The Resident Evil at Blackthorn Manor
By
Catherine Coulter
The Resident Evil at Blackthorn Manor
All Rights Reserved © 2016 by Catherine Coulter
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published by Catherine Coulter
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere Else
1841
Grayson Sherbrooke awoke to stabbing pain in his head. He didn’t want to open his eyes, he knew it would make the pain worse. He lay still in the absolute silence until he heard scratching close by. His eyes flew open. He saw only blackness. He felt a moment of terror. No, he wasn’t blind; he saw a shadowy gray light coming through a high slit window cut into a stone wall about twelve feet from where he lay. Stone wall? Where was he? He heard the scratching again, came up on his elbows, and saw a rat sitting a foot in front of him, chewing on what looked like a bone, studying him. He realized the rat didn’t look like any rat he’d ever seen. Its size was right, but it had long, curling whiskers and a large head. He shook his head. A peculiar rat, but still only a rat.
He pulled himself to a sitting position and didn’t move until the pain in his head stopped its mad drumbeat. He breathed in ancient smells he didn’t recognize and the stench of mold growing in the shadowed corners.
The morning sun speared a stream of light through the window, and he saw now he was sitting against a stone wall in a circular room. A dungeon? But how could he be in a dungeon? And where was he? He felt another slash of pain and dropped his head into his hands until the pain slowly eased.
Where? Some castle of bygone days? Why didn’t he know? He felt panic. He leaned his head back against the cold wall, calmed, and thought. He clearly remembered leaving Edinburgh to ride to Vere Castle on the Fife Peninsula to visit Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin after he’d received her letter asking him to come. There was trouble at Vere Castle and they needed him. He hadn’t wanted to leave his young son, Pip, or beautiful Miranda, so new to his life, but there’d been no choice. If Aunt Sinjun was right about trouble, that meant he couldn’t take Pip with him, despite all his wailing and whining. He remembered he’d left Pip at Wolffe Hall to be spoiled rotten by all the denizens.
Obviously Grayson hadn’t made it to Vere Castle. He clearly remembered leaving the Ashburnham townhouse in Edinburgh that morning, the weather blustery and bone-cold. At least it hadn’t been raining, and both he and his horse Astor had taken that as an excellent portent. He’d booked passage on the barge from Edinburgh over the Firth of Forth to the Fife Peninsula. Yes, he remembered more now—how before he’d left, Pip was doing a daily countdown to his fifth birthday when he would be grown up enough to write ghost novels with terrifying mysteries, just like his papa. And Miranda—ah yes, he remembered the night before he’d left for Edinburgh, he’d been kissing her, his hands gliding down her back, feeling the long line of the buttons he was desperate to unfasten—and Grayson remembered he was jerked back from his pleasant memories at the sound of a carriage horn. He’d guided Astor off the rutted path to let it pass. But the carriage hadn’t continued on the road. The driver had pulled the two horses to a stop directly across from him. A face appeared in the window, covered by a silver veil, and a young voice called to him in English, but he couldn’t make out her words. The coachman never looked at him, remained staring straight ahead.
Grayson clearly remembered walking to the old ornate carriage, like a French nobleman’s carriage from the last century, pulled by two pure-white geldings, now tossing their beautiful heads, blowing, turning to look at him. The driver still didn’t move. Grayson dismounted and walked to the carriage. As he neared, he became aware of a strong violet scent. It perfumed the air, filled his nostrils, and he breathed in. A woman extended her hand through the window, a beautiful white hand with long, tapering fingers, and he saw himself stretching out his own hand, touching her fingers—then there was nothing.
Try as he might, Grayson couldn’t remember anything more. Until now, waking up with a splitting head in a dungeon with a rat that wasn’t really a rat sitting across the stone floor from him, still eyeing him, ready to attack if the two-legged rodent tried to steal his bone.
Grayson got slowly to his feet, stretched, and looked around. No, he wasn’t in a dungeon, rather, it was like a circular tower room, only it wasn’t perfectly round, it was tilted a bit to one side even though the floor stayed even. Looking closely made him dizzy. He saw a small table in the middle of the room, two chairs pulled up to it, an unlit candle on its scarred surface, a box of lucifers beside it.
He saw a chamber pot propped up against the wall, an elaborate affair painted deep blue with tiny white flowers. Nothing else except that strange rat staring at him.
Grayson rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth. He moved to stand in the shaft of light and began to feel better. He saw an old wooden door, a slit opening at eye level. Why hadn’t he noticed that door before now? The door—like the room—seemed slightly slanted to the left. He felt a moment of nausea. He looked through the slit. A stone wall was facing him, maybe three feet away, nothing else. He pulled on the iron handle shaped like a sharp-pointed hook. It didn’t turn. The door was locked. Still, he shook that strange hook handle, pushed against the door, stepped back, and sent his foot next to the hook handle. No give. He called out. Nothing. He stood back and considered. Could he be dreaming? He drew in several deep breaths, slowly let them out. No, this was real—crooked room, crooked door, and the peculiar rat.
He was a prisoner in a circular tower room. Why didn’t he remember how he’d gotten here?
He heard footsteps and quickly eased to the side of the door, readied himself. A key turned in the lock, and the door slowly pushed inward. A girl’s voice—nearly a whisper. “Sir, are you awake?”
He grabbed her arm and jerked her inside and against him. She was strong and fought him until finally he clamped her arms to her sides and brought her back hard against his chest. She had no leverage now. She was tall, coming nearly to his nose. He whispered against her ear, “Where am I? Who are you?”
“I am Queen Maeve.”
She smelled like violets. It was the same smell—was she the young lady in the carriage? “I have never heard
of you.”
“How could you? You have never been here before.”
“Queen of what?”
“I am the hereditary queen of Border. You are hurting me, Mr. Sherbrooke. I beg you, loosen your hold on me.”
He did, and she immediately kicked back, her toe connecting with his shin. The lick of pain was greater than the pain in his head. Well, that hadn’t been very smart of him. He jerked her hard back against him again, said against her ear, “That was rude, Queen Maeve. You do that again and I will make you very sorry. What is Border? Better yet, where is this Border? And how do you know my name?”
“Well, I suppose you could try to make me sorry. You are in my castle, Mr. Sherbrooke, filled with people to protect me and so many soldiers, more than I can count. However, you are not my prisoner. I am here to save you so you may continue on your journey to Vere Castle in the land of Scotland.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “But she is so very strong, and she sees everything. We must hurry.”
She’d spoken with no Scottish lilt, but rather clipped, very fine English. She knew the name of his Aunt Sinjun’s castle near Loch Leven. He felt another bolt of pain in his head, nearly knocking him off his feet, then it passed. What was going on here? Where was here? “Why do you need to save me? And who is ‘she’?”
“Belzaria took you and brought you here. Usually she is content to play her games with our local folk—she calls them her dollies—but I know she likes to visit your land, more so than others. I don’t know why. What happens is never good.”
She became stock-still when they heard a woman’s voice. “Where are you, Maeve? Come out immediately. Do you hear me, you wicked girl?”
“You must let me go, you must. If she finds me here, she’ll know I was trying to rescue you.”
“Is that Belzaria? She is responsible for bringing me here?”
“Yes, yes, let me go, you must, or—” She began jerking against him.
“Does she smell like violets?”
She stopped. “What? Violets? No, she smells like roses, always roses.” She began jerking and heaving against him. “Please, please, let me go, you must.”
“Then you were the one in the carriage, not Belzaria.”
The door opened, pushed by a strong hand. He saw those white fingers coming around the door. Grayson felt a wicked hot pain tear through his head and saw a light so bright it blinded him.
“No,” he whispered, and then he was falling, falling, and he heard her voice calling to him. He didn’t know if it was Maeve or Belzaria, but he was no longer there to answer her.
CHAPTER TWO
Day One
Fife Peninsula, Scotland
Vere Castle
August 1841
Grayson whistled as he rode Astor along the rutted road circling the southern side of Loch Leven, a magical place he’d always believed, with its sweet heather-scented air and billowing white clouds racing across a stark blue sky. And he remembered the boy who loved to lie on his back in a field of white heather and look up at those clouds, not to find dragons but to find hovering ghosts up to no good.
Unlike the crags and barren hills to the west in the Highlands, this protected tongue of land resembled, to Grayson’s mind, the gently rolling green hills and magnificent forests in southern England.
He and Astor had taken the Backoxer ferry from Edinburgh across the narrowest point of the Firth of Forth to Queensferry Narrows on the Fife Peninsula. Astor had been none too happy about sharing his space with valises, boxes, and packages of all sizes stacked together with people and animals, but thankfully, he’d not raised a ruckus, only pressed his nose in Grayson’s armpit and let himself be stroked and reassured and fed three apples.
They’d ridden north from Queensferry Narrows to Loch Leven, the sun remaining bright overhead, a light breeze ruffling his hair. He pulled up when he saw Vere Castle in the distance, half medieval castle with turrets and crenellated walls, and half stolid Tudor. Then he turned Astor toward the castle, on a road well maintained by his aunt and uncle so there were no ruts that could trip up his horse, and he’d swear Astor’s steps were lighter.
As a child he’d never tired of hearing about the marriage of the impoverished Earl of Ashburnham to Grayson’s heiress aunt, Sinjun Sherbrooke, and how their union had brought about the expected prosperity, since the new earl wasn’t a nitwit and had pledged to both restore his lands and treat his heiress wife like a queen. In short order the crofts were in excellent repair, and were kept that way, the crofters working their barley and potato fields, just as they were today, and all had flourished. And the earl, according to his parents, indeed treated his wife like a queen, and had thus remained golden.
He remembered the boy again, how he’d always felt like he was riding into a magical kingdom—the castle out of a medieval storybook and the shimmering loch lying before it.
It wasn’t Border.
Border? What border? Where had that come from? It sounded like a name. Grayson felt a sharp pain over his right temple, then it was gone.
He decided to blame it on the haggis he’d had for lunch at the Plucked Goose in Cowdenbeath, a village at the base of the black basalt hills. Those same hills had inspired a very young Grayson to terrify his cousins with a tale of the murdering highwayman who’d seen the glitter of gems against the black basalt rock and pressed against it, only to be thrown through a hidden door into the basalt hill itself. He’d been doomed to spend the remainder of his days wandering the thick black basalt corridors, always seeing the glitter of gems just ahead.
Grayson smiled as he leaned forward to pat Astor’s neck. He thought about writing a book set in a place like this, but not in the present, no, a book set long ago with powerful bearded men in heavy shining helmets, wearing colorful kilts and wielding claymores. He heard their laughter, their jests, saw their bare butts when they lifted their kilts, and then he saw flitting above them the shadow of an evil magician. Did the evil magician want to steal the magic from this magnificent land? Grayson’s writer’s brain began to work. What if the magician wasn’t a man? What if the magician was an evil sorceress, a beautiful woman who lusted after her brother’s crown, a plain gold circlet that pulsed with magic once set upon his head, and he did amazing things, like making corn grow from barren rock. The sorceress sister made her plans to destroy her brother and claim his gold circlet. What was her name?
Belzaria.
Why had that name popped into his head? He felt no shock of pain this time. He’d never heard that name before, he was sure of it. He fancied he saw a stout wooden door in his mind, saw it slam shut in his face. He shook his head. It had to be the haggis.
When the land began to rise as they neared the castle, the bright sunlight fell into shadows cast by the thick oak branches nearly meeting overhead, in full summer plumage. He once again thought of that strange name: Belzaria.
Forget the name Belzaria—it meant nothing. He thought instead of seeing Dahling, Uncle Colin’s daughter by his first marriage, now married to the future MacPherson laird, sworn enemies of the Kinross clan until Aunt Sinjun had intervened many years before. And Philip, his uncle’s heir, who traveled the world mapping remote areas, one of the leading cartographers in England. Philip’s wife, Elise, claimed he was only home sufficient periods of time to beget a boy and a girl child. Last Grayson had heard, Philip was off mapping the Bulgar plains.
He looked up to see his aunt Sinjun waving at him from the eastern turret. She yelled something he couldn’t understand, then disappeared. He pictured her picking up her skirts, racing down the ancient stone steps and into the old main hall, and throwing open the thick oak doors to dance out onto the ancient stone steps to welcome him.
On such a beautiful, peaceful day, what trouble could there possibly be at Vere Castle? That’s what Sinjun had called it in her letter to him. Trouble.
CHAPTER THREE
Vere Castle
Home of the Earl and Countess of Ashburnham
Monday ev
ening, at dinner
The moment the three of them were seated at the massive mahogany dining table, Sinjun said, “I don’t wish to speak of what is troubling us over our delicious salmon because it involves Pearlin’ Jane. My dearest Colin would sneer and roll his eyes, and I would be compelled to throw the bowl of peas at him. No, we will have peace at the dinner table. Tell us about your trip here, Grayson, and why you were late. We expected you yesterday.”
Grayson frowned as he drank a sip of the light white wine. “Yesterday? But I left Edinburgh this morning, early, as I told you I would. I rode here immediately.” He looked blankly between his aunt and uncle, felt the pull of blackness in his mind, shook his head, and there it was, the slight hit of pain. He said slowly, “What day is it?”
Colin said, “Monday.”
“Monday? But how is that possible? I didn’t even take the time to visit Major McHugh at Edinburgh Castle. I spent the night at Kinross House, then first thing this morning, Astor and I were on the ferry across the Firth of Forth. I rode directly here.”
His aunt and uncle exchanged looks. Sinjun said, her voice bright, “Did you meet up with some villains on your way here to put in a future novel?”
“Or a pretty young lass?”
“Nothing happened. No villains, no lasses.” But somehow he knew it wasn’t true. He saw a young girl in his mind—tall, thick hair the color of rich honey spilling about a face that wasn’t beautiful, exactly, but very riveting, a dimple beside her mouth. He felt a lick of pain, and her face was gone and with it the memory of what she looked like. He said, “Maeve. Queen Maeve.”
“Queen Maeve? Who is she, Grayson?”
Grayson stared at his aunt, saw her Sherbrooke blue eyes were filled with questions and growing alarm. She reached over and closed her hand over his. “What happened, my dear?”
He continued to look at her lovely face, at her thick blond hair, lighter than his, now laced with strands of gray, woven in braids atop her head. He realized she and Uncle Colin were getting older, the age of his own parents, and that made him realize how very precious time was, How fleeting, how uncertain, and unexpected things could happen. He smiled at both of them. “Forget Queen Maeve. I have no idea who she is—her name simply popped out of my mouth. Maybe she’s the character in a new book.”
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