she dragged herself back to the present. Every room in the castle had this effect on her. Each whispered and teased her with visions of lives lived and days long past.
It was time to open the floodgates. Let the muses from other eras whisper their truths. She would unravel the mystery and save Stormclyffe from the evil that haunted its rightful heirs. She had to do it; no one else could. She felt it deep in her bones. Bastian finally believed her, and would be by her side.
She settled into one of the couches by the fire and kicked her boots off. Something dug into her spine, and she reached behind her. Her fingers slid over smooth leather, and she pulled out a book.
Richard’s journal. How had it gotten here? She knew for a fact that she’d left it in her bag upstairs. A sudden gale tore through the fireplace, sending the flames lashing out like vengeful fire demons, causing her to flinch. The pages of the journal fluttered open, the first line catching her attention.
October 31st, 1811
I am happy. No man has ever been as lucky as I have been. I love my wife. Wife. What a wondrous word. She is everything to me. Today, of all glorious days since I’ve met her, is perhaps the best. Our child, Edward, was born this afternoon. Never had an infant cried so loud, and I laughed with delight at the sound. Isabelle looked up at me, sweat beaded upon her brow, her body limp with exhaustion from bringing our son into the world. All I saw was how beautiful she was, how in awe I was of her for doing something I could never do. She made our lives complete, more complete than I knew we could be. I cradled our babe and sat next to her in bed, allowing her a moment to sleep, knowing the baby and I were within her reach.
I am a father! There was nothing more humbling and more wonderful than helping to bring a life into the world. I was struck with pride and yet feel unworthy of the gift of this little boy. He stirred and cooed softly like a new dove from a nest, and my heart overflowed with love. I counted his fingers, marveling at the tiny perfections, and I cradled his head with my hand, stroking the fine dark hair that was so like his mother’s. I hoped he will grow up to look like her and possess that same dark alluring beauty. The young ladies in the village will have their hearts broken when the day comes for him to choose his wife. The thought makes me smile. Someday my son will marry and know the happiness I have found with his mother.
A knock disturbed my peaceful thoughts. My butler peered into the room, eyes dark with concern.
“What is it?”
“My lord, you must come at once. We have a situation at the dovecote.”
I would have ignored the request but Shrewsbury’s tone warned me that it was important. I placed my son in hi
s new cradle, then followed my butler out to the gardens.
Several of the groundskeepers were waiting near the dovecote, faces solemn. At their feet were dozens of little white shapes. As I drew closer, I realized they were doves. Dead doves. Streaks of crimson marred the snowy perfection of their breasts. My soul cried out at the loss of their lives.
“What has happened to them?” I demanded.
“Something ripped their hearts out. Everyone one of them is dead, save for this one.” One of the older groundskeepers, Samuel Allen, held out his weathered hands and placed a small young dove into my palms.
I cupped my hands delicately around the bird, and it cooed softly and thrashed a little against my restrictive hold.
“That one was hiding at the top.” Samuel pointed to the cupola. “Whoever did this missed it.”
“Who?” I asked, something dark and angry digging into my spine as I thought of what man would have done this to innocent creatures.
“A man must have done this.” Samuel scrubbed blood off his hands, leaving dark tracts on his woolen pants. “No animal would have left the bodies. Beasts eat what they kill.”
One of the younger men shifted restless. “T’was witchcraft,” he muttered.
My gaze flicked to his. “Witchcraft?” I held up the dove and stared into his black eyes. He bobbed his head, as though eyeing me with equal scrutiny.
“Hearts of innocent creatures,” the man elaborated. “A witch would use them in spells, according to me mum.” He trailed off, cheeks turning a ruddy red.
“Why my doves?” I studied the dovecote. It had been built for Isabelle, one of my wedding gifts to her.
“Perhaps someone wishes to do you ill.” Samuel’s rough rumble sent a shudder through me.
“I do not know anyone who wished to do me harm.” Even as I spoke the words, I felt as though I was forgetting something. That forgotten piece nagged at the back of my mind, yet I could not seem to catch the last thought and drag it into the light.
I returned the surviving dove to Samuel’s care and instructed him to care for it. The need to be back with Isabelle and my son was too strong to be ignored. I had to hold them both in my arms and reassure myself they were safe. If someone wished to do me ill, then they were in grave danger.