How was he going to choose between saving Mercy’s life or Cora’s?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Mercy stared at Victor’s strong hands wrapped around hers. He kneeled in front of her where she sat on the sofa, his hold steadfast and warm. His voice did not waver, and he chose his words with care, to bolster her courage. But his confidence offered little comfort against the horrifying news he delivered.
At precisely 12:15 a.m. on December 27, Victor was to present himself in the west tower, where Elizabeth would return Cora to his care. She’d chosen the precise minute of his birth, the time at which Vivian would wake from her slumber, and Mercy must prepare for battle. If Victor did not arrive to reclaim his sister, Elizabeth would assume he was with Mercy in the crypt and Cora would die.
“Do not fret,” he said, piercing her with his steady gaze. “We have weeks to prepare.”
“Vivian is a vampire,” Mercy said. Panic replaced doubt, and she stood, distancing herself from Victor and his calm demeanor. “I cannot defeat her in hand-to-hand combat. She’s far stronger and faster than I, and she’ll be crazed with hunger.”
“Yes, you can,” Victor said, capturing her face. “Witchcraft is your strength, and I can teach you to fight. You have the element of surprise. Together, we can do this.”
Her stomach lurched, and she pulled away, running to the parlor door. “Not together!” she cried over her shoulder. “Or Cora will die. We cannot do this together.”
She ran from the room and charged through the foyer.
“Wait!” he shouted, his plea echoing after her.
But she couldn’t wait, lest she suffocate. Swinging the front door open, she stumbled outside and heaved, welcoming the frigid December air pummeling her lungs. Breathe. She needed to breathe, and that meant escaping from the deathly clutches of Blackburn Castle. Why had Victor brought her to this godforsaken place?
She hiked up her skirt and flew across the gravel path, mindful only of the fact that she must get away, far away from Victor and the impossible task he’d laid before her. Of course he must demand that she fight Vivian. Cora’s life was at stake, through no fault of her own. Mercy had invited Elizabeth’s wrath by breaking the Blackburn curse. And though her odds of defeating Vivian were slim, they were better than Cora’s chances against Elizabeth.
Her booted feet kicked up the gravel on the path, and the muscles in her legs burned, but she pushed onward, suddenly sure of her destination. When she reached the doors to the chapel, she stopped and caught her breath, leaning her head against the wood. Sweat trickled down the valley of her bosom, and she panted.
The fog lifted from her mind, and she hauled the doors open, marching inside. She stalked toward the altar, gaining speed and determination. Breaking an enchantment spell was difficult but not impossible. And she was a damned good spell writer.
“Please, wait for me,” Eveline cried, running down the aisle after her.
Mercy halted, holding open the door to the crypt. Her spirits lifted as her friend neared. She would not be left alone to wallow in her fear and anxiety. Eveline had been a true friend since discovering her bound and gagged on The Savior.
They descended the stairs together, and Eveline lit the sconces throughout the crypt while Mercy stood before Vivian’s coffin, her hands braced on the smooth wood. Why couldn’t she be happy for once in her life? She’d tasted a slice of happiness when the curse was reversed, and she’d believed in the dream of a life with Victor and their baby. Together, they could forge a marriage as strong as Henry and Cecelia’s, one to rival Lord and Lady Blackburn’s. Build a love as strong as that which her own parents had shared.
Reaching deep within her soul, she wove a spell from her heart. The dream could be hers, if she only believed in herself.
Cast out of spite,
A seal strong and bold.
I’ve come in peace,
To unleash your hold.
Enchantment, lifted,
Locked, no more.
She pushed the key into the hole and turned. The coffin lid would not budge. She pressed her forehead against the cool surface. What was she to do? She and her baby would die, just as surely as her mother and father had died under the Butcher’s knife.
“Elizabeth’s magic is potent,” Mercy whispered. “She has studied the art of witchcraft for hundreds of years. She’s Freya’s daughter. Her blood is pure. I’m weak in mind and body. I’ve never hurt a soul in my life. Tell me how I’m supposed to defeat her, Eveline, because I cannot see the way.”
Eveline rubbed Mercy’s back and sighed. “I would share a passage from the Bible, Joshua 1:9, in the hope it will bring you comfort. ‘Be strong. Be brave. Be fearless. You are never alone.’”
The words were beautiful, yet Mercy could not find solace in them, because she’d never felt more alone in her life. No one could save her. No one would stand by her side in her greatest hour of need, when she faced Vivian in the crypt on Victor’s birthday.
“You’re not alone in this,” Eveline said, forcing Mercy to face her. “Let us help you. Vivian cannot be worse than the gatekeeper to Hell, and she is dead at the hands of mere mortals! Is she not?”
Mercy nodded woodenly and chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“You’re formidable in your own right,” Eveline continued, squeezing her hands. “You summoned a ghost and broke a centuries-old curse. Do not play the victim. There must be a spell, or charm, or potion you can employ to turn the scales in your favor. An elixir to sharpen your skill, make you faster?”
Mercy shook her head.
“Perhaps something to weaken Vivian or paralyze her the way Elizabeth paralyzed Victor?”
No, and . . .
Mercy paused at the last suggestion.
“Oh, Eveline,” she said, hope burgeoning in her breast. “You’re brilliant and have sparked an excellent idea.”
She threw her arms around her friend and hugged her close, feeling a sense of hope. Eveline was right. She was not alone, and she had two weeks to strategize together with Victor and her friends.
For the first time that morning, she grinned. If she defeated Vivian, then Victor could not hide behind the walls he’d built to protect himself against hoping for a bright future. She wouldn’t allow it. They deserved happiness. So, it was time to face her greatest fears.
She hadn’t been able to save her mother and father, but with Freya’s strength behind her, she would save herself, and her child, even if it meant she must kill Vivian to ensure their safety.
• • •
Victor stomped up the stairs behind Dominick toward the tapestry room. His friend rambled on about strategy and plans, but Victor’s mind was elsewhere.
His stomached still ached from the look of utter devastation on Mercy’s face as she fled the parlor. More than anything, he wanted to assure her that he would be there for her. But those were little more than empty words. He could support her until the eve of his birthday, but she must enter Vivian’s crypt alone.
Mercy possessed so many skills, and what she lacked in strength and hand-to-hand combat knowledge, he could teach her. But Cora could not fight Elizabeth. His sister was a genteel lady, bred to embroider pillows and play the piano.
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” Dominick asked, his hands on his hips.
Victor stared at his surroundings. When had they reached the top of the stairs and entered the secret chamber?
“No, I have not,” Victor replied. “Sorry, mate, but my sister is being held prisoner by an ancient witch, and my pregnant fiancée must battle and defeat a vampire. So, no, I’m not listening to one goddamned word you’re saying.”
Hatchet took hold of Victor’s shoulders and steered him to the tapestries. “You can be in two places at once,” he said with a malicious smile. “That’s what Dominick has been trying to get into your thick skull, if you’d only listen. Look here, at the tapestries. What do you see?”
Victor didn’t want to inspect hand
crafted pictures woven from colorful weft yarn. He needed solutions to unsolvable problems.
“Elizabeth and Vivian are twins,” Dominick said, forcing Victor’s gaze to the tapestry. “Identical twins. You cannot tell one from the other. If you have a twin, he can go in your stead to claim Cora while you stand by Mercy’s side.”
Victor clenched his jaw. “That’s an interesting theory, but I don’t have a twin.”
“Yes, you do,” his father said, his tall frame leaning against the wall beside the tapestries. “Except for the gray hair and a few wrinkles, I might be mistaken for your twin. Or is it the other way around?”
“You wish to go in my stead,” Victor said, raking his hand through his hair. This wasn’t a game they were playing. They were risking his sister’s life. “Elizabeth will recognize you immediately, and Cora will be dead”–he snapped his fingers—“like that.”
Dominick thrust a wooden box into Victor’s hands and flipped open the lid. “She’ll believe it’s you, because we’re going to dye your father’s hair.”
Hatchet lifted a container of lotion from the box. “And your mother assures us this cream will eliminate most of the wrinkles around his eyes, so long as he doesn’t smile.”
“We’re the same height and build,” his father said, his lips quirking up. “Or we will be within a couple of weeks. I will train with Hatchet, add more muscle in all the right places.”
“With me and Hatchet flanking your father’s side,” Dominick said, clasping Victor on the shoulder, “he’ll look exactly like you. Elizabeth will never know the difference.”
Though still risky, it could work. In fact, the more he thought on it, the more plausible it seemed. His father could match his tone of voice and mimic him quite well. Besides, there would be little need to converse. And if Elizabeth attempted to force the love potion down his throat, it would be ineffective. His parents loved each other deeply.
The plan had merit.
“No, Victor, you must go to the west tower and save your sister,” Mercy said from the doorway, her head held high. “I could not live with myself if Cora were to die because of my insecurities. You were right all along. Teach me to fight, and together with my witchcraft, I’ll be ready to face Vivian.”
His heart swelled with pride for her courage, just as his gut clenched with fear for her life, but he nodded. If there was one thing he excelled at, it was fighting. Before he was through with her, she’d be prepared to defend herself under every possible scenario.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Holding her gas lantern high, Mercy set a quick pace on the gravel path. Victor fell into stride beside her. Heavy, dark rain clouds rumbled across the sky, blocking the dim light of a waning moon. She peered at the west tower as they passed, but it was black as the night. Victor would meet Elizabeth there within the hour and bring Cora safely home.
The silhouette of the chapel’s bell tower came into view. Before long, the midnight hour would be upon them, and Pastor Wallis would toll the bell.
Victor stopped in front of the chapel doors and pulled Mercy’s hands to his lips, kissing one palm. “You are strong. You are brave. You are fearless.”
“And I’m not alone,” she said, resting their joined hands on her heart. “Go. I’ll be all right on my own from here.”
He hesitated, not letting go of her hands. “Mercy, I must tell you—”
She pressed two fingers over his lips. “Not under duress or out of fear,” she said, shaking her head. This was not goodbye. “Whatever you must say can wait until we meet again. I’ve baked an apple tart for your twenty-seventh birthday, and we mustn’t let it go to waste.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he kissed her head, breathing in sharply. She stepped away and devoured every inch of his handsome face and the proud angle of his broad shoulders, wanting to remember him exactly as he was in this moment.
“You must at least allow me to give you this,” he said, holding out a tiny acorn. His voice faltered, and he swallowed. “It’s a good luck talisman, of sorts, in Scotland. I wish I could make you a charm and imbue it with magic to keep you safe. But, alas, I cannot. Please, take it.”
Tears prickled the backs of her eyes, and she accepted his gift, running her fingers over his before she pocketed the treasure. “Thank you.”
“I’m scared,” he whispered.
She nodded. “I’m scared, too. But more so of Elizabeth than Vivian.”
“Don’t be scared of Elizabeth,” he said, rubbing her shoulders. “She will have to accept defeat after you battle Vivian alone and win.”
“No, Elizabeth will never stop in her pursuit to have you. There is no end to our nightmare unless I die or Elizabeth dies. I’ve accepted that truth. So must you.”
His face grew pale, and he looked away. “You won’t die, because Elizabeth will force me to drink the love potion.”
“She may try, but her plan will fail,” Mercy said, lowering his hand to her belly where their babe slumbered, growing each day, “and I’ve devised a plan of my own to defeat her. Trust me, as I trust you.”
His gaze met hers, and the emotions simmering beneath the surface stole her breath away. “I trust you, Mercy. But I’m unworthy of your trust. I’ve betrayed you time and again, in so many ways. My heart would be yours, if I had one to give.”
He believed himself incapable of love. But he was wrong. His heart beat strong, and it belonged to their baby. “There is hope for a bright future, Victor, you need only believe.”
For a long moment, they simply stared at one another, neither willing to break eye contact.
“Until we meet again,” he said finally, bowing.
“Until then.”
He strode away and was consumed by the black night within seconds. A lone wolf howled, its forlorn cry drifting on the wind. Mercy stared into the forest but couldn’t make out a single tree or creature. She pressed her free hand to her heart. I am not alone. Steeling her back, she entered the chapel and came face to face with Elizabeth Thorne.
The witch had restored her hair to a glorious shade of blond and wore the Brisingamen necklace adorned on her throat, a collar of spun gold, the scalloped tiers dipping low into the décolletage of her ruby-red gown.
“Good evening,” she said, her hands folded neatly at her waist. “You’re early for your appointment with Vivian. And I see you’ve come prepared, wearing breeches, with a wooden stake strapped to your belt. That’s charming.”
Mercy bristled. “Here to ensure I’m alone? Well, look about you. As you can see, there is no one here but me. Or do you wish to fluster me?”
Elizabeth strolled around Mercy to stand before the door, where she paused. Her eyes sparkled with triumph. “You’re a feisty one. I can see why Victor finds you so attractive. He covets you, and still, he has not declared his love. I’ve been watching and waiting. Tonight, you shall kill Vivian, and I will claim Victor.”
Her words wrapped around Mercy’s throat like a noose.
The witch disappeared through the doorway, and Mercy slumped to the floor. She was all alone, and Elizabeth wanted Mercy to kill Vivian. Well, she could go to Hell. Before the night was over, Vivian would be Mercy’s ally, and Elizabeth would be dead.
She marched down the stairs to the crypt and inventoried the essential materials she’d delivered earlier in the day. Candles, a bucket of salt, tapers, and a small ceramic bowl were stacked neatly in the far right corner of the crypt. The Tome of the Accursed lay open on a high stool, marked to the page of the counter spell. And the amber tear of Freya rested on top, evidence that she’d broken the Blackburn curse. She massaged her belly and sighed in relief. Elizabeth hadn’t tampered with the crypt. In fact, there were no signs that she’d entered the crypt at all.
But Hatchet must’ve visited earlier and fulfilled her request, because a porcelain pitcher brimming with fresh blood rested on top of Elizabeth’s coffin. Hopefully it would be enough to satisfy Vivian’s thirst when she woke, affording Mer
cy precious minutes to negotiate with the vampire. She scrunched her nose and looked around for a table or stool to set the pitcher on. The blood needed to be within the containment circle, because once Mercy set the circle and performed the ritual, nothing could go in or come out of it. Elizabeth’s coffin would be outside that circle, except . . .
Mercy stared at both coffins, laid side by side, and a sense of dread wended its way through her muscles. Her shoulders tensed as she mentally drew a circle around Vivian’s coffin. Only it wasn’t a circle. It was an oval. She needed to draw a circle, like a compass.
Why had she not realized this earlier? Pins and needles tingled in her hands and feet. She paced the length of Vivian’s coffin. Worked the measurements in her head once more. And her stomach quaked.
In order to draw a perfect circle, she would need to make it larger than anticipated. Large enough to encircle both coffins. Did she have enough salt or time to complete it? She must make it work, because a perfect circle around both coffins would be far stronger than an oval around Vivian’s.
With no time to waste, Mercy dug into her satchel for dried sage then crumbled a fistful of the herb into a ceramic bowl before setting it on fire. The pungent odor wafted through the air, marking the beginning of her containment spell.
Next, she unsheathed the athame carried at her waist and carved an N in the dirt floor on the north border of the circle, an E on the east, an S on the south, and a W on the west. She kneeled and connected the four points, scraping her double-edged knife as deep into the dirt as possible, forming a perfect circle. The arduous task required concentration to ensure the dimensions were accurate.
The chapel bell chimed the midnight hour, and Mercy paused, wiping perspiration from her brow. Her heartbeat pounded in tandem with every clang, twelve beats.
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 25