Chapter Thirty
The next morning, Mercy tapped softly on the door to Victor’s bedroom. It was still early, but she hoped to find him awake and feeling better. She couldn’t sleep another wink and would find no peace until she shared her idea with him.
The door opened a crack, and Victor’s sleepy face and bare chest came into view. Her eyes dipped lower, and she was able to breathe again when she saw his crumpled pants.
“Come to have your wicked way with me?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
“I’m afraid not.” She pushed past him, entering his room. A large four-poster bed sat in the center of the wall to her left, and straight ahead was a set of French doors.
“You have a balcony,” she said.
“I also have a large bed,” he replied, waggling his brow.
She rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of a chaise lounge near the fireplace. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. That’s excellent news, because I want you to get dressed. I’ve been up almost the whole night, thinking on your problem, and I believe I have a solution.”
She glanced at him, exasperated to find he hadn’t moved a single inch. He stared at her, his expression dark and contemplative. What was he waiting for? They had business to attend to and not a moment to waste.
“Oh, do not look at me that way,” Mercy said, walking to his chest. She opened it, prepared to retrieve a shirt, but it was empty. “Where are your clothes?”
He pointed to an armoire in the corner of the room but otherwise failed to react. Obstinate man. But at least he was looking well. She’d never seen him so pale as yesterday morning. And now she knew why. Eveline had shared the whole of the story last night over tea.
“Would you please get dressed?” Stalking to the armoire, she grabbed the first shirt she could find, shoving it at him as she began searching for his boots. “Your secret is out. I know what you’ve been doing for the past two weeks, and though it shows a shocking lack of trust in my abilities, it cannot hurt to be prepared with a back-up plan should the counter spell fail. Our child’s life depends on us breaking the curse, so I’m here to help.”
“I’m not questioning your skills,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head. “Rather the effectiveness of the spell itself. Who wrote the damned thing, and will it work?”
She couldn’t say with 100 percent certainty. The toe of her boot slammed into something hard. Ah, his Hessians. She handed him the boots.
“I don’t know who wrote it, and I don’t know if it’ll work. You’re right. We need to learn more about the curse so we can fight it. And we’ve come up with a plan, Eveline and I.”
Victor lifted his brow and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m all ears.”
“Please, hurry,” she said, watching his progress. “We must speak with Ambrose Blackburn. It’s that simple.”
Victor rubbed cologne in his hands and slapped it on his neck. “Not simple at all. I’ve learned a thing or two about communicating with ghosts during my time at Devil’s Cove. Without something personal of Ambrose’s to draw a connection, Eveline cannot speak with him. Unless he reaches out to her. Which he hasn’t done since we’ve arrived. So, not simple at all.”
Mercy smiled and handed him a slip of paper. “All true, except that you’re forgetting I’m a witch, and last night I wrote a summoning spell.”
Holding out her hand, she invited him to take it. He read the spell as she led him down the corridor.
“I’ve asked Eveline, Dominick, and Hatchet to meet us in the parlor this morning. We’ll need six candles, all the same length. We must hurry, though. Summoning spells work best at first light. Don’t ask why, because I don’t know. They simply do.”
He stopped dead in his tracks and pulled her to him. She slammed into his chest, and a moment later, his lips were on hers, and he was kissing her hard and fast. The kiss ended before she could truly react or register the divine feel of his mouth.
“Thank you, Mercy,” he said, gazing intently into her eyes. “Thank you for working with me to find a solution. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
It was easy to forget that underneath the strong exterior and his towering height, he was just a man. A man afraid to die. And she didn’t wish him dead anymore. He needed to be here for their son.
“You two going to stand there all morning, or are we going to summon a ghost?” Hatchet asked, leaning against the wall outside his bedroom door.
Victor grabbed Mercy’s hand, and they raced together down the hallway. He slowed their pace on the stairs, and at the bottom, they prepared to part ways—she to the parlor—he to retrieve the required candles.
Milton and Mrs. Hart appeared from the hallway leading from the kitchen.
“You’re out and about early this morning,” Milton said, eyeing their little party warily. “I was not made aware of any plans. Do you require the carriage, Master Victor?”
“No, but might you direct me to our stock of candles? I need six of them.”
Milton’s brow knitted. “Candles, sir?”
“Yes,” Mercy said, smiling. “Preferably new and the same type.”
Mrs. Hart folded her hands. “Please, allow me to assist.”
“I’ll meet you in the parlor,” Victor said, shooing Mercy and Hatchet in that direction.
Eveline and Dominick were already in the parlor, seated on the sofa, drinking a cup of morning tea. Mercy’s nerves were too riled to think about food or drink, so she cleared the coffee table of its knickknacks. Victor arrived moments later with six candles, his breathing labored. Mrs. Hart poked her head inside the room, and her face contorted with disapproval before she closed the door.
“Milton may have met his match,” Victor teased, handing Mercy the candles. “I don’t believe Mrs. Hart approves of our morning activities.”
“Well, she is not the first to look down her nose at me,” Mercy said, setting the candles in a perfect circle around the table. She inspected her handiwork, placing her hands on her hips. “I’ve never tried to summon a ghost. But I’ve read about it, and I found one example of a spell in the Tome of the Accursed that I’ve tailored to our needs. If all goes well, Ambrose should appear in the center of the circle after I summon him. Are you ready, Eveline?”
Her friend nodded. “While you cast the spell, I will prepare myself to speak with him. Once he is among us, you must all remain silent and follow my lead.”
Mercy glanced at Victor, whispering, “Light the candles, if you please.”
She stood before the table with her palms to the sky, inhaling through her nose and out her mouth until all six candles burned bright. With an open heart and an open mind, she called to her brethren.
Ambrose Blackburn, you came to me,
Offering wisdom, when I could not see.
Many questions remain, and you hold the key,
Come to me, Ambrose, I summon thee.
The temperature in the room dropped instantly, sending chills racing up Mercy’s spine. She kept her eyes riveted on the center of the circle. Candlelight flickered and danced on the table, their shadows growing and taking shape. White light seeped out of the table and rose higher, spreading, until the ghostly form of Ambrose Blackburn stood before them.
Victor winked at her from the other side of the table, and Mercy grinned. Her spell had worked brilliantly! But she mustn’t say another peep. It was time for Eveline to play her part in their grand plan.
Rising from her seat, Eveline held her hands skyward, giving thanks and praise to her Lord, asking that he grant her the power to speak with Ambrose. Mercy watched her with sheer fascination. She’d heard of Eveline’s gift but had never witnessed her in action before.
“Ambrose Blackburn,” Eveline said, her eyes closed. “I come to you in peace and respectfully ask on behalf of your kin, Victor Blackburn, that you hear our questions and provide answers, if you’re able.”
A moment of silence p
assed, though it seemed as if Ambrose’s mouth moved. Eveline opened her eyes, and she nodded to the ghostly form.
“There on the wall, near the mantle?” she asked.
Ambrose nodded, and Eveline wandered toward the fireplace. She groped along the wall, on the right side of the mantle hanging over the hearth. A small click sounded, and the back wall to the fireplace creaked open.
“He wants us to follow him,” Eveline said. “But you must douse the candles. He cannot leave the confines of your circle otherwise.”
Mercy blew out three of the candles then handed one to Eveline and one each to Victor and Hatchet. She shared a surprised look with Victor. The night they’d chased Ambrose into the parlor, he had disappeared into the fireplace. Even then, the ghost had been trying to tell them of the secret passageway. Oh, why had they not remembered to speak with Eveline sooner?
Ambrose floated into the fireplace with Eveline and Dominick hard on his heels. Hatchet ducked into the hearth next and through the back wall.
“After you,” Mercy said, grabbing hold of Victor’s arm. “You have the candle to light our way.”
A narrow passage followed the length of the parlor toward the east, where wooden steps led up to the second floor.
“Be careful,” Dominick called from the top. “The third and tenth steps are weak. Best if you’re able to bypass them.”
The top of the stairs opened into a sizable room. Victor held the candle high in the air and turned about, taking in their surroundings. Random pieces of furniture covered in sheets lay about, along with artwork and other knickknacks.
“Victor, Mercy, come here,” Eveline blurted. “You must see this!”
They scurried to the far corner of the room where Dominick was pulling up a loose floorboard. He dug his hands into the gaping hole and retrieved three oblong packages.
“Ambrose claims they’re tapestries woven by Freya,” Eveline said, her eyes wide. “I can hardly contain my curiosity.”
Victor unrolled the treasures on the wood floor with care and trailed his candle above the surface, illuminating three of the finest tapestries Mercy had ever seen. It appeared Lord Blackburn did not know every secret of the castle.
“According to Ambrose,” Eveline said, pointing to the first one, “this tapestry tells his love story with Elizabeth.”
Mercy touched the silken threads. The artist had rendered the subjects of the work so lifelike. Elizabeth’s hand rested on her slightly rounded stomach as she smiled lovingly at her fiancé.
“No wonder she was furious,” Mercy whispered. “Elizabeth was pregnant with his child.” She turned her attention to the second tapestry and marveled at the vibrant colors woven into the fabric in exquisite detail, all the way down to the vials of potions. “The second depicts the treachery of Vivian brewing the love potion and tricking Ambrose into drinking it.”
“And the third?” Victor asked.
“Elizabeth’s curse on Vivian.”
“You mean the Blackburn men, surely,” Victor said.
Eveline shook her head. “No, Victor. The curse is intended to punish Vivian for all eternity. Read the tapestry starting here.”
She pointed to the top left of the third tapestry. The first picture was of a crazed Vivian, her eyes shot through with red, her mouth agape and dripping with blood. At her feet lay Ambrose, his throat shredded, his eyes vacant.
Mercy shuddered and turned away. Why would Vivian attack Ambrose and kill him? “Elizabeth turned Vivian into some kind of monster?”
“Look at those teeth,” Dominick said, “and her eyes. Those are classic signs of a vampire.”
Hatchet snorted. “Absurd. She’s dead. Buried in the family crypt. We saw her body in the coffin.”
“Not dead,” Mercy said, examining the tapestry closer, “but under a deep sleep. Follow the pictures . . . it’s all there . . . plainly told. Do you see the sleep serum? How she wakes in her coffin? Oh, goodness, that’s why Vivian’s body was perfectly preserved. She isn’t dead. She’s sleeping.”
“But why?” Victor asked, rubbing his face. “It doesn’t make sense. How is this connected to the deaths of the Blackburn males?”
Eveline worried at her bottom lip, her gaze flickering between Victor and the tapestry. “Have you noticed the striking resemblance you bear to Ambrose? You’re cursed to bear his likeness. And Vivian is cursed to wake each generation to murder the man she loved, to relive the horror of it over and over . . . for all eternity. Ambrose died on his twenty-seventh birthday.”
Victor closed his eyes. “That’s the connection; it rings true.”
“I still say it’s all rubbish,” Hatchet said, staring at the tapestries. “A vampire can rip out a man’s throat, I’ll grant you that. But we read about the causes of death. Each death different variations of the same thing . . . mostly hunting accidents or animal attacks.”
“Then how do you explain what we saw in Vivian’s coffin?” Victor hissed.
Hatchet’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. “I can’t.”
Dominick stepped between the two. “We’re getting nowhere by arguing the point.” He turned to Victor. “Vivian may or may not be a vampire. And she may or may not want to rip your throat out. But she is lying in that coffin. Asleep. I say we kill her while we can. Stake to the heart? Silver-tipped arrow? Decapitate and burn her? It doesn’t matter, but we must act now.”
Mercy threaded her fingers through Victor’s, her heart thumping. “He’s right. Vivian is vulnerable. Please, don’t take any chances. As gruesome as it sounds, I’m in favor of option number three. Dismember her body and burn it.”
Victor nodded. “Option three it is, then. I’ll retrieve the key for the coffin. Hatchet, arrange for the stable boys to dig a deep hole in the family cemetery where we can burn her remains. While you’re at the stable, you’ll find an axe hanging on the wall, to the right of the entrance. Bring a burlap bag as well.”
Mercy shuddered as horrid images of detached body parts assailed her mind. And, yet, what choice did they have?
“What would you have us do?” Eveline asked, looping her arm through Dominick’s.
Victor ran his hand through his hair, his lips drawn in a grim line. “Your job is to pray that this works. Mercy will join you and Dominick in the chapel while Hatchet and I take care of this nasty business.”
Pray in the chapel? She wasn’t even religious. Mercy couldn’t have heard him right. “I’m coming with you,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “What if something goes wrong and you need my help?”
“Nothing will go wrong,” he said, staring her down. “I don’t want you there, witnessing . . . ” The muscles in his jaw flexed, and he looked away.
Oh, Victor. He didn’t want her to see him take an axe to Vivian’s throat. Dredging up memories of the past. But this was different. She would not despise him for this act.
“And if I promise to look away? I’m worried. Please, let me come armed with a banishing spell or sleep serum. I’ll consult the Tome of the Accursed and inventory my potions. There must be something I can do to ensure this goes smoothly.”
He sighed and met her gaze. “You will follow my orders every single step of the way. If I tell you to run, you run. Am I making myself clear?”
She nodded. “Whatever you say, I’ll do. I don’t want to do anything that will endanger you or ruin the plan.”
Victor nodded. “Let’s kill a sleeping vampire.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Victor descended the stairs to the crypt, axe in one hand and Mercy’s hand in the other. He didn’t want her anywhere near Vivian’s coffin when the time came to dismember the body, but he couldn’t anticipate what might happen. Nothing ever seemed to go according to his well-laid plans.
The crypt was eerily quiet, except for whispered words coming from Mercy. She’d been reciting an incantation since the moment they stepped foot in the chapel. Something about warding off negative energy. He didn’t pretend to understand her c
raft, but if it helped their cause, so be it. It couldn’t hurt.
After lighting the sconces, Victor stood in front of the keyhole and ordered Mercy to stand close to the stairwell. This was going to work. They’d opened Vivian’s coffin three weeks earlier with ease and without incident. His nerves shouldn’t be strung this high. The end to his nightmare was near. So why couldn’t he taste it?
Hatchet stood at the head of the coffin, the burlap bag hanging over his shoulder, his stance battle ready. Victor nodded at his friend.
“Mercy, look away,” he said, turning the axe in his left hand, searching for a comfortable grip. He slipped the key inside the lock, and his breathing quickened. “Hatchet, when the lid opens, you hold her head steady, and dammit, do not let go.”
“Not letting go,” his friend said, shaking his hands, his body rocking in a steady rhythm as he waited for the lid to open.
Victor turned the key. His heart skipped a beat. He jiggled it again, turned it left and right. Nothing happened.
“What the fuck?” he bellowed, shoving the axe at Hatchet while he turned his full attention to opening the coffin. “Mercy, what am I doing wrong? You opened it with ease last time.”
She rushed to his side and tried, but despite the key clicking into the correct position, the lid refused to budge. She rattled the key, pressed it in farther, pulled it out, and tried again.
“This can’t be!” she cried, shoving the key at Hatchet. “You do it.”
He kneeled before the keyhole and gave it a try. Still nothing.
Victor roared and stalked around the coffin, inspecting it from all angles. He searched for hinges. Or air holes. Anything that might be a weak point or way to gain access to the inside.
“Why is this happening?” He paced the length of the crypt, raking his hands through his hair. “There’s no other way to open this damned thing.”
“The hell there isn’t,” Hatchet said, picking up the axe.
He heaved it over his head and slammed it against the coffin with a blood-curdling roar. The head of the axe bounced off, catching Hatchet unaware, and he stumbled back.
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 21