by Gaelen Foley
So she eased off and strove to give him the breathing room that he desperately seemed to crave at the moment.
Owlswick lay ahead.
She did her best to focus on the supposedly cursed village instead of her traveling companion for a bit, and studied the tiny town as they entered it over the humped stone bridge across a wide, babbling brook.
The village looked ordinary enough at first glance: thatched cottages, a few sleepy shops, a plain stone church with a square bell tower, a plaster-beam guildhall of Tudor vintage, the requisite pub.
Farmers’ wagons loitered here and there. Townsfolk drifted about, bundled up in their provincial garb. They eyed Azrael’s carriage with vague, wary hostility as the fine horses trotted by.
Serena still didn’t believe in curses, but she could see why Toby had said the village had made him uneasy.
An indefinable pall hung in the air over the whole place. She could not quite put her finger on it.
But, that quickly, they were through the small village, past a sleepy stagecoach inn on the far end, and out the other side.
She’d furrowed her brow, full of questions, when she spotted the famous barrow in the distance. “Oh, look!” she said, pointing out the carriage window. “There’s the barrow Toby described.”
The smooth, green, oval mound rose up unnaturally from the mostly flat fields all around it, about as tall as a house. It looked about half a mile west of the village.
“Is that the way we’re going?” Serena asked.
“My father’s estate does lie in that direction, yes.”
Azrael’s demeanor was changing, she noticed, as they turned off the main road onto a smaller country lane that twisted off to the left.
He grew quiet—even quieter than normal. The harsh glitter of buried rage she had seen in his eyes when he’d spoken of his father had steadily given way to a deadened, distant expression, hard and cold, as though he were braced for combat.
Perhaps he was, though his battle was an interior one, she gathered, against the demons of his past.
Again, taking care not to crowd him, she fixed her attention on the view outside the carriage window. But privately, she vowed to do whatever she could to help him speed through this task as quickly as possible.
She was already feeling guilty for making him come here and face these awful memories for her sake. The least she could do was keep her own emotions in check, not grow weepy over what he’d suffered—and with that, Serena stiffened her spine.
Out the window, a mossy stone fence flanked one side of the country road, which they followed for another quarter-hour. The road wended its way through the chalk hills until it left the open fields and entered a dense brown wood, where, at last, they reached the gated entrance to the Rivenwood estate, and there the carriage halted.
“We’re at the gates, sir,” the coachman called.
“Very good,” Azrael answered in a loud voice. He glanced at Serena. “Pardon,” he said, then he jumped out.
She ducked her head, watching curiously as he walked over to the tall, forbidding wrought-iron gates, taking some keys out of his greatcoat pocket.
His driver offered to see to the task for him, but Azrael waved him off and unlocked them himself. The rusty gates creaked as he pushed them open.
They screeched like damned souls writhing in the flames of hell, she thought, which was exactly where the last Duke of Rivenwood belonged.
As she watched Azrael and thought of him as a towheaded boy feeding orphaned kittens from a dropper, anger at the injustices done to him began replacing her grief on his behalf.
When he’d swung the gates open wide, he walked back to the carriage, saying, “One moment, Paulson,” to his driver. He peered through the carriage window at her, resting his long-fingered hands on the door. “I think I’ll walk the rest of the way up to the house. It’s not very far, and I could use a stretch.”
“May I join you? That is—unless you’d rather be alone.”
A brief flicker of gratitude brightened the shadows in his eyes.
He opened the carriage door for her and lifted a hand to assist her down without a word.
It meant a great deal to her that he was willing to accept her company at a time like this. She hoped her presence by his side helped him in some small way.
She stepped down from the coach and stretched her back as much as her corset would allow while Azrael shut the door. He told Paulson to drive on, that they’d meet him at the house.
They waited until the carriage had rolled by, then Azrael took hold of one of the gates and hauled it shut. Serena got the other, taking her cue from him.
He seemed surprised she made the effort, but she was determined to be as useful as possible after putting him through this.
Azrael closed but did not lock the gates, just enough to mask the fact that the long-absent master of the estate was paying a discreet visit to his abandoned property.
“I take it you haven’t been here in a long time.”
“Years,” he said.
She nodded, still unsure about his state of mind. He seemed to be retreating ever deeper into his own world. She checked her locket watch and saw that it was just about eleven in the morning now. At least they were on schedule.
They proceeded to walk up the drive as it snaked through the overgrown woods. The wan gray daylight filtered through the sparse branches overhead, and a chill wind rattled the brown weeds and brambles on both sides of the drive.
Serena saw a fallen log swathed in bright green moss; a huge bird nest rested high above in one leafless tree. The trunks of others were slowly being choked by thick, winding vines.
Very well, maybe Toby and the superstitious peasants were onto something, she thought with a nervous gulp. She had to admit the place felt cursed, or at least haunted.
She reached instinctively for Azrael’s hand, but suddenly jumped, startled at the raucous cry of a bird. She couldn’t see it amid the branches, but at least its noisy presence revealed that the estate was not quite as abandoned as it looked.
The animals had taken over.
Indeed, Azrael pointed out a buck moving through the woods without a sound. The creature stopped and stared at them, fearless, its spread of antlers magnificent. It was followed by three equally silent does.
But despite her fleeting wonder at the woodland animals’ beauty, she was reminded anew of that story about his father’s death—the one he never talked about—and a terrible suspicion began taking shape in her mind.
According to rumor, Azrael’s father had been murdered by a vagrant he’d caught poaching in the woods of his country estate while he and his young son were out taking a walk.
But surely this wasn’t the estate where that had happened, she thought, suddenly aghast. Oh, God, please, no.
It couldn’t be! Even aristocrats further down the peerage owned multiple country houses, and dukes owned more than most. But if it was, then that might explain why he had been so reluctant to help her in the first place.
She glanced over at him, wondering what all she was putting the man through. It was bad enough that she’d asked him to revisit the dark memories of his childhood. But was she also forcing him to face the very spot where he’d seen his father killed?
Or maybe even had a hand in it.
Her heart beat faster. As he pulled her gently by the hand, she walked on with a sense of creeping doom toward the white manor house ahead.
A mansion like a Greek temple was becoming visible through the trees. It had broad front steps leading up to a row of white columns, the center block crowned by a dome.
Azrael stopped some distance from the house, his gaze traveling from left to right over the symmetrical wings that flanked the main block. “As you can see, we’ll have a lot of ground to cover in searching this place,” he said in a taut voice. “It has over sixty rooms.”
Serena barely knew what to say, desperately hoping she was wrong about this location.
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��But don’t worry,” he said. “I can think of a few likely spots where the trunk might be hidden. Come—and welcome to my home,” he added, a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“Azrael,” she said softly as he released her hand and took a few steps ahead of her, his shoulders squared, his strides long and measured, his spine straight with determination.
She had to know. She glanced toward the woods. “Is this the place…?”
He stopped but did not turn around, his posture rigid, his back to her, his stare fixed straight ahead.
“What do you mean?” he asked tensely, as though holding his breath.
She swallowed hard. “Where your father was murdered?”
“Yes,” he whispered without turning around. Then his voice grew strong and cool again. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Once more he strode forward, but Serena stood in place. She closed her eyes for a second, shocked at the enormity of the gift he was giving her by coming here—and he hadn’t even mentioned it.
Repenting of her stubbornness, she flicked her eyes open again, knowing it was too late to turn back now. They’d come this far.
With a pang of regret, she hurried after him into the silent, brooding mansion. The sooner they could find the box and leave this place, the better.
Somehow, she vowed, she would make it up to him for this.
CHAPTER 9
All the Dark Corners
Past the thick, forlorn front columns around the entrance and through the once-grand front doors they walked. Inside, Serena found the furnishings of the late Duke of Rivenwood’s estate draped in brown Holland cloth. The tall corners of the opulent saloons were swathed with cobwebs.
The dust was thick, the silence was profound, and she was tempted to run back outside and wait with Paulson and the horses. If the village of Owlswick was eerie, the atmosphere inside the mansion sent a cold serpent of unease slithering down her spine and covered her body in gooseflesh. But when she glanced at Azrael and saw his jaw clenched, she could not let him face this alone, so she followed.
Their footsteps echoed in the hollow space of the entrance hall between the checkerboard marble floor and the lofty painted ceiling far above them.
“Stiver wouldn’t have hidden the box on the ground floor. Too public,” Azrael murmured, glancing toward the twisting staircase that led up from the entrance hall. “Probably not on the first floor, either, where any outsiders might visit. Follow me.”
He jogged up the steps, and Serena lifted the hem of her skirts and hastened after him. Despite its current state of disrepair, the house was lavish. Azrael had truly left a fortune sitting here, but from what she understood, he was so rich he probably wouldn’t have missed it.
She caught a brief glimpse of a drawing room on the first floor and a music room across from it, but he continued up to the second floor, the truly private section of the country house, above the public staterooms.
It was dark and shadowy in the upstairs corridor, and the dust made her nose itch.
She kept thinking of how much Toby would’ve thrilled to the chance to walk through these most likely haunted halls if he were here. She couldn’t believe she was here, actually.
Just being in this place was enough to make her start believing in ghosts, as much as she had laughed at her ex-beau for his credulous belief in so many foolish superstitions.
Azrael was silent and impassive, striding ahead of her. It was clear he wanted to find what they had come for and get out of here as quickly as possible.
Though she continued to study him discreetly, she could not determine if the ice that had come over his expression was rooted in rage or fear. She followed him down another hallway past doors that she supposed led to various bedchambers.
Since he was clearly unhappy about being here, she felt compelled to say something to acknowledge his unselfishness. “Thank you for doing this for me, Azrael,” she offered, but winced at how inadequate it sounded.
He looked askance at her, as though a bit disgusted with himself for agreeing to it.
“Here,” he said. As they reached a pair of double doors, he laid hold of both knobs at once, thrust them open, and gusted through. “This was my father’s private apartment. The most likely place to start. You check the sitting room, through there.” He pointed to an adjoining door. “I’ll check the bedchamber.”
Serena nodded, glancing around at the room.
It did not look like the private quarters of an elite occultist, but any ordinary upper-class bedchamber. Plush brocaded chairs. Wide windows, though the shutters had been closed. Somehow, though, it felt very wrong being in here.
She got to work, nevertheless, marching into the sitting room. Her first thought was to open the blinds to let enough light in so she could see.
This done, she sneezed from the dust, then started her search for the late duke’s small leather case, cask, or trunk, as Azrael had described it, of incriminating papers.
She carefully examined everything in the sitting room, hunting for any possible place that a small leather trunk could be hidden. She opened cabinets, peering inside, scanned bookshelves, knelt to peek beneath the furniture.
Nothing.
“Any luck?” she called to Azrael after a while.
“Not yet.”
She decided to check the liquor cabinet again, and reached into it, feeling around. But she let out a shriek and shot backward when a spider dropped clumsily onto her hand. It seemed as alarmed by her as she was by it; she instantly flicked it off and it skittered away.
“What’s wrong?” Azrael barked, skidding into the doorway from the other room, rushing to her aid.
“Oh, um, nothing. Spider,” she said with a weak laugh, her heart still pounding. “Sorry. It startled me, is all.”
He looked relieved, if a bit irked.
“I think I’m done in here, anyway.” She closed the cabinet and hurried toward him, gesturing at the windows. “Would it be all right if we leave the blinds open in here after we leave? A little light couldn’t hurt.”
“Close them,” he said in a deadened monotone. “This place is a tomb.”
He walked out.
“I really am sorry for putting you through this,” she said, rejoining him after dutifully closing and locking the shutters. “I-I didn’t know.”
“I realize that.” Avoiding her gaze as before, he shook his head. “It’s of no consequence. Come with me. I think I have an idea.”
# # #
His own passing use of the word tomb had inspired Azrael. Given the cult’s preoccupation with death, his father’s mausoleum out on the grounds seemed a far more likely place for Stiver to have hidden the cult’s secret records.
No one in his right mind would ever look for them there—which seemed the whole point.
It was worth a try, anyway.
Unfortunately, everything in Azrael recoiled from the thought of going into his father’s tomb. Not the least because, to get there, he would have to cross through the very woods where…
“What is it?” Serena asked, interrupting his thoughts.
He looked absently at her, found her observing him, and let his hesitation get the better of him. “Let’s keep checking more of these rooms. We might as well be thorough.”
And so they did.
For the next hour and a half, they scoured the manor house from top to bottom, to no avail.
By the time they had gone through the kitchens, the last room at the back of the house, Serena turned wearily to him, pushing a stray lock of her now messy hair behind her ear.
“I fear we’ve wasted our time here, Your Grace. I’ve put you through this for nothing,” she said in dismay. She was looking charmingly disheveled after all their efforts, her chignon coming loose, her spencer unbuttoned, her cream-colored skirts wrinkled and dusty.
Likewise, Azrael had taken off his jacket and was down to his waistcoat.
“Any more ideas?” Serena asked with a sigh.
He was silent for a moment. “Only one.” It could not be delayed anymore.
“Where?” she asked.
“Follow me.” A chill stole into his veins as he turned around and headed back outside.
“Any luck, sir?” Paulson asked cheerfully when they walked back out of the house. The husky, rosy-cheeked coachman was reclining on the driver’s box reading a newspaper.
Of course, Paulson had no idea what sort of supposed family heirloom they’d come here to find.
“Not yet,” Azrael answered. He could breathe easier in the crisp, cool air free of all that dust—but not for long.
His pulse took up an ominous drumbeat as he crossed the graveled carriage turnaround at the head of the drive, now overgrown with weeds.
Serena followed while Azrael scanned the tree line of the nearby woods until his gaze had picked out the opening of that dire, familiar path to his father’s tomb.
Without a word, he reached back and gripped Serena’s hand on a pretense of hurrying her along, helping her keep up. But it was just the opposite.
Her touch, the soft, solid warmth of her hand against his freezing-cold flesh steadied him, though he’d never admit it; just having her beside him helped ward off the shivering chill that had gripped his whole body.
“Come,” he ordered, pulling her with him into the woods.
He was only doing this for her, after all.
He stared straight ahead as he marched through the overgrown forest, all but dragging Serena with him by her hand. She did not complain, sturdy as she was. Azrael might not have noticed anyway if she had, for hatred and dread and, above all, choking guilt were welling up in his throat.
His chest felt so constricted it was as though iron bands had wrapped around him, squeezing. His pulse pounded, temples throbbing. Perhaps she noticed that his hand gripping hers so tightly was clammy with sweat.
Overwhelming guilt pulsed through him. Guilt for the triumph he had felt to watch his father die.
“Azrael, could you please slow down? Quit dragging me along!” Serena finally exclaimed. “I nearly tripped over my hem back there.”
“Sorry,” he said. He released her hand from his sweaty clasp and slowed his pace a bit.